The Spiritualist Read Free

the others with a smile. As he approached, his gaze swept me with a frank and direct interest that startled me.
    “My wife, Evelyn,” Peter said.
    Michel Jourdain reached for my hand with beringed fingers.
    “ Madame Atherton,” he said—a smooth, melodious voice made hard to understand by his accent, which I couldn’t place. “I see your husband didn’t exaggerate when he spoke of you, though he failed to mention you had such remarkable eyes. I hope he’s bought you emeralds to match them.”
    I wanted to laugh at such obvious flattery. I doubted Peter had spared a single word about me. But Michel Jourdain’s charm and the way he looked at me, as if I were the most fascinating thing in the room, worked as he no doubt knew they would, and I was disarmed, though I knew better than to be so. I understood Ben’s words immediately—it would be very difficult not to like this man, though I knew his kind well enough. He reminded me of some of the pickpockets and street boys who had paraded through my father’s office, promising valuable information in return for a dollar, each able to turn a situation to his advantage with a handsome smile and abundant charisma. I saw why Peter was so taken with him—Michel Jourdain meant him to be.
    “Peter’s spoken of you a good deal,” I said.
    “Has he?”
    “Yes. He believes you’re a miracle worker.”
    Michel Jourdain laughed. The laugh turned quickly into a cough, and he muttered an apology and reached for a handkerchief, pressing it to his mouth, and I realized that the delicacy of his face was frailty, the translucence I’d seen that of illness, though there was something in his manner that put the lie to that impression as well. Some odd vitality—I thought perhaps it was of a kind I’d seen in consumptives before, that ceaseless anxiety to live a brief life fully, no matter the cost.
    “You should rest,” Peter said anxiously.
    Michel only shrugged and tucked the handkerchief away. As if Peter had said nothing, he smiled at me and said, “A miracle worker, eh? Ah, Madame , I hope I can live up to such a reputation. But in spite of what my good friend says”—a smiling glance at Peter—“I’m not a miracle worker. It’s only the truth you’ll find here.”
    Benjamin said, “Peter has her well in hand, isn’t that so, Evelyn? Like any good wife, she’s vowed to see whatever truth her husband wishes her to see.”
    “Ah. This is your first time at a circle, Madame ? Are you a skeptic?”
    I glanced at Peter. “It’s as Mr. Rampling says. Tonight I’ve promised my husband not to be.”
    “How you must love him then, to do as he bids you. But I shouldn’t expect too much, eh? First sittings rarely produce manifestations. Of course the rest of us have met several times before, so perhaps the spirits will overlook a newcomer.”
    “How disappointing,” I said, though his words hardly surprised me. I’d expected some excuse as to why there might be no spirit visit tonight. I expected to see through his “miracles” easily, but for Peter’s benefit—and my own—I intended to say nothing of my suspicions. I would feign awe if for no other reason than my husband’s wish that I be impressed.
    “Do you know the rest of our party?” Michel asked me, and when I shook my head, he offered his arm and said, “Then you must allow me to introduce you.”
    Peter nodded his acquiescence and let Michel Jourdain lead me toward the table, where the others were gathering.
    “You have a strange accent, Mr. Jourdain,” I ventured. “I can’t place it—”
    “I’m from New Orleans,” he said.
    “You’re a Creole?”
    He smiled. “How clever of you to have guessed my secret. Now you must tell me one of your own.”
    “I have no secrets, Mr. Jourdain.”
    “ Non? Ah, but everyone has secrets, Madame , hmmm? I would think it especially true of women who find themselves so quickly in a better world.”
    I was startled—his words were so honeyed, said