Page 33 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House
Pearl might have argued with Madame Genevieve’s claims. Lies could hurt. Being tricked, as well. But she let the woman’s other words settle in her mind as she walked back to Maxwell’s room. Madame Genevieve had a point, after all. Some days, small comforts were all Pearl had.
She knew there was a chance Maxwell had fallen asleep, but she wanted to look in on him. Offer him some “small comfort” in her own way—one that did not include flowing scarves or rattling tables.
He was not asleep. He sat up in bed against his pillows. As soon as she closed the door, he said, “Did you speak to her?”
Was there nothing this child couldn’t see in her face?
“To whom?” she asked, buying herself a second or two to form a better answer.
“The lady. Genevieve. You met with her, didn’t you? Did you ask her to see me again?”
She wouldn’t lie to him, but she could select which of the questions to answer. “No. She’s busy planning her meeting for tomorrow. And I don’t think a visit with her is in your best interest.”
Maxwell shook his head. “You’re wrong. I need her. To help me understand.”
“Understand what?”
He looked to the side of the room where the spot of damp darkened the corner of the ceiling. “What the house needs from me.”
Pearl couldn’t decide how to respond to that. She wanted to take the boy in her arms and hug away all such thoughts. He was not suffering from his lung disease because Shadowbrook House demanded a sacrifice. The idea was foolish and frightening.
But if he believed it, even in a tiny part, she would do everything in her power to assist him.
“We’ll see what she can tell us at her gathering.”
He looked at her, his eyes shining. “You’ll come? You’ll listen to her?”
Pearl realized she was no longer dreading the woman’s performance. A small but growing part of her looked forward to it.
The next afternoon, Pearl helped Maxwell into a fine suit of clothing he kept in a wardrobe but had never worn.
Every year or two, Mrs. Randle brought him a wrapped packet of what she called “visiting clothes,” but as he never went visiting, he had no occasion to put them on.
Whenever he grew a few inches, the old suit would disappear from his bedroom and a new one would arrive.
He tugged the jacket’s sleeves, and Pearl saw how his discomfort of the restrictive fabrics matched the excitement of wearing a costume. She remembered the feeling.
“You look very handsome. I wish I had a beautiful dress so I could match your finery.”
Maxwell carefully wet his hands, pressed them to his head, and combed his hair over to the side in the same style as his grandfather. He didn’t need to know that it stood up in the back like the little-boy version of peacock feathers.
He stood before his looking glass and inspected each angle of his reflection.
Pearl hid her smile as he twisted his shoulders to try to see how his back appeared in the structured jacket.
It was not vanity but simple curiosity. She could practically hear him wondering how he’d look in a suit when he was a man.
The thought was both delightful and tragic, as they both knew hope was a luxury, and Maxwell would not likely see adulthood.
When he finished his self-inspection, he turned to look at Pearl. “You don’t have a fancy dress? Then what are you going to wear? You can’t go to the gathering in that.”
There was no stifling her laugh this time. “Do I look so awful, then?”
He quickly apologized, shaking his head hard enough to dislodge a few strands of his thin hair from their carefully combed state. “No, only this is a special occasion, and you should wear your prettiest dress.”
“Which one is that?” Did the boy even notice the clothes she wore? Did anyone?
His answer was decisive. “Something red.”
She could not imagine what he might be thinking of. “Max, I don’t own a red skirt or a red blouse. I’m not convinced I could even dig up a red ribbon for my hair.”
“In stories, ladies are always dressing in scarlet silks.”
“I don’t have either scarlet or silk. But the words do sound lovely together.”
Max leaned against the edge of his bed and let out a soft sigh. He repeated his argument. “This is an important occasion. We should both be dressed accordingly.”
She collected all her restraint and didn’t laugh. “Of course. How about I put on something blue?”
“Blue is nice.”
“Very well. I’ll go change, and when I return, you will tell me I look nice in my blue dress in three different languages of your choice.”
Max grinned, and the twinkle returned to his eye. “Then you need to fix your hair, because I haven’t learned to lie in French or German.”
Pearl pretended to scowl but laughed herself out of the boy’s room. Whatever happened at Madame Genevieve’s gathering, it was worth seeing Maxwell so animated and happy.
She fastened the blue skirt at her waist, choosing to put on both her underskirts. It was not often she dressed herself as though for company. Madame Genevieve’s gathering was reason enough, she supposed, to enhance the silhouette of her dress.
As she brushed through her long, dark hair, she wished someone would come stand behind her and pin it up for her.
She was proficient in setting her own hair, but there was a luxury in someone else’s hands performing such a personal action.
Not a lady’s maid or a servant, but someone who loved her.
A mother. Maybe, in another kind of life, a sister.
The moment Oliver’s face came to her mind, she tried to brush the thought away.
But the idea of his hands caressing her hair was too lovely to ignore, so she allowed herself to sink into the waking dream as she looked into the glass.
She saw her expression and knew all her secret feelings were laid bare.
She spent a few extra moments performing a more complicated twist than she would normally do, and in a fit of silly pride, she pulled some curling strands loose to frame her face.
According to the papers, it wasn’t a fashionable look this year, but she knew it suited her. And she hoped Oliver would notice.
Satisfied that Maxwell would not need to lie about her appearance in any language, she hurried across the hall to his room, performing her knock as she pushed open the door.
One step into the room and she stopped. Oliver stood in front of Maxwell’s looking glass, pressing a damp hand to his own hair and combing it over to the side to match the boy’s.
“Much better,” Maxwell said with a smile. “You look ready for company now.” Turning to Pearl, the boy said the most unnecessary words: “See how nice Oliver looks.”
As if she could take her eyes from him.
