The Mesmerist Read online

  Contents

  *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: The Girl in the Wardrobe

  A Thousand Shards of Porcelain

  To London

  SummerHall

  The Most Peculiar of Evenings

  The Sleeping Man

  17 Wadsworth Place

  Departures and Decisions

  The League of Ravens

  Power Revealed

  The Rosy Boy

  Upon a Silver Tray

  Part Two: The Great Calamity

  A Hall of Grief

  A Light Shining Bright

  A Cry in the Night

  A Silver Ship

  A Message Revealed

  The Old Nichol

  Night of Breaking Glass

  Blood Will Out

  A Warm Embrace

  Part Three: The Mesmerist

  Rats

  M

  Song of Sadness

  An Afternoon in the Parlor

  The Wood Beyond the World

  Acknowledgments

  Sample Chapter from HOODOO

  Buy the Book

  Middle Grade Mania!

  About the Author

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 2016 by Ronald L. Smith

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  Cover illustration © 2017 by Lisa K. Weber

  Cover design by Lisa Vega

  Hand-lettering by Lisa Vega (title) and Lisa K. Weber (ouija board)

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Smith, Ronald L. (Ronald Lenard), 1959– author.

  Title: The mesmerist / Ronald L. Smith.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Clarion Books, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2017. | Summary: “Thirteen-year-old Jess and her mother make a living as sham spiritualists—until they discover that Jess is a mesmerist and that she really can talk to the dead. Soon she is plunged into the dark world of Victorian London’s supernatural underbelly and learns that the city is under attack by ghouls, monsters, and spirit summoners”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016016162 | ISBN 9780544445284 (hardback)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Supernatural—Fiction. | Occultism—Fiction. | Good and evil—Fiction. | Identity—Fiction. | London (England)—History—19th century—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Horror & Ghost Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION Historical Europe. | JUVENILE FICTION Lifestyles City & Town Life. | JUVENILE FICTION / Visionary & Metaphysical.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S655 Me 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016016162

  eISBN 978-0-544-44536-9

  v1.0117

  For Margot and Fafi

  CHAPTER ONE

  England, 1864

  A Thousand Shards of Porcelain

  Being stuffed into a wardrobe with your hands tied is a dreadful way to start your day.

  There’s hardly any light, but for the yellow glint of a candle flame through a small crack in the door. Dust tickles my nostrils. Spiders are in the corners too.

  I hate spiders.

  I breathe out through my nose and try to think of something peaceful—​something besides Dr. Barnes sitting with Mother, nervously clutching a handkerchief or glass of sherry, hoping beyond hope that somehow, a message from his dead daughter, Lydia, will be revealed.

  That would be through me.

  I am the vessel, you see, through which the dead loved one will speak.

  Actually, it is all a sham.

  This is how it works.

  We knew Dr. Barnes had lost his daughter recently, and when he made the appointment, all it took was a few flowery words to begin the ruse:

  Dear Papa,

  Dab your eyes, dry your tears. I am in the bosom of the Lord, in Whose grace I have found everlasting peace.

  Yours always,

  Lydia.

  What Dr. Barnes doesn’t know is that an hour before his arrival, I wrote this very message on a chalk slate and hid it in the wardrobe’s secret panel. From there, ​it became a very simple matter to step inside with a blank one and make the swap. Also—​and this is key—​Mother is very good at tying slipknots.

  Soft murmurs echo beyond the door. I picture Mother with closed eyes, her thin nostrils flaring. On some days, the flames from the fireplace provide enough heat for her face to flush, which makes the act all the more authentic.

  I hear the scrape of a chair and then footsteps. Finally. I sigh in relief. I want to get out of here.

  I pinch my cheeks for a rosy flush and slip my hands back into the knot. The iron lock of the wardrobe clicks. The door squeaks open. I take a deep breath, force my body to go limp, and then, with an exaggerated gasp, fall face forward onto the floor.

  Dr. Barnes leaps out of his chair. I hear his teacup rattle on the table and then crash, sending a thousand shards of porcelain across the brick tiles of the hearth. “Oh, my God!” he cries. “Is she … is she dead?”

  Mother, being a true professional, plays her part with ease. “No, she is fine. She has been to the other side. Please. Give her a moment.”

  She kneels and leans in close, then brushes a lock of hair from my eyes. The fresh scent of Cameo Rose surrounds me. It is a lovely fragrance, and one I always associate with Mother, which lifts my spirits whenever I am down—​something I feel at this very moment, for I can already feel the bruise swelling on my forehead. She helps me up, unties the thin rope that binds my wrists, and leads me to a long chaise covered in red and blue damask. Dr. Barnes, old chap, withdraws a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket. “There, there, dear girl,” he says, dabbing my brow. I almost feel sorry for him. I ease my head back and let out a breath.

  Mother picks up the slate from the floor. She gives Dr. Barnes a sharp look. “The dead do not always speak what we would wish to hear,” she intones. “And oftentimes, their messages can be confusing … or even incomprehensible.”

