Monday, October 8, 1888
“I believe I am ready to join the rest of the Marvels on stage for a live performance.”
Miss Baudelaire looked up from the newspaper she was reading in her private study. “Oh, you do, do you?” She inhaled from her cigarette and released a ring of smoke from her lips.
Squaring my shoulders, I folded my hands in front of myself and gave a single nod. “I do indeed.”
“And why do you believe you are ready?” She put her eyes back to the newspaper. “And don’t say ‘Because I feel ready.’”
I took a step forward. “My act is based on improvisation, a skill I have always done well with. I have practiced for countless hours, I have been doing private séances, and I’ve spent some time improving my onstage persona with Magni. I am prepared, Miss Baudelaire.”
Magni had impressed me at the pub that night after I watched them perform and had offered to coach me on stagecraft. Obviously, I had enthusiastically accepted his kind offer and we had been hard at work, perfecting my act and adding flourishes and tricks that I would not have thought of myself. I owed him a debt of gratitude.
Considering this, Miss Baudelaire looked up at me again. “I suppose we could add you to the program on Saturday.” She lowered her eyes to her newspaper again. “I’ll have Mrs. Jones whip up a stage costume for you. Let Mr. Rigby know if you need any props made.”
I gave a gracious nod. “Thank you, Miss Baudelaire.”
Closing the study doors, I practically skipped up to the attic to find Everett. I made sure to keep my face as still as stone as I reached the top of the steps.
Perched on a stool and painting some kind of potion bottle, Everett beamed when he saw me. His face immediately tightened as he saw my serious expression.
“No?” He put his paintbrush aside, his shoulders lowering slightly.
My smile spread wide across my face and I squealed, my fingers curled into tight fists. “I am in this Saturday’s show!”
I flung my arms around his neck and he pulled me in tight. He somehow smelled of cinnamon that day, or at least his neck did as I nuzzled my face against his shoulder. I felt so small in his arms.
We held onto one another longer than a hug between friends warranted but I did not mind. I was too happy at that moment to think of impropriety.
Sliding out of his embrace I said, “I should go find Magni and tell him the good news.”
The glitter in Everett’s eyes dulled.
“In addition to the rest of the Marvels, obviously,” I added quickly.
He gave a nod. “Of course.”
As I made my way through the winding hallways of The Hemlock, I found Magni in the billiards room, his usual haunt. Leaning forward over the pool table, his cue in position, he looked at me over his shoulder, flashing me his flawless grin. The top couple of buttons on his shirt were undone and a few curls of chest hair peaked out.
“Lovely Mrs. Pringle,” he said, looking back to the top of the table. “You are positively glowing about something.” The balls cracked as he took his shot, sinking several of them. Turning to face me, he took a long drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray.
“I have some excellent news,” I said. “I will be joining the Marvels on stage for the performance on Saturday.”
Magni put his pool cue on the table, took both of my hands in his and squeezed them. “That is excellent news indeed. We should celebrate.”
He glided over to the liquor cabinet and rifled through a few crystal decanters, locating a bottle of whiskey. He poured two small glasses and handed one to me.
“To Lady Selene, the Mystic of the Taj Mahal, and her blossoming career.” He held his glass up before tossing its contents down his throat.
It burned as it hit my tongue and I winced. “I think I prefer champagne.”
He poured me a second tumbler. “I will buy us a bottle on Saturday night after your first show.”
Us?
The second drink made my head feel heavy and my body warm. I silently scolded myself for accepting a drink before noon.
What would Everett say?
Pushing the thought from my mind, I smiled at Magni. “You have helped me so much. I feel much more confident in my performance than I did previously. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
He shrugged. “The pleasure was all mine, my dear. Just try to remember me when you are headlining your own show.”
“Oh, stop,” I gushed. “What about you? Have you ever done your own act?”
Magni looked awkwardly into his whiskey glass and leaned against the bar. “I had my own show for a while, but I am a wretched businessman. Being under Minerva Baudelaire’s thumb keeps me in line.” He flashed his wicked smile. “Under her roof, I am forced to be a good boy.”
“And when you are not under her roof?” I raised an eyebrow at him.
His eyes turned hungry as they trailed from my eyes to my neck to my bosom and back up again. “Well, Cora, sometimes I misbehave.”
Before I could respond, Magni pressed himself against me, pinning me to the bar, his mouth crushing mine, the smell of whiskey and tobacco smoke filling my nostrils. I turned my head away, guilt wrapping around my stomach like a spiderweb.
“I mustn’t,” I said quietly.
Magni’s brows knit together, he stepped back from me and cleared his throat. “My apologies, Mrs. Pringle. I misunderstood.” His lip curled into a subtle snarl and I immediately realized he was less remorseful and far more annoyed. He had not shared his stagecraft procedures with me out of the goodness of his heart. He had a motive all along.
How could I have been so blind?
Magni helped himself to more whiskey as I fled the billiards room, wiping the taste of his mouth from mine. I shut myself up in my room and sat on the bed.
It was then that I noticed an envelope resting on the little bedside table. Going by the address on it, the letter would have been delivered to Mrs. Harris before reaching me here at The Hemlock. Everett must have brought it over from her flat and left it for me.
I recognized the handwriting immediately. Sitting up quickly, I snatched it up and tore it open in a hurry.
Dear Cora,
I am so sorry to hear of Dr. Pringle’s passing. The loss you must feel must be overwhelming—first your father and now your husband. Please try to remember that God only gives us the challenges he knows we can endure. You will make it through this trying time.
Yes, of course, you can stay with us in North Carolina. America is different but very exciting. I think you will fit in well with my new friends here as many of them have daughters your age.
Please write back as soon as possible and let me know when we can expect your arrival. I miss you, my darling girl.
All my love,
Aunt Charlotte
Charlotte’s letter had finally come. Finally, after all these months. I reread it over and over again—probably ten times at least. I eventually folded it closed along the creases, tucked it back into its envelope and slid it into the little draw in the side table.
Living with Charlotte meant security. It meant dropping myself into a pre-built life with pre-chosen acquaintances, and, knowing Charlotte, pre-planned suitors lined up for me once I arrived on America’s shores.
Would I want that?
My gaze stayed on the envelope laying limply in the drawer. Going to America was the obvious choice; the responsible choice. I had turned to spiritualism in order to survive until I could afford passage to North Carolina. If I sold my belongings that day, I would nearly have enough for the journey as private séances paid well.
I recalled the feeling of utter and undeniable want that I had felt at the sounds of the enthusiastic cheers while watching the Marvels perform. They were adored and admired by so many. What an incredible way to live!
And, of course, there was Everett. He had saved me when I had no one else to turn to. The idea of not having him in my life was … daunting.
I was different from the woman who had written to Aunt Charlotte, begging for rescue. Like the girl in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I had tumbled down the rabbit hole. And I wanted to see what was at the other end.
I slid the drawer closed.