Page 30 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Pearl found it was easier to avoid Madame Genevieve in the following days.

Each evening after Maxwell said good night, the woman would join Mr. Ravenscroft in whatever parlor or drawing room he chose.

Pearl made sure to move Max quickly from his grandfather’s side to the library where they’d sit with Oliver and read a story.

Pearl loved the evenings when it was Oliver’s turn to read aloud.

Pearl asked Violet about the evening visits one morning as the maid prepared the fire in Pearl’s room. “What do they do when they meet after we’ve left?”

“It seems like they sit and talk. Nothing more.”

Pearl wondered what “more” Violet expected.

“Have you heard them? What do they speak about?”

Without looking up, Violet shook her head. “We hear nothing.”

Pearl laughed. “I know better than that. We who work for Mr. Ravenscroft hear far more than he knows.”

Violet turned and grinned. “Very well. They speak of those Mr. Ravenscroft has lost. His parents. His wife. His sister. His daughter.”

Pearl knew what she wished to ask, but the proper wording eluded her. She didn’t want to frighten Violet with her suggestion, but there was a strong chance the girl heard much more than Pearl would. That didn’t give Pearl the right to press the girl about it.

Her next question came out halting and fractured, heavy with self-doubt.

“Does she . . . attempt . . . to reach them?”

The subject didn’t seem to bother Violet at all. “A séance, you mean? Oh, no, nothing like that yet. We’re all waiting for it, though. Might help clear out some of the ghosts hanging around this house and muttering all the time.”

Pearl inspected the fingers on her left hand, trying hard to seem casual. “Do you think there are truly ghosts at Shadowbrook?”

Violet answered in the same matter-of-fact voice as she scooped the last of the cold ash from Pearl’s grate.

“You must hear them. All old places have them. Nothing to be afraid of, though. Like the marks left on a wall when a picture gets taken down. Just like footprints in a dirt path. People leave traces.”

Pearl had never heard the phenomenon described so simply, so clearly. Violet’s words gave Pearl the strangest feeling she was missing something.

She no longer pretended at disinterest. She moved closer to the fireplace and handed Violet the small brush from the stand.

“Do you see them?”

Violet turned and sat back on her heels.

“I don’t have the Sight. My gran did, and when her mind went, she’d sit in a room smiling at the corners of the walls, nodding and whispering.

Maybe you have to be a little crazy to see.

But sometimes I feel like I’m not all by myself in an empty room.

I hear the music, of course. We all do.”

Pearl’s stomach clenched. She knew what Violet would answer, but she asked her question anyway. “What music?”

“The violin. I hear it best from the stairs, because it comes from somewhere in the middle of the house. Or from Maxwell’s room, but that’s when you’re the one playing.”

The girl heard violin music playing in the house. Madame Genevieve heard it. Oliver and Maxwell heard it. Pearl also heard it, but she had been certain it was only inside her head. At least, she had been certain until a few days ago. She shuddered.

Violet shook her head. “It’s not frightening. The music is lovely, even when it’s sad. And feeling like someone’s nearby is good. If anything, it’s better than being alone. Someone was here before me, and someone will be here when I’m gone. It’s nice.”

Pearl recognized the strangeness of having this discussion with someone less than half her age, but she wanted to understand. “Aren’t ghosts supposed to be angry and destructive?”

Turning back to pick up her cleaning tools, Violet shrugged.

“I sometimes hear a sort of muttering, but evil ghosts are mostly in stories. If anyone trapped forever in this house was of the hostile kind, there’d be no secret about it.

We’d all know it. Sad, though? Yes, I’d say there’s a sad feeling here.

In almost every room, but not all the time. ”

Of course. The mildly oppressive air within Shadowbrook might be explained away by such superstitions and old wives’ tales. Pearl knew better, though: The feeling came not from haunting, deceased souls but from the haunted ones who lived here now.

Violet picked up her work bucket and smiled at Pearl. “Sometimes the voices seem cheerful, don’t you think?”

Pearl wondered how she’d given the girl the idea she heard the voices Violet spoke of.

“But when Maxwell is sick, everything’s gloomy. I bet his illness draws the sadness close. It only makes sense.”

