‘Nature spirits? What can he mean?’ Hester asks, puzzled. She doesn’t ask the meaning of theosophical – is unsure that she could pronounce it right.
‘Well, dear Hetty, that is what I intend to discover,’ Albert says.
‘Does he mean hobgoblins and the like?’ She laughs a little, but stops when Albert frowns slightly.
‘It does not do to laugh simply because we do not understand, Hetty. Why shouldn’t the figures of childhood stories and myth have some basis in reality, upon some level or another?’
‘Well, of course, I didn’t mean-’
‘After all, we all know the human soul exists, and what is a ghost but the disembodied spirit of a human soul? Surely none could argue against the wealth of evidence for their existence?’
‘Indeed not, Bertie,’ Hester agrees.
‘The conjecture, I believe, is that plants, too, have spirits, of a kind – guardians to tend them and guide them in their growth and propagation,’ Albert goes on.
‘Yes, of course, I see,’ Hester says, quite seriously now.
They pause for a moment, silent but for the clink of their cutlery, the sounds of their own eating.
‘And you are off to Mrs Avery’s, for a game of bridge? What time shall I see you back here again?’ Albert asks at length.
‘Oh, I expect I will be back before you, dear. We shall only play until about ten,’ Hester says hurriedly, knowing that Albert does not approve of her playing bridge, and wanting to move on from the subject as quickly as possible.
‘And will Mrs Dunthorpe be joining the party?’ Albert asks evenly, and that small frown of disapproval that Hester can’t bear puckers his brow again.
‘I… I really don’t know, Albert. I doubt it, as she didn’t come the last time…’
‘She really is not the right kind…’
‘I know, dear; I do know. But even if she does come along, I can assure you that we’ll only be playing for matchsticks, nothing more,’ Hester assures him. Mrs Dunthorpe’s love of gambling is widely renowned. Over Christmas last, she lost so much in a hand of poker that her husband was forced to sell his horse.
‘It’s not only that which troubles me-’
‘Oh, don’t be troubled, Bertie! Mrs Avery’s character is unimpeachable, after all – and I hope you have some faith in my own mettle?’
‘Of course I do, dear Hester.’ Albert smiles. ‘You above all people have proved the uncorrupted nature of your soul to me.’ A telltale blush creeps up from the neckline of Hester’s dress.
She hasn’t actually lied about anything, Hester reassures herself, as she waves Albert off on his bicycle. He is to pedal the two miles to Thatcham, then catch a train into Newbury for the lecture. With him safely out of sight, she wraps herself in a lightweight coat and fastens her hat with the pins Cat hands her, patting her hair into place all around it.
‘I’ll be back by half past ten, when a little cocoa will go down a treat,’ Hester says brightly, eager to be away.
‘Very good, madam,’ Cat mutters. Hester notes the dark circles under Cat’s eyes, the fact that she has not yet, many days after her arrival, filled out at all. She makes a mental note to talk to Sophie Bell about it as she sets off along the garden path. There are angry purple and black clouds on the northern horizon, bulging up towards heaven like vast and ominous trees. Hester doubles back for an umbrella.
Albert’s real objection to Mrs Dunthorpe lies less in her gambling, though that is bad enough, and more in the fact that she is a medium, and has more than once led a seance on a night that had begun as a game of bridge. And however much Hester tells herself that she doesn’t know for sure, the fact remains that she spoke to her friend Claire Higgins after the service the previous Sunday, and Claire had hinted in the strongest possible terms that tonight might be just such a night. Hester feels a thrill of anticipation.
Mrs Avery’s house is the largest in the village, and well appointed, as a rich widow’s should be. Her husband had invested heavily in the railways, had seen his money grow tenfold, and had then been cut down by the very thing that made him, when his cab was struck by a train as it crossed the tracks late one night. The driver had fallen asleep at the reins, and his passenger, by all accounts, had drunk himself to falling down. He left Mrs Avery very well off and very bored, so that the widow has become the centre of society in the village, and indeed in the whole district of Thatcham – outside the realm of the truly grand houses, of course. She spends a lot of time visiting friends and family in London, is always quite on top of the latest fashions; and Hester finds her more than a little frightening. But, as the vicar’s wife, it would not do to be excluded from Mrs Avery’s company, and so she makes every effort to maintain her good standing with her. On nights when Mrs Dunthorpe is present, it is no chore.
Mrs Dunthorpe is thickset and well-bosomed. Her hair is a faded chestnut colour, her eyes a faded blue. Aged about fifty, she has come lately to wealth; so lately that she speaks with a Thatcham twang that she can’t be rid of, however hard she tries. Were it not for her extraordinary powers, perhaps she might not have been such a regular guest in Mrs Avery’s drawing room. As it is, she sits proudly on a damask chair as the other guests arrive, to be greeted by each of them perhaps with less deference, but with more enthusiasm, than they show their hostess.
‘Mrs Dunthorpe… I had so hoped you would be here! Will you lead us in a circle tonight? Will we hear from the spirits at all?’ asks tiny Esme Bullington, her reedy voice little more than a whisper as she grips the older woman’s hands.
Mrs Dunthorpe smiles with a hint of reserved mystery. ‘Well, my dear; that does depend upon the wishes of our charming hostess, of course. But, should she assent, and it be the will of the party, I could of course lead a foray into the unseen world,’ she says, loudly enough for all to hear, and for Mrs Avery to scowl.
‘Perhaps we might wait at least until we are all assembled, and have taken a glass of sherry?’ Mrs Avery suggests, rather coolly. Mrs Dunthorpe seems quite oblivious to the rebuke, but Esme Bullington retreats from the medium with two spots of colour high in her cheeks.
Hester makes a polite tour of the room before returning to stand beside her particular friend, Claire Higgins, the wife of one of Cold Ash Holt’s prominent farmers. There are thirteen ladies altogether: an auspicious and carefully engineered number. They sip sherry from crystal glasses, and soon their faces are flushed beneath the pale powder, and they laugh more easily, and the lights seem to shimmer and blur the room, setting satin ribbons and skin and eyes shining. The rising anticipation is like a low humming sound; impossible to pinpoint the source of it, and impossible to ignore it. At last, when Mrs Avery deems that they have all been acceptably sociable, and have shown that her society and good graces were what matters above all, their indomitable hostess clears her throat.
‘Mrs Dunthorpe. How do you feel? Are you quite up to an attempt at communion with the spirits?’ she asks. The other women all fall silent at once, and watch matronly Mrs Dunthorpe closely as she seems to consider with great care.
‘I believe we may have a good deal of success this evening,’ she says at last, to an excited murmur and a squeak of joy from Esme Bullington.
With intent expressions, they hurry to a grand, circular table at the far end of the room, around which thirteen plush red chairs have been arranged. Mrs Dunthorpe bids them sit close to the table, their forearms resting upon it and their hands clasped firmly. Hester has Esme Bullington’s tiny paw in one hand and the dry, creased fingers of old Mrs Ship in the other. Whilst they have been talking and drinking the wind has risen outside, and blows fitfully with a sound like distant whispering voices. It makes the budding branches of the wisteria patter and scrape at the window glass; sounding for all the world like the questing fingertips of someone trying to get in. As the day was so warm, the curtains have been left open and the bottom inch of the window raised to allow air into the room. But the temperature has dropped, and the breeze that is creeping in has a chilly touch. It is not yet fully dark outside, but all that’s visible beyond the reflections in the window glass is the dark grey sky, bloated with cloud, and the gnarled branches of the old medlar tree in the garden. Hester shivers involuntarily, and feels Esme’s hand tighten around hers.