treaties, or anything else we do, without the reason and the purpose behind it. Ideals are wonderful, but without an understanding of reality, they can ruin us all. It’s like fire, a great servant, yet totally destructive when it’s master.”
“Did you tell Aubrey that?” she asked.
“I didn’t have the chance, but I will.”
She said nothing for a few moments, riding in silence, thinking over Rose’s sudden, strange questions about séances and the tension within her. She was uncertain whether to worry Jack with it or not, but it hung heavily with her, an unease she could not dismiss.
The carriage turned a corner sharply into a quieter street where the lamps were farther apart, shining up with ghostly gleam into the branches above.
“Rose was talking about spiritualists,” she said abruptly. “I think you should suggest that Aubrey tell her to be discreet about that, too. It could be misinterpreted by enemies, and once the election is called in earnest there’ll be plenty of those. I . . . I think perhaps Aubrey isn’t used to being attacked. He’s such a charming man almost everyone likes him.”
He was startled. He jerked around in the carriage seat to face her.
“Spiritualists? You mean mediums like Maude Lamont?” There was an edge of anxiety in his voice sharp enough that she did not need to see his expression to know what it would be.
“She didn’t mention Maude Lamont, although everybody’s talking about her. Actually, she talked about Daniel Dunglass Home, but I suppose it’s much the same. She spoke of levitation and ectoplasm and things.”
“I never know whether Rose is joking or not . . . was she?” It was not a question but a demand.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But I don’t think so. I had the feeling that under the surface she cared very much about something.”
He shifted uncomfortably, only half because of the carriage’s rattling over uneven cobbles. “I’ll have to speak to Aubrey about that, too. What is a social game when you are a private person becomes the rope for journalists to hang you with when you stand for Parliament. I can see the cartoons now!” He winced so acutely that she saw the movement in his cheek in the pool of light as they passed under a street lamp and back into darkness again. “Ask Mrs. Serracold who’s going to win the election! Damn it, better than that . . . who’s going to win the Derby!” he said in a mimicking voice. “Let’s ask Napoleon’s ghost what the Czar of Russia’s going to do next. He can’t ever have forgiven him for Moscow and 1812.”
“Even if he knew, he wouldn’t be likely to tell us,” she pointed out. “He is even less likely to have forgiven us for Waterloo.”
“If we couldn’t ask anyone with whom we’ve ever had a war, that would rule out just about everybody on earth, except the Portuguese and the Norwegians,” he retorted. “Their knowledge about our future might be rather limited; they probably don’t give a farthing.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Emily, do you think she’s really seeing a medium, other than just for fun at a house party?”
“Yes . . .” Emily spoke with a chill conviction. “Yes . . . I’m afraid I do.”
The following morning brought news of a different and disturbing kind. Pitt was looking through the newspapers over breakfast of poached kippers and bread and butter—one of the few things he was quite good at cooking—when he came across the letter to the editor. It was the first one on the page, and given particular prominence.
Dear Sir,
I write in some distress, and as a lifelong supporter of the Liberal Party and all that it has achieved for the people of this nation, and thus indirectly of the world. I have admired and endorsed the reforms it has initiated and passed into law.
However, I live in the constituency of South Lambeth, and have listened with growing alarm to the opinions of Mr. Aubrey Serracold, the Liberal
“Did you tell Aubrey that?” she asked.
“I didn’t have the chance, but I will.”
She said nothing for a few moments, riding in silence, thinking over Rose’s sudden, strange questions about séances and the tension within her. She was uncertain whether to worry Jack with it or not, but it hung heavily with her, an unease she could not dismiss.
The carriage turned a corner sharply into a quieter street where the lamps were farther apart, shining up with ghostly gleam into the branches above.
“Rose was talking about spiritualists,” she said abruptly. “I think you should suggest that Aubrey tell her to be discreet about that, too. It could be misinterpreted by enemies, and once the election is called in earnest there’ll be plenty of those. I . . . I think perhaps Aubrey isn’t used to being attacked. He’s such a charming man almost everyone likes him.”
He was startled. He jerked around in the carriage seat to face her.
“Spiritualists? You mean mediums like Maude Lamont?” There was an edge of anxiety in his voice sharp enough that she did not need to see his expression to know what it would be.
“She didn’t mention Maude Lamont, although everybody’s talking about her. Actually, she talked about Daniel Dunglass Home, but I suppose it’s much the same. She spoke of levitation and ectoplasm and things.”
“I never know whether Rose is joking or not . . . was she?” It was not a question but a demand.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But I don’t think so. I had the feeling that under the surface she cared very much about something.”
He shifted uncomfortably, only half because of the carriage’s rattling over uneven cobbles. “I’ll have to speak to Aubrey about that, too. What is a social game when you are a private person becomes the rope for journalists to hang you with when you stand for Parliament. I can see the cartoons now!” He winced so acutely that she saw the movement in his cheek in the pool of light as they passed under a street lamp and back into darkness again. “Ask Mrs. Serracold who’s going to win the election! Damn it, better than that . . . who’s going to win the Derby!” he said in a mimicking voice. “Let’s ask Napoleon’s ghost what the Czar of Russia’s going to do next. He can’t ever have forgiven him for Moscow and 1812.”
“Even if he knew, he wouldn’t be likely to tell us,” she pointed out. “He is even less likely to have forgiven us for Waterloo.”
“If we couldn’t ask anyone with whom we’ve ever had a war, that would rule out just about everybody on earth, except the Portuguese and the Norwegians,” he retorted. “Their knowledge about our future might be rather limited; they probably don’t give a farthing.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Emily, do you think she’s really seeing a medium, other than just for fun at a house party?”
“Yes . . .” Emily spoke with a chill conviction. “Yes . . . I’m afraid I do.”
The following morning brought news of a different and disturbing kind. Pitt was looking through the newspapers over breakfast of poached kippers and bread and butter—one of the few things he was quite good at cooking—when he came across the letter to the editor. It was the first one on the page, and given particular prominence.
Dear Sir,
I write in some distress, and as a lifelong supporter of the Liberal Party and all that it has achieved for the people of this nation, and thus indirectly of the world. I have admired and endorsed the reforms it has initiated and passed into law.
However, I live in the constituency of South Lambeth, and have listened with growing alarm to the opinions of Mr. Aubrey Serracold, the Liberal
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