Pearl found herself nodding, but she wasn’t sure if it was agreement or farewell. Violet seemed so certain, but Pearl didn’t find any of this clear or even possible.

A few evenings later, Pearl walked Maxwell from the music room Misty had chosen as her domain down to the south parlor to say good night to his grandfather. She planned to go with him as far as the room’s entrance, as usual, and then step away to give the two of them some privacy.

She knew this habit of walking Maxwell to the door was one she likely couldn’t justify for much longer.

Max was hardly a small child who might get lost or frightened in the house, but she enjoyed their explorations together, and she relished the moments he’d reach for her hand.

It reminded her of walking with her brother all those years ago.

As Pearl led Maxwell to the door, Jenkinson put out a hand to stop her. “Mr. Ravenscroft wishes you to stay.”

Pearl tugged the skirts of her dress into place and stepped inside. Madame Genevieve was already in the room. Pearl gave her a nod and turned to Mr. Ravenscroft.

“What can I do for you this evening, sir?”

“We hear you play the violin.”

She nodded. Was she supposed to say more? Would Mr. Ravenscroft reprimand her in front of his company?

“I’d like you to provide some entertainment for our guest this evening.” He gestured to Madame Genevieve, who smiled and gave a convincing display of modesty.

Her drawling voice spread her words across the seconds like jam over toast. “I’m sure we’d all love to hear you play, but please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

Pearl knew how she was supposed to respond. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll go upstairs for the instrument.”

When she arrived back in the room, Maxwell was speaking animatedly to his grandfather. “And then I wrote the whole thing down again so Oliver will have a copy to keep with him when he has to leave. I think it will make him laugh.”

Pearl knew the boy referred to a story he’d told her that morning, one of the happy memories he’d been collecting according to Madame Genevieve’s counsel.

As much as Pearl resented the woman for tricking Mr. Ravenscroft with her fraud, she couldn’t deny the value of Maxwell’s new habit.

It truly did seem to be increasing his joy to consider the things that delighted him.

Hovering at the door, she waited for Maxwell to finish telling his grandfather the story.

After a few minutes, she felt Madame Genevieve’s eyes on her.

The woman winked at her, and Pearl’s back stiffened.

What were the winks supposed to mean? Did the spiritualist think they shared something?

That there was a friendship or understanding between them? Because there wasn’t.

As Pearl stepped into the parlor, Maxwell turned and saw her. “What will you play, Pearl? A chamber piece? One of the country dances? One you’ve made up yourself?” He turned to Mr. Ravens-croft. “What is your favorite song, Grandfather? I’m sure Pearl can play it.”

She gave Maxwell a smile of gratitude for his belief in her while at the same moment hoping his grandfather didn’t take the boy’s words literally. She was proficient, but she could not simply play anything she’d ever heard.

Instead of making a request, Mr. Ravenscroft turned to Madame Genevieve. “What kind of music do you enjoy?”

The woman clasped her hands together in a move that set her scarves fluttering. “I like what I hear in the night here in this house. The long, slow notes.”

Pearl stared at her. Would Madame Genevieve claim the songs were played by ghosts when it was simply the wind blowing through the house?

Mr. Ravenscroft bowed his head and closed his eyes, as if her words were a prayer he wanted to join.

Max nodded. “Sometimes I hear that music, too. I used to think it was Pearl, but I hear it when we’re reading or playing sometimes.”

Madame Genevieve nodded. “There’s a memory in this house of someone who loved music.” She shifted in her seat and hummed a melody that sounded like a song Pearl often heard in her mind. “I do enjoy a soaring romantic piece.”

In what was by now a reflexive response, Pearl lowered her chin to hide the rolling of her eyes, but to her surprise, she felt a sincerely amused smile flicker over her face.

Of course that sort of music appealed to Madame Genevieve.

Pearl raised the instrument and played the most romantic, most soaring piece she could recall.

She followed that piece with another, and then another. As she swayed in time to the notes, she heard in her mind an echo of harmony, as if her memory supplied a second musician to round out her songs.

When Maxwell stood from the couch and asked her to play a lively dance, Pearl nodded and shifted the tone of her playing. The boy stepped in front of Madame Genevieve, offered her his hand, and raised her from her seat to dance with him.

