The Dark Between (17 page)

“Who?”

“He was my mistress’s patron. He’s …” The girl shuddered. “He’ll send for the police if he sees me.”

“Surely not. My uncle wouldn’t allow it.”

“He can’t know I’m here. Do you hear me? He
can’t
know.” Kate’s hand went to her mouth. “I think I’m going to be ill.”

Elsie studied her for a moment. The girl did seem pale in the low light. “You must go upstairs, then. I’ll tell Aunt you’ve taken sick.”

Kate nodded, hand still clasped to her mouth, and brushed past Elsie up the stairs.

If Kate hadn’t looked so distressed Elsie would have been annoyed. As it stood, she was disappointed. It would have been a comfort to have another girl at the table. One sympathetic soul who didn’t give a fig to hear Cambridge Fellows spouting their pompous opinions. So much easier to bear with a kindred spirit. They could have laughed about it later.

Now she must descend the stairs alone and face these strangers, one of whom was so beastly as to send
Kate
into hiding. She
was such a fierce little creature, and so independent—could he really have that much power over her? Somehow Elsie had to get to Aunt Helena and explain before she spoke the girl’s name aloud.

But when she entered the room the first face she saw stopped her cold in her tracks.

How could it be?

The young man from the British Museum—the one who’d held her in his arms. What on earth was
he
doing here?

He stood with Asher Beale, who spoke to the man in low tones. When Asher turned toward her his eyes widened. The gentleman followed Asher’s gaze, also locking eyes with her.

Without thinking, she shook her head.
No
.

The young man blinked.

Heart thudding, she glanced about the room, but everyone else was absorbed in conversation. No one had seen her silencing gesture. And somehow,
he
seemed to have understood.

Clutching her skirt to keep her hands from shaking, she stepped toward her aunt.

“May I speak with you in private, Aunt?”

Aunt Helena frowned. “Pardon?”

“Would you step aside for a moment, please?”

Her aunt complied, though the frown deepened. “What is this about?”

“Kate is ill. She begs you not to mention her absence to the others—she would be quite embarrassed. She is distressed to have inconvenienced you.”

“Does she need my assistance?” Aunt Helena touched the lace at her throat with trembling fingers.

“No, I don’t think so.” Elsie tried to speak soothingly. “I thought, perhaps, we could have some broth sent to her. She
seemed to be experiencing severe discomfort—I’m not certain she could have managed to sit at the table for long.”

“Well, I’d better find Millie and have her remove the extra place setting from the dinner table. How unfortunate!”

“I can find Millie, Aunt.”

“No, there are gentlemen here who are waiting to be introduced to you. They’ve already met Asher.” Aunt Helena guided Elsie toward him. “Mr. Beale, would you do the honor of introducing Mr. Wakeham to my niece? I shall return shortly.”

The young man faced her, his grey eyes cool and slightly amused. A tremor coursed through her body. Was it fear or delight? She wasn’t certain.

Asher cleared his throat. “Mr. Simon Wakeham, may I please introduce Miss Elsie Atherton?” He shifted his gaze to Elsie. “Mr. Wakeham recently took a first in classics at Trinity College, and your uncle tutored him.” Once Aunt Helena was out of hearing, he lowered his voice. “I’ve begged Mr. Wakeham not to reveal to the Thompsons that he’s met us before.”

The young man pinioned Asher with his silvery eyes. “And I’m still wondering why.”

“Because it was my fault he was there,” said Elsie, her pulse leaping as he turned his eyes once more to her. “It’s a long story, Mr. Wakeham, but you should know that I went to London without permission, and Mr. Beale followed with the idea of protecting me. As it turned out, that was a good thing.”

His eyes narrowed. “You were ill.”

“I have a condition, yes. I should have heeded advice and not undertaken the journey.”

Mr. Wakeham opened his mouth to ask another question, but he stopped abruptly when another gentleman clapped a broad hand on his shoulder.

“Marshall and I have come to see what you three are murmuring about.”

Elsie didn’t know this large, barrel-chested man, but she recognized his voice—it was the very one that earlier sent Kate running back up the stairs.

