“What are you looking for, Terra?”
“Anything we can find about the opening of the Fillmore, any memoirs, notes, books dating to the 1880s when Vanderbilt began building in Asheville. And the woman Wesley spoke of. Her life and that of the ladies of the Biltmore society are tied to these woods.” This was my first visit behind the velvet rope of the Biltmore. Although not as ornate as the rest of the house, this study still showcased the intricate detail of this magnificent estate. Mahogany shelves floor to ceiling encased the entire room, a spiral staircase stood in one corner, a Zulu wall mask hung on one wall next to a 17th century bronze Buddha, each souvenirs from his travels. On his desk sat a cast iron replica of his grandfather’s first ship, which launched the family fortune.
Abigail ran her finger along the spine of several books, stopping to pull one off the shelf. She read the title aloud,” “Domestic Medicine, or Poor Man’s Friend, in the Hours of Afflication, Pain and Sickness.”
“I know that book,” I said. “We spent many hours with Dr. Gunn when he was writing it. Agatha Hollows shared her recipes with him and he with her. Dr. Gunn believed that medicine should be demystified. He wrote his practical guide for folks who didn’t have access to a medical doctor. Agatha Hollows would smile politely and patiently as she listened to his modern ways but when one of the mountain folk got sick they would come to her.”
Abigail flipped through some pages and then set the book back in its place. She climbed up the spiral staircase, up to the catwalk pulling books out at random, flipping through their pages. I walked around the desk. There was a scent that seemed out of place amongst the exotic woods, linseed oil, leather. It was a very old scent. Mrs. Twiggs had told me many times how Vanderbilt was a scholar of mysticism and the occult. His wife hosted séance salons on Thursday evenings, often inviting dignitaries from around the world. I could sense the remnants of those séances seeping through the halls, lost souls like Wesley who refused to move on.
“Terra, I found something.” Abigail flew down the stairs holding a small leather-bound volume. “Look.” She opened it. “It’s his secretary’s journal. It has a list of contacts for the opening of the Fillmore hotel. It says there is to be a big gala on October 31.”
“All Hallow’s eve,” I interrupted her. “All Hallow’s eve dates back to the Celtic festival of Samhain. It marked the end of summer and the beginning of the dark cold winter. The Celtics believe that on All Hallows Eve, the night before their New Year, which starts on November 1. On that night, the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. It is the night when they believe the ghosts of the dead return to earth. They believe that the Druid and Celtic priests could predict the future on this night.”
I could hear Abigail’s goose bumps popping. She continued reading, describing the dinner and dance according to the detailed instructions handwritten in the notebook. The evening’s festivities were to conclude with a séance led by Madame Claire Renee from New Orleans.
“That name is not familiar to me. Is there anything else about her?”
“No, just a grocery list of sorts that Vanderbilt dictated his secretary, requirements for accommodations and her carriage. This is interesting. She wants a midwife on call.”
“Let me see.”
Abigail placed the journal on the coffee table. I pawed through the pages, reading past the menu for the dinner, the seating chart. The last page held several unusual requests by Madame Claire Renee, including bound twines of oak, ash and thorn. Abigail read with me, “Was she a witch, Terra?”
“That’s yet to be discovered. She was, however, trying to unveil someone’s true light someone who was also an honored guest at the hotel.”
Abigail pulled out her iPhone; I could see her Google Madame Claire Renee, 1880 New Orleans. “There’s nothing about her.”
“No you won’t find any information on Madame Claire Renee. Renee is a witch’s word for seeker. It was her alias.”
“Why would George Vanderbilt, the wealthiest man in the world, request Claire Renee, a medium when he could have hired the world’s greatest ghost hunters?” Abigail showed me another book she had found titled “There is No Death” by Florence Marryat and another book “Spirit World.” “This Marryat seems to have written the book on summoning spirits.”
I knew all about summoning spirits. I had attended some of the Vanderbilts’ séances, watching from the shadows, hoping I would connect with some of my coven. I had met Miss Marryat and not thought much of her. “Miss Marryat believed spiritualism was a religion much like the other mediums of that era Maria Hayden and Emma Harding Britten. All of them set standards for the British National Association of Spiritualists. All of it nonsense. George Vanderbilt was a practical man, a mechanical man, that’s why he hired the brilliant Olmsted. He would not have hired a spiritualist. He would have hired someone who considered spiritualism a science like Arthur Conan Doyle or Lewis Carroll or Kipling even Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They all believed that the resurrection of the spiritual body could be achieved in a séance using the scientific method. Such a man as the brilliant scientist, Sir William Crookes, is the type of man George would have hired. Crookes discovered thallium. He was convinced about the reality of spiritual phenomenon. He devised all sorts of machines to capture spirits and contain them. He was a member of the ghost club. None of his devices worked, of course. A spirit can’t be captured or caught with gears and vacuum tubes. A spirit is an electrical impulse. Energy cannot be destroyed only changed. When your energy, your life force, leaves your physical body, it transforms into pure light. George Vanderbilt would not be easily fooled by smoke and mirrors. He’d want hard evidence. He’d want scientific research. There were many charlatans in his age, looking to peek into the next world. Claire Renee may have known how to open the window. At least George thought she could.”
Abigail carefully turned each page of the brittle journal. “Is there anything else about Claire? Or about the night of the opening?”
“Nothing about Claire but there are some notes from an earlier entry. On September 2, Vanderbilt met with some of the arborists.” Abigail stopped and glanced up at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Vanderbilt met with a Mr. Foret.”
“Yes, that must have been one of Lionel’s relatives who came up from Louisiana during the yellow fever outbreak. Abigail, go get the curator,” I urged her. “Ask her if there is a ledger for the workers. There must have been records kept of staff.” I waited under the desk. Abigail returned shortly with the young woman who had left her into the private study. She placed a large ledger on the desk and said, “As you can see, there are thousands of entries. They kept extensive records of every employee, including all the day workers as well every piece of material used.”
“What’s this line here? Railroad ties?” Abigail asked.
“That’s an interesting story. George Vanderbilt hated trains and everything to do with them. He thought them large and dirty even though that’s how his grandfather made his fortune. Cornelius Vanderbilt borrowed $100 from his mother when he was a kid. He bought a rowboat and started ferrying people across New York Harbor, which became the Staten Island Ferry. After building a successful steamboat monopoly, he turned his attention to railroads. He bought small lines, connecting them. Before Vanderbilt, it took passengers 17 different trains to go from New York to Chicago but he made it possible by one train line. When they started bringing material for the Biltmore, George insisted that he didn’t want a railroad but the architects convinced him he had no choice. He agreed on the condition that the railroad be immediately removed after construction,” the curator said.