They needed this, Violet had realized long ago. Religious leaders or social rules could not let some people find comfort or relieve guilt, and so they came to Violet’s mother, who gave them what they sought. Celine congratulated herself on her gift, and Violet had long ago decided to go along with it. Violet might not believe, but her mother did, and so did all these people. If Celine could relieve their pain, who was Violet to stand in the way?
Remain detached, Jacobi had always said. You are the messenger, the conduit, not their mentor or friend.
Well, Jacobi had known all about detachment, hadn’t he?
Violet shivered. She gave the signal for Mary to let down the rigging high above the stage, which they’d set into place beforehand. Violet always prepared little phosphorus-coated balls to dance on strings above her mother or above the seats if the proceedings lagged a bit. She didn’t need to as much tonight, but the tangible evidence of the “veil” never ceased to delight.
As Mary let down the cascade of balls on their wires, heads swiveled upward, people pointed, and some even applauded. The questions had died down, but now a new voice broke through, in English, but with the accent of the Highland Scots.
“So, tell me, Mademoiselle,” the man said, his words tinged with a hint of laughter. “Do ye believe in ghosts?”
Chapter 8
Daniel Mackenzie stood on the floor just below the stage, upright, whole, and definitely not dead.
His gaze pinned Violet into place, and though he didn’t smile, the twinkle in his dark amber eyes held impudence. He wore a suit similar to the one he’d had on the night she’d met him—black coat, ivory waistcoat, Mackenzie plaid kilt. His hair was neatly combed, his face newly shaved, his gloves in place. Violet couldn’t help thinking he’d looked better disheveled, with his hair sticking out and his strong hands uncovered.
Violet realized several frozen heartbeats of silence had gone by, and the audience, Daniel, and her mother awaited her answer.
Her returning breath nearly choked her. “When the veil parts,” she said hoarsely, remembering at the last moment to speak French with a Russian accent, “all manner of things may come through.”
The audience murmured their agreement. Daniel regarded Violet with eyes full of mischief, the sparkle in them rivaling the brightest of the glowing balls above them.
“Ye don’t say. I couldn’t ask a question of me dear old mum, could I? Gone these twenty-four years or so?”
Violet kept staring at him. What was he doing? Daniel had gone hard with anger when Mortimer had suggested she contact his mother in front of the gentlemen in the London house. What was he up to now?
She needed to turn away from him and move on to the next petitioner. But her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t make her feet move.The audience started applauding, taking up a chant of “Oui, oui.” Over this, Celine, in the voice of the child Adelaide, interrupted. “She is here, Monsieur. She has been waiting for you.”
Daniel’s back was to the audience, and he didn’t hide his amusement when he flicked his gaze to Violet’s mother. “Is she, now? That’s interesting.”
Celine’s voice changed pitch again, sounding more contralto, with rich, velvet tones. “I am so sorry, my son,” she said in perfect English. “I did not know my own mind. I never meant to hurt you.”
Daniel’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s all right, Mum. Don’t you worry about it, now.”
Celine breathed a soft sigh. “Thank you.”
The audience sighed with her.
Daniel winked up at Violet, then he patted the edge of the stage, turned from it, and strolled away, his kilt moving over his backside. Violet watched him as he made his way to an empty chair in the rear of the theatre, speaking congenially to the others in the row until he settled into his seat.
He wasn’t going to leave. He would sit there for the entire show.
And then what? Denounce her? Tell the audience that the countess and princess were confidence tricksters, newly come from London?
Daniel folded his arms, watching Violet, his grin in place. Her mother’s contact with his mother had not impressed him one whit. Violet forced herself to turn away, but her body was shaking, and she could barely stammer an answer to the next person.
Daniel remained in the back row as the performance went on—they were contracted for the full two hours. At any moment, Violet expected Daniel to stand up and declare the whole night to be nothing but flummery, that the audience should demand their money back and never trust Violet and those like her again. He’d tell them what Violet had done to him in London, and that he’d come here with magistrates to cart her off to prison.
But Daniel only watched as Violet talked to petitioners until her throat was dry, her ability to evaluate them evaporating. Fortunately Celine, who noticed nothing wrong, went on speaking to the spirits and conveying what the loved ones wanted to hear.
Violet was exhausted by the time Celine finally drooped back in her chair, her hands falling limp at her sides. “I can do no more,” Celine said in a tired whisper.
The gaslights on the stage flared up once, hissed, and went out. Mary was good at cues.
The audience burst into wild applause. There were cries of thanks, shouts for an encore. Violet signaled for Mary to pull the curtain closed, hiding her mother. Then Violet stepped out in front of the red velvet, her legs shaking.
She immediately looked to the back right of the house, where Daniel had been sitting. But that row was mostly empty, Daniel gone. Maybe he’d been a ghost after all, come to stir her guilty conscience.