“Ah, Eliot,” said Mr. Wakeham. “You have made the acquaintance of our young Mr. Beale, yes? Then let me introduce Thompson’s niece, Miss Elsie Atherton. Miss Atherton, may I present Mr. Robert Eliot?”

Mr. Eliot extended a hand. “Such a pleasure to make the acquaintance of Lord Rolleston’s daughter.”

Elsie had never been quite so grateful for evening gloves as she touched her fingers to his large, damp palm. Thankfully he did not lift them to his large, damp lips.

“Your father never comes to our meetings anymore.” Mr. Eliot’s left hand covered hers and pulled her a step closer. “How fares he these days?”

No wonder Kate had balked—the man was repugnant. Now the fingers of his left hand were sliding down to caress her wrist.

“My father is very busy, sir.” She jerked her hand away. “In fact, he is abroad at the moment.”

“I suppose a peer of the realm has many commitments,” Mr. Eliot said with a grunt, “and can’t be bothered with our Metaphysical Society endeavors. No doubt he wishes to distance himself, lest our reputation sully his own.”

“If he did, I wouldn’t blame him for it,” said the gentleman standing near Eliot.

Eliot frowned. “I say, Marshall! That’s a bit rude.”

“Eliot, you know better than anyone how I feel about the Society’s preoccupation with the spirit world.” The words were
gruff, but the man’s eyes were bright with mischief. Though Elsie guessed him nearer in age to Simon Wakeham than to Eliot, his cunning gaze lent him an air of confidence.

“Miss Atherton, may I present my cousin, Dr. Philip Marshall?” said Mr. Wakeham. “Not only is he the youngest Fellow at Trinity College, but he also devotes his time to medical research at Addenbrooke’s Hospital. He loves nothing better than to lord his accomplishments over me.”

Dr. Marshall’s smile broadened. “You’ll be a Fellow soon enough, cousin. It might help if you gave up some of your outlandish notions.”

“You speak as though you believe your own research to be nothing less than orthodox,” murmured Mr. Wakeham.

“Not orthodox, perhaps, but at the very least
rational
.”

Elsie noted their relaxed posture, the humor in their eyes, and knew this was friendly ribbing between cousins. Clearly they enjoyed needling each other.

“Helena is at the door,” announced Mr. Thompson from the other side of the room. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, of course. Shall we make our way to the table? Wakeham, would you accompany Elsie? I do believe you’re seated next to her at the table.”

Elsie braced herself as she placed her hand on Mr. Wakeham’s sleeve. The last time their bodies touched she had fallen into a spell and seen a dead woman. She’d taken her dose earlier, but a smaller one than usual. She hadn’t wished to fall asleep during dinner.

Did she imagine the crackle in the air as Mr. Wakeham placed his hand on hers? She took a deep breath and concentrated on the fabric of his jacket, noting the fine weave. She breathed in his scent of lavender water and shaving soap. It
would not happen—she refused to fall to that dark place and embarrass her aunt and uncle. When they reached the dining room, she looked up and met his gaze. His grey eyes were friendly. No ghosts resided there.

Perhaps it
was
possible to control the spells simply by force of will.

Asher
knew
he would be seated next to the blustering Robert Eliot. The man might be a Fellow in Moral and Political Philosophy at Trinity College, but he was still an ass. To Asher his words fell heavily, uncomfortably—like the clang of a gong. When prompted by Mrs. Thompson to speak about his days as an undergraduate at Trinity, he’d looked as though he could barely contain the urge to stand and strut about the room. What a roaring good time they’d had! As a student and Fellow, he’d never seen a class equal to his own in intelligence, wit, and capacity for carousing.

“I quite miss living in college,” said Mr. Eliot, wiping his shiny brow with his napkin. “I have a fine house, but there’s nothing quite like dinner at High Table, with the wine flowing just as freely as the conversation. And who could forget our little jaunts after dinner? I think we terrorized the town quite thoroughly.” He winked at Asher.