Pearl wondered how she’d breathed easily only a moment before. Now, with Oliver standing so close and his hand on hers, her heart pounded in her throat, and she had to think carefully about how her legs supported her.
How long did she stand there blinking up at Oliver? She thought it would be a wonderful idea to continue for hours. Days, perhaps. She’d never felt so sympathetic to the fainting heroines in the novels she and Nanette enjoyed. There were situations to which fainting was the perfect response.
Maxwell interrupted her reverie. “You look lovely in your blue dress.” Then he repeated the sentiment in French and in German. His pronunciation was decent, and his expression seemed sincere.
Oliver leaned close and whispered, “He’s right. You look truly lovely.”
Pearl forced her eyes from Oliver’s smiling face. She gave Max a curtsy. “Thank you. Merci. Danke.”
Without waiting for more language tutoring, Maxwell went on. “Oliver hasn’t met Madame Genevieve yet. It’s only good luck he’s already met Misty.”
Beside her, Oliver murmured, “Very good luck indeed.”
She turned and almost convinced herself it was only to be polite as she asked him a question. Not to stare into his deep brown eyes.
“Does your uncle know you’re coming to the gathering?”
Oliver laughed. “I didn’t receive a formal invitation, but I imagine he knows I’ve dressed for the evening. Nothing goes unnoticed by Jenkinson. I only hope Uncle Arthur doesn’t toss me out into the rain when he finds me in the parlor.”
Max shook his head. “Of course he won’t.”
The look that passed between Oliver and Pearl suggested neither of them was quite as certain as the boy.
Pearl thought she knew how to secure Mr. Ravenscroft’s permission for Oliver’s attendance tonight. She excused herself from the room for a moment, promising a quick return.
Her knock at Madame Genevieve’s door was answered quite differently from the day before. The voice Pearl now thought of as Madame Genevieve’s performance tone wafted into the hall, slow and deep and mournful. “Do come in, my dear.”
The spiritualist sat at her dressing table, several candles surrounding her, staring at her reflection.
She caught Pearl’s eye in the glass and waved her inside.
With a gesture from a heavily braceleted arm, she pointed to an empty chair.
In the same slow murmur, she said, “Make yourself comfortable.”
Pearl wasn’t in the mood for polite small talk. Any remaining awe she felt for Madame Genevieve was simply respect for the drawn-out game the woman was playing. “I don’t want to bother you while you’re getting ready for a show. I need a favor.”
The woman raised one eyebrow as if in question but didn’t break character.
“Mr. Waverley and his uncle are not on good terms. If you could speak for Oliver’s welcome at your performance this evening, I think Mr. Ravenscroft would accept his presence more readily.”
A hum rumbled low in Madame Genevieve’s chest. “It is not my place to manipulate dear Arthur’s feelings and opinions.”
Pearl crossed one hand over the other on her lap and smiled softly. “We both know that’s not true. Manipulating his feelings is precisely what you’ve come for.”
Madame Genevieve avoided responding to Pearl’s comment by facing the mirror and picking up a cosmetic pencil to darken her eyebrow. With a hint of a smile, Madame Genevieve perfected the curve of her brow and tilted her chin in the barest of nods.
Pearl took the gesture as assent. “We understand each other, I believe.”
Madame Genevieve answered Pearl through the mirror. “Half of that statement is true. We do, in fact, understand each other. And when you finally believe, my efforts here will have been met with success.”
Pearl smiled as she stood. “You’ve certainly got your work cut out for you if that’s what you’re waiting for.
Focus your attentions on Mr. Ravenscroft, receive your payments, and enjoy performing your routine.
That is more than enough to keep anyone busy.
And thank you in advance for encouraging Mr. Ravenscroft to welcome Oliver. ”
Madame Genevieve’s voice drifted through the room and followed Pearl to the door. “Keep your mind open to all possibilities.”
Pearl closed the door softly behind her.
When she returned to Maxwell’s room, she stopped at the threshold.
Max sat in his chair by the fire reading aloud from the adventure story he and Pearl were enjoying.
Oliver sprawled on the floor at his feet, his own long legs stretching almost into the fireplace.
He leaned back on his elbows, his face turned toward Max with a look of absolute delight spread across his features.
To see these two together, relaxed and happy and well, swelled Pearl’s heart beyond measure.
She watched quietly as Max read a difficult passage flawlessly. Oliver hung on his every word.
Only the tolling of the clock in the upper hall stole Pearl’s attention away from the sight. She would have been happy for time to stop completely, but the evening was only beginning.
Pearl coughed softly. The other two turned to the door. Oliver leaped from the floor with enviable energy, and Pearl smiled to think she was the reason for his eagerness.
“We ought to go down and take our places,” she said, reaching for Maxwell.
The boy took her by one hand and Oliver by the other and tugged them out of his room.
As they walked to the stairs, Oliver glanced at Pearl over Maxwell’s head. She felt glad about the extra care she’d taken to make herself presentable.
“What are we calling this event we’re taking places for?”
Max looked up and answered him. “The gathering.”
Oliver’s answering chuckle sounded nervous. “Gathering of what?”
“Ghosts. Restless spirits.” Max spoke as if such things were obvious. Commonplace.
Pearl was not so caught up in the delight of Oliver’s presence that she couldn’t respond to a teaching moment.
“Maxwell, we don’t know what Madame Genevieve has planned. Whatever it is, we will enjoy the performance and treat your grandfather’s guest politely. And when it is finished, she’ll return to the city.”
A day ago, Pearl might have been relieved to see the end of Madame Genevieve’s stay, but she realized she’d grown fond of the woman. If anyone asked, she would admit she liked Madame Genevieve quite a lot, fraud or not.
Oliver grinned over Maxwell’s head at Pearl. “I’ll finally meet my uncle’s guest.”
“Even when you see her, you might not believe her.”