Pearl watched him as carefully as her playing allowed, keeping time with his steps.

If he was unable to leap, he skipped across the room, one hand on Madame Genevieve’s arm and the other wrapped in her ring-bedecked hand.

They spun in gentle circles, and Pearl’s heart soared to see Max tilt back his head and laugh.

If a portion of Pearl’s heart held back from fully enjoying the moment for fear Max would suddenly burst into a lung-wracking cough, it was a smaller portion than usual.

She glanced at Mr. Ravenscroft and saw he was as still and stiff as usual, but the fingers of his left hand tapped on his leg as if along imaginary strings, playing along in his mind. Pearl knew those taps. She did the same when she listened to someone play.

At the end of a country dance, Maxwell dropped onto the couch, his head resting on Mr. Ravenscroft’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s your turn now. I’m worn-out.”

Mr. Ravenscroft caught Pearl’s eye. He glanced from the top of Maxwell’s head toward the door.

Pearl nodded in understanding. “I believe it’s time for bed, Max. You’ve worked hard this evening, and we still have many stairs to climb.”

“Do you know what this house needs?” Maxwell asked, his voice weary after his exertion. He stifled a yawn. “A dumbwaiter. All the best houses in stories have dumbwaiters to carry sweets and secrets and tired adventurers up and down the house’s levels.”

Pearl was ready with a response, but Mr. Ravenscroft surprised her by leaning over and whispering in Maxwell’s ear. If the boy’s brightening expression was any indication, there might be an unexplored shaft he’d be very interested in discovering.

What was happening? Who was this man snuggling Max and whispering secrets into his ear? She’d never seen Mr. Ravenscroft so tender and playful. She’d never even imagined it possible.

She was rarely invited to join the Ravenscrofts for their nightly visit, and she’d never witnessed anything like what she was part of tonight.

She wondered if Mr. Ravenscroft had ever behaved this way with his nephew.

From Oliver’s words about the lonely childhood spent in his uncle’s house, she doubted it.

What was different? What had changed?

Before Pearl could follow her thoughts any further, Madame Genevieve held out her hands to raise Maxwell from the couch.

As he stood before her, she brought her face close to his.

“More happy memories for your book. And this time, consider any stories you’ve heard about your parents.

See what the house will tell you about your mother’s childhood here.

We don’t need to have been present for memories to hold power. ”

Maxwell practically disappeared as Madame Genevieve wrapped both her scarf-fringed arms around him. Pearl’s throat thickened at the sight. Was she jealous that Max was being affectionate with someone who wasn’t her? Or did she wish someone would enfold her in an embrace like that?

Either way, in a moment, Maxwell was at her side, his small hand in hers.

She tucked the violin under her arm and nodded her good night to Mr. Ravenscroft. His face wore his familiar look of lowered brows and downturned mouth, and he did not offer thanks for her playing, nor did he smile at her the way he did at Maxwell and Madame Genevieve.

“That was very well done, my dear,” Madame Genevieve said as she followed Pearl to the door. “I hope you’ll repeat that performance regularly. Music has a way of drawing the spirits close. And the spiritual accompaniment was as perfect as if the two of you had practiced together.”

Pearl did not dignify that silliness with a response.

The woman smiled as though she knew exactly what Pearl was thinking. “Any time you’re ready to speak with me about your own lost ones, I’m available to you.”

Pearl shook her head. “That’s very kind, but unnecessary.”

“There is healing in bringing the spirits of the departed into your daily life.”

She wished Maxwell was not standing right beside her. She chose her words carefully. “I am not ill, Madame. I don’t require healing. But I appreciate how you’ve begun to help here.”

Madame Genevieve reached out an arm covered with jangling bracelets and traced a gentle line across Maxwell’s cheek. “It’s my delight to share the gift.”

The mantel clock struck the hour, and Pearl heard the reverberations of the large clock upstairs. Leaning closer to the woman’s ear, she lowered her voice. “I still feel it’s only right for me to be in the room any time you speak with Maxwell.”

Madame Genevieve winked. In the deep, drawn-out, quavering tones of her performance voice, she said, “I’m sure you do.”