“Acquired it in the navy, Doris told me,” Darcie says, topping off Ms. Fernsby’s brandy. She nods in tipsy affirmation.
I’m speechless. I’ve always thought the psychic stuff was silly, but the Victorians were obsessed with spiritualism. Ghost photographers like William H. Mumler tricked many a grieving widow into believing that her beloved late husband could materialize in an image. Other intelligent late-Victorians like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fell deeply into the spiritualism and ghost photography trend while grappling with loss. My chest tightens even now as I think of Doyle seeking out psychics to connect him to his beloved son Kingsley, who died after the Battle of the Somme in World War I.
“If you’re not comfortable with it...” Ms. Fernsby mutters weakly.
“No...” I hesitate.
I stare at a geriatric Siamese cat on the carpet licking her fur. If I was an authentic Victorian widow, I’d be sitting in a room like this, trusting someone like Darcie to summon Philip’s spirit. Obviously, this isn’t the kind of thing I would have sought out on my own. But there just isn’t a good reasonnotto do this.
“Alright, I’m game. Let’s do it.” I finish my brandy in a gulp.
Darcie closes the heavy dark red curtains and takes us to an Edwardian-era table in the corner of the room. Ms. Fernsby trips lightly over one of the ancient hissing cats.
“Aretheystaying?’ she asks irritably.
“Yes, their moods often change with the entry of spirits. The Egyptians were well aware of this.”
After dimming the drawing room, Darcie lights a large, heavy candelabra and sets it in the middle of the table. She refills our snifters and settles herself in her seat, then takes in a deep breath through her nose and exhales.
“This really is like a séance,” I admit, rather excited now. “Very atmospheric.”
“It’s not actually necessary. I could sense the spirits if we were sitting in Starbucks over milky coffees. But incense, candlelight—the ambience helps.”
We’re quiet as Darcie closes her eyes.
Ms. Fernsby’s lipsticked mouth twitches excitedly.
As much as I try, I can’t believe in ghosts. I can’t believe that Philip’s spirit is pressing on the veil somewhere close. Nonetheless, I try to stay open-minded and surrender to this exercise.
Outside, lamplight breaks through drapery cracks, casting long shadows across the old books and patterned wallpaper. The cats grow restless; a fluffy Persian walks across the frayed floral area rug and bats at the tabby resting on the floor. The calico leaps back up onto the sofa, clawing at the worn upholstery, and stares back at me in the semidarkness. The room smells like dry rose petals, stale dust, and musty pages. With only the candelabra and antique glasses on the table before us, I’m transported to a time of corsets and tarot cards, where, despite new steam engines and phonographs, there’s a yearning for the unknown.
“Hmmm...” Darcie murmurs.
“What?” Ms. Fernsby whispers.
Darcie silences her with a hand wave.
For a brief second, I think—I desperatelywantPhilip to surprise me and break through my unbelief. Can he please surprise me? My mouth dries, and my heartbeat races. My head swims a little from the brandy.
Philip.
“Hmmm...” Darcie mutters again.
She frowns. “I don’t like this gent.”
“Who?” I whisper hoarsely. There’sno wayshe wouldn’t like ghost-Philip.
Her penciled eyebrows furrow behind her glasses.
“Annabel, he says he appreciates the way you’re taking care of the house.”
Ms. Fernsby gasps. “Archibald... Lord Routledge!”
“Yes,” Darcie says irritably.
The Persian hisses from behind me.
A chill zips up my spine. Oh god. If this vintage balderdash is real, maybe this is the moment where we’ve opened a door to something evil. It seems like a crucial moment in a typical PBS period drama. Agatha Christie’sTheSittafordMysterycomes to mind. Shit. We’re going to end up dead. Victorian twins resembling those little girls inThe Shiningare going to appear to Heathcliff back at the row house. They’re going to ask him to play with them and lure him someplace dark and dangerous.
