The door swung open and a rotund butler with a curling mustache greeted us in hushed tones after Mother introduced herself. He didn’t shout at us or drive us around to the proper entrance. He only stepped aside to let us in.
“Mrs. Gordon is expecting you. If you’ll be so good as to follow me please.”
I’d never heard anyone speak half so well as he did and there wasn’t a single mend in his fine pressed suit, not even near the seams or pockets. The hall was draped in black, paintings and mirrors decorously covered, gaslights burning low. Even the drawing room, which was the same size as our entire flat, was somber despite the gilded furniture and seashell lamps. An elderly woman wearing a gown of bombazine, the dull black material all widows wore, sat placidly on a sofa larger than my bed. Another woman sat across from her, napping.
“Mrs. Willoughby, welcome.”
“Mrs. Gordon.” My mother bowed her head in greeting. “Allow me to offer my most sincere condolences. And may I present my daughter, Violet.”
“Aren’t you a pretty thing.” Her smile wobbled. “My daughter had hair just like that when she was little.” My mother’s insistence on wrapping my hair into perfect ringlets the previous night suddenly made sense. It wasn’t a style that was currently popular. “Come closer, gel, I don’t bite.” Perhaps not, but she smelled like talc and too much perfume and lemon drops. But since she offered me one of those lemon drops, I was inclined to like her.
“Tell me, child, do you see spirits, like your mother does?”
I swallowed, glancing at my mother. Her eyes narrowed warningly. And her eyes never narrowed like that in public; she was afraid of looking as if she had wrinkles.
“No, ma’am,” I said quietly.
“My gifts only came upon me after I lost my own dear husband,” Mother added smoothly, her eyes now glistening prettily. “And so I understand your pain very well indeed, Mrs. Gordon.”
The other old lady gave such a loud snore that she woke herself up. I tried not to giggle.
“Eh? What’s that now?”
Mrs. Gordon poked her with her cane. “Wake up, Agatha. The Spiritualist medium has arrived.”
“Horace is dead, you daft cow,” Agatha said bluntly. “You’re wasting your pennies.”
Mrs. Gordon sniffed. “They’re mine to waste, so be quiet, you old fool.” She reached out to pat my hand. She wasn’t wearing gloves and her skin was dry and papery, marked with brown spots. “Never mind her,” she said. “That’s my sister, Miss Hartington. She’s an old witch.”
I was instantly burning with curiosity. “I’ve read about witches,” I confessed. “Are you really one?”
“Violet! What a thing to say,” Mother said.
But Miss Hartington only laughed. “I am, my girl. The very devil of one.” She squinted at me. “You do look like my niece. We were sorry to lose her so young.” She cleared her throat briskly, then frowned at my mother. “Come to rob my sister then, have you?”
“Certainly not,” Mother replied, her smile brittle.
“This fashion for talking to the dead is pure poppycock, if you ask me. Dead is dead.”
“Agatha, that’s rude even for you,” Mrs. Gordon said. “Shall we begin, Mrs. Willoughby, before my sister’s abominable manners drive you clear away?”
“I am at your service, ma’am,” Mother said to Mrs. Gordon. Then, turning to Miss Hartington, she replied, “I assure you, there is considerable evidence to the contrary.”
We moved to a round table draped in a lace cloth. I itched to stroke it. It looked like fairy wings all stitched together.
“Come sit next to me,” Mrs. Gordon said to me. Mother hid a smile of triumph. It made me queasy to see it. Colin was still standing by the door. I sat next to Mrs. Gordon.
“Could we please have hot chocolate?” I asked as my mother had instructed, even though it was very rude of me.
“Violet, such rudeness,” she said straightaway.
I was confused. My smile started to slip. Mrs. Gordon patted my hand again. Mother had suggested I ought to cry to get the hot chocolate, but I couldn’t quite manage it.
“I’ll ring for a pot,” Mrs. Gordon offered. “If it won’t disturb your work, Mrs. Willoughby?”
“Not at all,” my mother assured her graciously. “I apologize for my daughter’s manners. She is perhaps full young to be out in society this way, but she so likes to see the Christmas bows on the houses at this time of year. I couldn’t bear to leave her behind. A mother, as you well know, would do anything for her child.”
Mrs. Gordon nodded while her sister rang for the tea cart. “My own Amelia loved Christmas.”
The long-deceased Amelia was why my mother had decided to bring me along. I was meant to distract Mrs. Gordon, to keep her off balance. It was a cruel thing to do to a sad old woman.
I stared at my mother mutinously. She pinched me under the table hard enough to leave a welt and make my eyes water.
The hot chocolate finally arrived and everyone except for Colin was offered a delicate porcelain tea cup. The sweet aroma of chocolate and cream smelled so good, it nearly made the whole night worthwhile. I’d never tasted any before and I sincerely hoped to taste it again soon, and often. I drank greedily until my mother spoke.
“We’ll start with a prayer.”
That was my next cue. As everyone closed their eyes and bowed their heads, I slipped the small bottle of liquid out of my pocket and tipped a little into each of the ladies’ cups. Mother said it was medicine, brewed from opium flowers, and that nothing made from flowers could ever be harmful. Hot chocolate was meant to mask the bitter taste, as the ladies mustn’t find out they were drinking laudanum. She was very emphatic about that. I still didn’t understand why it had to be a secret, if it was harmless flower juice. I hesitated for a fraction of a second until my mother opened one eye.