“Trinity is a lively place, to be sure,” said Dr. Marshall quickly, “but you’ll scare the boy off for good if you continue to characterize it as a den of iniquity.” He turned to Asher, his expression earnest. “In fact, I invite you to come stay in college with me, Mr. Beale. Thompson has told me of your interest in becoming a Trinity man. I have spacious rooms, you know, and what better way to get a feel for the place than to spend a couple of days within its walls?”

Asher smiled. “Thank you for the generous offer, Dr. Marshall. I have a mind to accept it.”

“Well done, Marshall.” Mr. Eliot lifted his wineglass in a salute. “Perhaps you might arrange for a gentlemen’s gathering, eh? Show the boy what it takes to be a proper Trinity man?”

Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat.

Dr. Marshall’s eyes darted toward her before returning to Mr. Eliot. “Plenty of time for all that,” he said evenly. “What we want to know, Eliot, is have you danced with any spirits lately?”

“Good God, Marshall!” cried Mr. Eliot.

Asher cringed. The man was insufferably loud.

Mr. Eliot took a gulp of wine. “Did Thompson and Wakeham tell you already? As a matter of fact, I’m finished with dancing spirits. The medium seems to have packed off to some other town—the house is already up for rent.” He raised a napkin to his lips and sighed heavily. “It’s a shame, really. I was certain I was close to finding something there. There’s no doubt she had a talent. It’s too bad she allowed herself to be duped like that. If I could get my hands on the little villain who deceived her, I’d drag her straight to the police.”

Asher glanced at Mr. Thompson in time to catch the tightening of the man’s mouth. Apparently he was not going to reveal the presence of the “little villain” upstairs.

“Eliot, don’t be daft.” Mr. Wakeham’s tone was mild, almost playful. “She must have hired the girl, for it’s the theatrics that bring customers. The more complicated they make these performances, however, the easier it is to spot the frauds.”

“They’re
all
frauds,” muttered Dr. Marshall.

Asher thought of his father. “I hadn’t thought exposing frauds was the main business of the Society.”

Mr. Wakeham smiled at him. “It’s not our intention to
police the world of Spiritualism. It’s just that, more often than not, our field research leads us to dens of vulgar tricksters rather than to true mediums, if there is such a thing.”

Asher hadn’t expected such cynicism from a Society member, especially since his own father had proven such an easy mark. “So, what
is
the business of the Society?”

Mr. Wakeham met his gaze from across the table. “I thought you would know, being the son of Harold Beale.”

“I know he is experimenting with thought-transference,” Asher said mildly.

“Ah yes,
telepathy
, as Marshall would call it,” Mr. Thompson said. “One of many topics of interest to our group.”

“I’ve told Father many times that if telepathy or any other metaphysical phenomena were real, we should be able to establish their existence using the scientific method,” Asher said. “But the hypothesis can never be proven because it won’t bear up under repeated testing.”

“My boy,” said Mr. Thompson gently. “The Society members have engaged in this argument many times, and I don’t wish to bully you with our notions over dinner. But I must say that excluding from reality anything that can’t be proven through the scientific method is closed-minded and prejudicial. Some would say, ‘There’s so little proof; therefore it must not exist.’ But we say, ‘There’s some proof, so let us investigate thoroughly, from every angle, before we dismiss this as impossible or false.’ Most of the scientific community is simply unwilling to fully, rigorously test the realm of the metaphysical.”

Mrs. Thompson’s eyes were bright with amusement. “Asher, one of my first tasks was to collect all the ghost stories I could find in order to analyze them for common threads—anything concrete to which science could cling for further investigation. I confess to having been quite skeptical at the beginning.”

Asher sighed. “But you were convinced to feel otherwise?”

“No indeed. My skepticism increased as I continued to collect data. The stories often were ridiculous. Pure flights of fancy, they seemed to me—nothing logical for any of us to use as a basis for investigation.” She paused, her expression softening. “The
witnesses
, however, were credible. They weren’t insane or known liars. They didn’t seek to profit from their stories. They truly believed they had seen or experienced spirits. And I wanted to know
why
. What makes a person believe beyond the shadow of a doubt that he has seen a ghost? Despite my skepticism, I felt this question warranted investigation.”