Page 60 of A Gathering Storm
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Peasland breathed. “The Gypsy people are very highly attuned to spiritual matters. I have always felt a great affinity to them.”
Well, that explained her costume, Nick supposed.
“As it happens, Mr. Hearn’s mother was accounted something of a medium in her day,” Ward said, beside him.
Nick scowled at Ward, giving a minute shake of his head. He didn’t want his mother discussed here, in front of these people. Ward’s faint smile withered, his brows furrowing with concern.
“Is that so?” Bryant enquired, drawing Nick’s attention away from Ward. “How very fascinating. As Mrs. Peasland says, there are certainlysomeRomany people who have an innate talent for spiritualism, but I must say that I have found them quite inconsistent in their practices. They tend to rely on a sort of native intuition, rather than having a firm grasp of the science of spiritualism. I’m afraid they’ve done little but harm the reputation of the movement as a whole.”
The room was very quiet when he finished talking, every eye darting between Bryant and Nick as they awaited Nick’s reaction. He didn’t respond though, despite the anger churning in his belly at Bryant’s insults. Instead, he made his expression carefully neutral, just as he always did when he was provoked, whether it was Godfrey Roscarrock defaming his mother or Jed Hammett calling him aGypsy’s bastard—or this charlatan.
A ripple of unease went around the room at the awkward silence, and still Nick said nothing, while Bryant’s face grew flushed.
Finally, the man was forced to speak. “We may as well get started then,” he said shortly, heading for the door. “If you’d all like to follow me.”
Once everyone sat down, Bryant extinguished most of the candles in the séance room, leaving only one—little more than a stub—burning in the middle of the table. As the room was windowless, it was now very dark indeed.
Bryant took a seat between Mrs. Peasland on his right and Mrs. Harris on his left. Miss Harris sat next to her mother, then Ward, Nick, Mr. Wallace, and finally Mr. Peasland beside his wife.
Bryant asked them all to hold hands. Despite the discord between them, Nick welcomed the warm slide of Ward’s palm against his own, the intimate curl of their fingers and thumbs in a loose grip. Just that simple touch steadied him, quieting his unease over the tense atmosphere.
Mr. Wallace’s hand brushed Nick’s other sleeve, and Nick fumbled for the old man’s hand, taking it in his own. Mr. Wallace’s skin was dry and papery, but for a frail-looking old man, he had quite a grip on him.
“We ask the spirits to offer their guidance,” Bryant said. “To come to our circle and answer the questions in our hearts.”
Was this an announcement, Nick wondered. A prayer? If so, to whom was he praying?
“Some of our number,” Bryant continued, his voice raised as though he was indeed addressing a larger audience than their small group, “are here because they are weighed down by grief. Others are here because they seek answers to great questions. But all of us come into this circle with humility and open minds and hearts.”
There was a chorus of mutedAmensaround the table. Nick and Ward were silent.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Bryant said in a lower voice—evidently he was finished addressing whoever had been intended to hear his previous assurances—“please place your handslightlyon the table before you, palm-down. Do not exercise downward pressure please. I do not want any of you inadvertently influencing the movement of the table.”
No, Nick thought sourly.That’s your job.
They obediently let go of each other’s hands and set their hands down on the table. The heavy black fabric covering the surface of the table muffled Nick’s sense of touch.
“Spirits,” Bryant announced, again in that louder voice. “We invite you to our circle.” He paused then asked, “Is anyone there?”
Silence.
Silence.
Bryant repeated, “Is anyone there?”
The table rocked. Someone gasped.
It wasn’t much, but it was a distinct tilt towards the Harris ladies. The table came to a rest again.
“Are you the spirit of one of our loved ones?” Bryant asked, and the table tilted again, again towards the ladies. Mrs. Harris gave a half sob.
“Tell us your name,” Bryant demanded, and he began to recite the alphabet slowly. At last, atJthe table tilted again, then atOandHandN.
By the end of that routine, Mrs. Harris was crying in earnest. It was interesting, Nick thought, that after the first letter had been selected, Bryant hadn’t returned to the start of the alphabet again, but had moved straight toKand the letters that followed, quickly reaching theO. He had corrected himself on the next two passes though, starting atAeach time. Nick wondered if Ward had noticed that detail.
There were questions for John Harris, from his wife: mundane, domestic questions about whether she ought to send their youngest son to boarding school this year—Y-E-S—and whether the new kitchen maid was to be trusted—N-O. After a while, it seemed Mrs. Harris had run out of questions, and Bryant moved on, inviting any other spirits to the table.
The next visitor was, apparently, well-known to Bryant. She announced her presence not with table-tilting but with a series of thuds and raps that Nick couldn’t quite locate. Some sounded as if they came from under the floor, others from the tabletop, and still others from the walls.