  Dr. Barnes exhales a shaky breath. Mother unclasps the two sides of the slate.

  The blood drains from her face.

  “What is it?” Dr. Barnes asks, drawing closer.

  Mother is speechless, her mouth open in shock or confusion, I don’t know which.

  Dr. Barnes wrenches the slate away and peers over the top of his spectacles. I sit up and read the words written in a crooked script.

  Ring around the rosy, a pocketful of posies.

  Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!

  And below, written in a spidery scrawl, one single letter …

  M

  CHAPTER TWO

  To London

  A bead of sweat trembles on Dr. Barnes’s bulbous nose. “Dear God,” he cries. “What is this? My Lydia. Where is she? Where is my sweet child?”

  I look to Mother, still standing, but she is motionless, as if struck dumb.

  A sudden chill settles over me, even though the fire is blazing.

  Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!

  I did not write these words.

  “We must investigate,” I inform Dr. Barnes, trying to keep my composure.

  Truth be told, I am just as shocked as he is.

  I stand up and gently nudge him out the door with quiet, consoling w
ords, then walk back in and carefully step over the broken bits of porcelain. Mother has taken a seat on the chaise. Her face is drawn, her green eyes cold and far away.

  “What happened?” I ask, standing before her. “How did that message get there?”

  No answer.

  “Mother, have you taken ill?”

  “This is … I must—​I need time to think, Jessamine.”

  She’s hiding something. Mother never hides anything from me.

  “Who is M?” I venture. “Who … who wrote that on the slate?”

  She stands up and smoothes her wool soutache jacket with her palms, then slowly walks to the mahogany sideboard, where alcoholic spirits are displayed in heavy crystal decanters. A glass chimes as she takes one down from the cabinet. The pungent scent of anisette and fennel fills the room. I love the smell of absinthe. It reminds me of black licorice at Christmastime with Father, but since his death, I believe Mother drinks the “Green Faerie” a little too often.

  She turns around, her eyes suddenly a little less far away. “We must travel to London,” she says. “There is someone there who can give us answers.”

  “London?” I ask. I was born there and remained until the age of five, when Mother made our home here in Deal.

  “Pack your things, dear,” she tells me. “We must leave in the morning.” She swallows the last of her drink.

  For a moment, her shoulders slump, as if a great weight is bearing down upon her.

  My shoes clack on the cobblestones, sending rats scurrying.

  Someone is after me.

  Who it is, I do not know. All I know is that I need to keep running.

  My legs burn with fatigue and my breath comes in bursts. I need to rest. Just for a moment. Rest. That’s what I need.

  There—​up ahead.

  The mouth of a narrow alley beckons. I dash the few short steps and take shelter, reaching out to the wall to steady myself. I feel something wet, rain perhaps. But as I raise my hand to my face, drifting night clouds reveal the moon, which illuminates what it truly is.

  Blood.

  My hand is covered in blood.

  I look to the wall.

  There, gleaming wet and bright, I see it:

  M

  I wake with a start, my breath caught in my throat. Early-morning sun leaks through the thin curtains. I’m safe—​in my own room, at home. We will be traveling to London today.

  The dream haunts my steps as I take the empty pitcher on my bedside table and head into the parlor. The room is cold and dark, and the greasy smell of tallow candles hangs in the air. I kneel before the fireplace and use a poker to stir up the coals. They are mostly cinders now, but a few are still in good condition, with just a corner of white ash, so I arrange them evenly and then add a few sticks of tinder. I light the wood with a match and watch as the small flame erupts and spreads quickly. Once the fire is going, I pour water into a pot that hangs suspended from a bar above the hearth. I have to do this every morning, and it is a laborious process.

  At one time we had a maid-of-all-work, but since Father’s death, that is a luxury we can no longer afford. The same goes for my schooling, which, I must admit, was not my favorite pastime anyway. Like many girls of my social class, I was taught at home by a governess. Mrs. Gillacuddy was her name, and she was absolutely dreadful. I once thought I saw her smile, but cannot be certain. It may have been indigestion.

  I pour the hot water into a basin and carry it upstairs. I wash quickly—​Cleanliness is next to godliness, the vicar often says—​and then open the door to my wardrobe. A tremor of excitement runs through my veins. It is fleeting, however, as I soon remember our reason for traveling:

  Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!

  What could it possibly mean?

  I shake the thought away and ruffle through my clothing. I decide on an ivory-colored dress with lace and pearl buttons and an olive touring hat—​one of my favorites, though I hardly ever have the chance to wear it. I finish the ensemble with a pair of brown button boots and a fur-collared cloak, which might come in handy, for the weather has become quite cool.

  I turn to and fro before the standing mirror—​the perfect image of a middle-class young lady. At least that’s what Mother would say. We must keep up appearances, she often tells me, and does everything in her power to make that so.

  Mother.

