I was hauling everything out of the front-hall closet when Amelia arrived late this morning.
“Aunt Sara,” she said, kissing my cheek and glancing at the pile of coats and shoes I’d pulled out. “How delightful to see you up. And you’re cleaning?”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost something,” I told her.
“Sometimes things have a way of turning up once we stop looking for them,” Amelia said, her eyes dancing with light. “Do you not find that to be true?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Now, you must come to lunch with me! I have a surprise for you—something wonderful. I’ll help you put all of this away, and we’ll leave at once.”
“I don’t know,” I said. What if my Gertie should return while I was out?
“It’ll just be for a couple of hours. I think it’ll do you a world of good. Uncle Martin thinks so, too. Though you must promise not to tell him about the surprise—I think he’d be quite upset with me!”
“All right, then,” I agreed, reluctant to leave, but curious about the surprise.
The ride into town was pleasant. The sun was out, and Amelia has a lovely new carriage with red leather seats. Amelia fussed over me, making sure my coat was buttoned all the way, covering me up with a blanket as if I were an invalid. She chattered brightly about this and that—girlish gossip I was not listening to. My eyes were fixed on the woods that lined our road, searching for movement in the shadows, some trace of my little Gertie.
“Are you listening, Aunt Sara?”
“Oh yes,” I lied. “It’s all very lovely.”
She gave me an odd look, and I thought that I really must try harder.
Amelia married Tad Larkin last spring—the son of the mill owner here in West Hall (one of the wealthiest families in town). They live in a big house at the end of Main Street.
When we arrived, we were met by four other ladies, all strangers to me. They were very friendly and enthusiastic. I was quite taken aback. There were a Miss Knapp and Mrs. Cobb from Montpelier, Mrs. Gillespie from Barre, and a very old woman with a birdlike face—Mrs. Willard—but they did not say where she was from. All the women had on lovely dresses and hats trimmed with lace and feathers.
“Amelia has told us so much about you,” they chirped as they led me through the parlor, with its ornate furniture and oil paintings on the walls, and into the dining room, where the table with a pressed white tablecloth was all laid out with a fine lunch—little sandwiches cut into triangles, potato salad, pickled beets. The places were set with bone china, crystal glasses full of something that bubbled. The wallpaper was dark blue with flowers that seemed to wink and sparkle.
“She has?” I sat down and began serving myself as food was passed to me, wondering what Amelia had been thinking—how could she imagine I might be up for so much socializing? What I wanted more than anything was to beg to be taken home, to resume my search for Gertie.
“Indeed,” said the youngest, Miss Knapp, who couldn’t have been much older than eighteen.
I picked up a chicken-salad sandwich, nibbled at the corner. My mouth felt dry, and chewing was difficult. I put down the sandwich, picked up my fork, and tried a bite of the beets; their taste was as sharp and metallic as blood. I felt the eyes of all the women on me. It was simply too much.
“But she’s not the only one who has told us things about you,” said Mrs. Cobb, pouring tea. She was a plump woman with a ruddy face. “Isn’t that right, ladies?” she practically chortled. It was as if they all shared a joke.
They all nodded excitedly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I confessed, setting my fork down on the china plate. It made a terrible clanking sound. My hands began to tremble.
It was the old woman, Mrs. Willard, who spoke. She was sitting across from me, staring fixedly at me. “We have a message for you.”
“A message?” I asked, dabbing at my lips with a starched napkin. “From whom?”
“From your child,” Mrs. Willard said, her dark eyes boring into my own. “Gertie.”
“You…you’veseenher?” I asked. Was this where my Gertie had gone? To these ladies? But why?
Mrs. Cobb chuckled, her cheeks growing even more pink.“Good heavens, no,” she said. “The spirits don’t manifest themselves to us that way.”
“How, then?” I asked.
“Various ways,” Amelia said. “We meet once a month and ask any spirits who are present to join us. Sometimes we will request a certain spirit.”
“But how do they communicate with you?” I asked.
