The Winter Garden (IMD #2)

Chapter Fifteen: The Crown

Chapter Fifteen:

 

The Crown

Dr. Eliza Hawthorne watched curiously as her niece stared out the steamer window at Gower Street. For the first time since she appeared on their doorstep, Emmeline seemed genuinely happy and nearly bouncing with excitement, yet it was as if Emmeline and Immanuel had switched dispositions overnight. At breakfast, she thought maybe he had a relapse of his illness when he didn’t appear after she called him twice to the table. She was about to go up and check on him when he appeared in the doorway dark-circled and ashen. As Emmeline and James read the paper, Immanuel kept his head down and his fork in his hand even if he didn’t eat anything.

“Immanuel, I am going to be giving a lecture at the University College about post-mortem examinations. Would you care to join me?”

He cleared his throat, but when he lifted his head, he was as white as the china. “I would love to, but I do not feel very well. I think I may have over-exerted myself the other day.”

Satisfied with his excuse, the doctor gathered his bag and left before the others finished their breakfast. As Eliza stood to collect the dishes, Immanuel neatly stacked them and carried them into the kitchen. By the time she came in with the rest, he was elbow-deep in the sink.

“Immanuel, you do not have to do that.”

“I want to,” he replied with a weak smile. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I was wondering if I could have Mr. Fenice’s address. I would like to send him a letter to—” he paused, biting the edge of his lip with his eyetooth before continuing, “to thank him for showing me around London. It was very kind of him.”

“Of course. I’m certain he will appreciate that.”

With the dishes done and the address in hand, he thanked her in little more than a whisper and darted out when the dishes were done. She sighed, wondering if Immanuel’s illness was more than just one of the body. All of the progress of the past two days was gone, but at least he hadn’t retreated behind the typewriter again. Eliza had nearly invited him to come with them for she feared leaving him alone after the rapid spiral into melancholy, but she knew he would refuse anyway.

As the steamer came to a stop, Eliza Hawthorne ran her eyes over the brick façade and empty window boxes before coming to rest on the wrought iron fence. Nothing on the homely exterior indicated that this house was where spirits and souls gathered to be spoken to, where men and women dipped below the veil of death to discover secrets and reunite loved ones for a brief moment. The address on the note Lord Rose sent matched the one on the house, but Eliza told the cabby to wait until they were safely ensconced inside before leaving. She wasn’t sure what she expected from a group of people who believed they could talk to ghosts, but she had assumed the Spiritualist society would have a spectral air rather than appearing as benign as any respectable middle class home. Emmeline flounced ahead and rang the bell, admiring her reflection in the brass numbers of the door as they waited. While her aunt came in her usual subdued, brown gown, Emmeline had donned her best new dress, which was fashioned from a rich violet taffeta, and reminded her of one that had been her mother’s favorite.

When the door swung open, she held her head high, straining to reach her aunt’s height. A plump, white-haired woman with a genial grin and grandmotherly eyes allowed them in and took their coats. The front hall of the Spiritualist society was bedecked in dark wood but brightened with floral wallpaper and matching rugs. The stained glass window on the landing depicted birds and butterflies in flight, and trailing on either side of the stairs were portraits of mediums and benefactors gazing down at visitors from their mosaic of frames. Women’s voices chattered softly somewhere beyond the hall, but Eliza could not make out what they were saying.