  When I think of her, my heart blooms with love, even though we have certainly had our disagreements. What she has been through is a testament to her strength. Father died of consumption when I was five years old. He left us a small inheritance, but after a few years the money dwindled, and Mother said she was sure we were headed for the workhouse. That was when, with a very keen sense of timing, she decided to put out a shingle and take up our trade in the practice of spiritualism, a movement made all the more popular by the Russian immigrant Madame Blavatsky, who has become a guest and confidante to some of the most distinguished names of the day. We hold séances and read fortunes, ruminate over tea leaves, perform acts of levitation—​which is really nothing but a parlor trick—​and we even once contacted the spirit of a tabby cat called Finikin. Allegedly.

  People come from far and wide to witness firsthand the uncanny talents of Cora Grace and Daughter. I fretted a little at the absence of my name at first, but Mother said it was quite pleasing to the ear.

  Most of our clients are from the upper class and have more than enough money to see them through till the end of their days. If it gives them comfort to believe that their loved ones are at peace, so be it. But somewhere deep within me a spark of guilt flickers, no matter how hard I try to dampen it.

  Downstairs, breakfast is laid out. Scones and Devonshire cream, toast, tea, and blackberry jam. Mother is already dressed and at the table. “We have a fairly long trip ahead of us,” she says as I sit down. “I thought we should start with a proper breakfast.”

  We eat without saying much, and Mother still seems a little shaken. Her hands tremble as she raises the teacup to her lips.

  “Who will we be meeting in London?” I ask.

  “A man named Balthazar.”

  “Balthazar?” I venture. “What a strange name. And his surname?”

  “Just Balthazar,” she says vaguely. “He was a friend of Papa’s.”

  I find this very odd. What could Father’s friend have to do with what happened yesterday? Also, what kind of man deigns to go about without a surname? That, in my opinion, is the height of vanity.

  After breakfast, Mother and I step out into the late-October morning. It is only a short walk to the station, and from there we will board the South Eastern Railway to London. My few belongings are packed in a lady’s portmanteau, so it is not a bother to carry. The day is bright, and from where I stand, the English Channel unwinds like a long blue ribbon. A few herring gulls drift lazily on gusts of air, their wings spread wide, every now and then diving for a flash of silver. When I was a child, much to Mother’s dismay, I spent hours at the docks watching the gulls, and making up imaginary stories filled with exotic animals and strange sea creatures. Only after hearing her call my name from afar would the spell be broken, and she would pull me away with a scolding. “There are dangerous men down there, Jessamine,” she would say. “It is no place for a young lady.”

  I didn’t find it dangerous. I found it thrilling—​watching the ships come into port, the rough-looking men with their scruffy beards and strange voices. Often, I would play with an Indian girl named Deepa. She was lovely, with beautiful brown skin that did not burn in the sun, and long, dark eyelashes. Her father was an Englishman who traveled with the East India Company and one day brought home a wife. Unfortunately, because of Deepa’s skin color, more times than once she would be set upon by some of the local boys, who called her dreadful names and chased her all the way home. I felt badly for her, but did not stand up to the ruffians. What was I to do? I was too small to have made any difference.

  On one gray morning she met me
at the dock with tears brimming in her eyes. She said that she and her mother would soon be taking the train to London to escape from her father, who had become besotted with drink. That was the last I saw of her, but to this day I think of her often.

  Mother purchases tickets at the stationmaster’s booth, and we wait on the wooden platform for the signal bell. It is a little cooler now, and I pull my cloak around my shoulders. A young boy strolls the platform, selling the latest newspapers from London, while uniformed porters stand waiting with passengers’ bags and heavy trunks. After a moment I hear the whistle of the train, and a rush of air stirs the fabric of my dress. The sound of screeching wheels rings in my ears. The train comes to a grinding stop, and plumes of black smoke billow in the air. Mother and I head for the second-class coach. First class is beyond our means, and third, albeit cheaper, is recommended only for the poorest of the poor. It is not much more than an open box, with no protection from the elements. Thankfully, we have yet to fall that far.

  We take a seat next to each other, and I place my bag above me in a net that holds newspapers and umbrellas. I pass the time gazing at the coastline through the cloudy window. Life is dull and unexciting where we live in Deal, in the South East of England. Our only claim to fame is that a few years earlier, pirates and smugglers plied their trade along the coast, shipping tobacco, wool, and other valuables across the Channel to France. In my flights of fancy as a child, I often wondered what it would be like to lead a criminal life, and even imagined myself as the heroine of my own tale: The Adventures of Jess the Pirate Girl and her Deeds of Derring-Do! Those memories are still dear to me, as Mother often played along while I ran about the house brandishing a carpet beater as a sword, laughter filling the halls. But after Father died, even though I was but a babe, our carefree playing ceased. Our maid was dismissed, and then my governess. Mother taught me lessons for a while, but soon, even that came to an end. Often, I would find her in the parlor at night, sitting by the light of the fire, staring into its flames as if she could find something there, if only she looked hard enough.

  One night, she took me into her lap and cried, very quietly, as if she were pouring the grief out of her and into me. I took it all in and buried it down deep, where neither of us would ever have to find it again.