Page 32 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

Lives were lived and then ended. History was the past. What was gone was gone. Only a fool would believe someone like Madame Genevieve had the power to speak with spirits.

A fool—or someone whose heart broke at every thought of those who had passed.

Pearl was not such a person, but she dearly loved a little boy who was. This love propelled her to the door of Madame Genevieve’s room. She gave a quick, quiet knock.

“All right. Come in.”

Pearl opened the door and stepped inside. Scarves were draped on every surface, including each bedpost and all the framed paintings on the walls.

Madame Genevieve sprawled on the bed, one arm slung over her face as though protecting her eyes from a too-bright light.

“Did you find it?” she asked, her accent as sharp and spiky as someone hawking fish in the marketplace.

“I beg your pardon,” Pearl said. “I don’t know what you mean. Were you expecting someone else?”

With a gasp, Madame Genevieve sat up. “Lands, girl. You gave me a fright.” She looked around Pearl at the door. “Just us, then?”

The harsh accent was stronger than when Madame Genevieve had slipped into it before, and as unfamiliar to Pearl as the strange moaning had been before she’d grown used to it. Was this the real voice of Madame Genevieve? Perhaps nothing was real with this woman.

“I’ve come alone. But I won’t interrupt you if you’ve made plans.”

Madame Genevieve moved until she was sitting upright, her back against the bed’s headboard. She shifted something in her lap, and Pearl saw the little dog curled up, asleep.

“Nothing as solid as all that. Just sent a maid to find some cheese for Misty. Come in. Sit, if you like.” She gestured to a chair near the window.

On it lay a black gown with flowing sleeves.

Tiny white dog hairs clung to the fabric.

Pearl folded the skirt to one side and perched at the edge of the seat.

“What brings you to my diggings tonight? Need a reading, do you? I’m not quite prepared for that just now, what with the gathering we’re planning, but we can see about a private session in a free moment while I’m here.”

Pearl gave a quick shake of her head. “Not a reading. Not a session. I have questions.”

Madame Genevieve’s laugh emerged from her throat as a bark much like her dog’s. There was nothing of the floaty sound of her performance voice. “Don’t we all, dearie? Well, I don’t guarantee I’ll give you any answers you haven’t thought of yourself, but go on.”

It was as if the performer was a different woman than this. As if none of Madame Genevieve’s pretense was needed now that the two of them were alone together.

Pearl unlaced her fingers and ran her hands across her skirt. “How long has Mr. Ravenscroft been communicating with you?”

“Not going to beat about the bush, are you? Diving right in?”

Even across the dimly lit room, Pearl caught the woman’s eye and held it. “In order to keep the household peace, I believe we can be direct with each other.”

Madame Genevieve gave a single nod before she answered. “I hide only what I need to hide. I reckon you do the same.”

Pearl felt herself stiffen defensively. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Madame Genevieve chuckled and sank back into her pillows. “Aye. We’re all hiding and seeking. It’s the universal game.”

“How long have you been working with Mr. Ravenscroft?” Pearl asked again.

“It’s been right near three years now. One of my longest--standing clients, he is.”

Three years seemed a terribly long time for Mr. Ravenscroft to buy Madame Genevieve’s particular brand of comfort. “And how did he originally become connected with you?”

“Like any business, I do my advertising. I’m le-git-i-mate .” She enunciated the word carefully, as if to prove her claim.

“He discovered you in a newspaper?”

Madame Genevieve lifted her hands in a gesture that either meant she didn’t know or she wasn’t holding anything. “Many of my clients have read about me in a gazette or a journal or a herald. I appear in stories often enough.”

“And what is it you offer?”

Madame Genevieve sat silently for a few long seconds, staring at Pearl as if to read the thoughts behind her expression. After a moment, she shifted to the foot of the bed, her knees close to Pearl’s.

“Most folks choose a group meeting, where we sit around the table and commune. It’s the most economical option. We gather together, join hands, and attempt contact, you know.”

Pearl did not know, but she could imagine.

“There’s a bit of showmanship involved. Tables rattle, candles blow out.

The whole package. Everyone likes a show.

But mostly, they come for the words. Quite often, the messages I report back to them serve to comfort more than one of the gathered clients.

It’s a skill I continue to sharpen as I grow my business.

Make an answer seem personal, but not too personal.

Vague enough to satisfy many of the hopes the patrons have come with.

Simple messages for simple minds. But that won’t do for our Mr. Ravenscroft.

He prefers a private session by letters. ”

Pearl nodded, hoping the woman would continue.

She did. “We write to each other of those he’s lost. He tells me stories. Shares his memories. Flogs himself over his past mistakes. They all do that, of course. Everyone speaks his own guilt when talking about the past. He asks me questions. I try to give him helpful answers.”

“Helpful?” Pearl didn’t hide the skepticism in her voice.

“He gets what he pays for. And he keeps writing back. He’s brought me here, and that’s the mark of a satisfied customer. Now I can see and hear what’s happening in this house for myself.”

“And you consider it helpful to trick him into believing you’re communicating with the dead?”

Madame Genevieve chuckled again and scratched the sleeping dog behind the ears. “You wouldn’t last a day in my line of work. You’ve got no sense of the mystical. And it’s no trick. This house is noisy with the murmurs of the dead.”

“Then why don’t I hear them?”

Pearl was surprised by her question though Madame Genevieve clearly was not.

The spiritualist smiled at her. “Are you ready to know the answer?”

She couldn’t honestly say whether she was or not.

Madame Genevieve took Pearl’s hand in her own surprisingly soft one.

“Many whispers clamor for our attention, from the living and the dead. When you press your hands to your ears to block the ones that might hurt you, you may also cut yourself off from those who could bring joy. You can learn which voices to listen to and which to ignore.”

“And you can teach me that?”

The woman nodded, and her fluffy orange halo bounced back and forth. “I count on you learning well enough to help Maxwell do the same. It might save his life.”

She was unwilling to show the woman how uncomfortable that sentence made her feel. Not knowing how to reply, Pearl stood. “I believe you have answered my questions. Thank you. And I apologize for the interruption.”

Walking with Pearl toward the door, Madame Genevieve said, “No apology needed. Come see me any time. But the next time, I’ll have to charge you.

” The woman grinned and winked as if they’d shared a great joke.

“If my other clients find out we had a session for free, I’ll be flooded with demands for trial runs.

Keep that dry, will you? Won’t do my pocketbook any good if such news gets about. ”

Pearl wanted to deny they’d had a session almost as much as she wanted to “keep it dry.” Nobody would hear about this from her.

As she walked into the hall, Pearl felt Madame Genevieve’s hand on her arm. “Small comforts can’t hurt anyone. I reckon you’ve got one or two of your own. Don’t deprive others of theirs.”

Pearl looked into the woman’s eyes and saw genuine kindness, although shrouded by the layers of costume and face paint. It didn’t surprise Pearl she’d been slow to see past the showiness of Madame Genevieve’s theatrics.

The woman took Pearl’s hand and squeezed it gently. “We’re not so different, you and me. We’re both in the business of comfort and teaching.”

Pearl couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “We go about it in quite a different way.”

Madame Genevieve gave a nod of assent. “Aye. And why not? Each to her own, I say.”