When we arrived, we were met by four other ladies, all strangers to me. They were very friendly and enthusiastic. I was quite taken aback. There were a Miss Knapp and Mrs. Cobb from Montpelier, Mrs. Gillespie from Barre, and a very old woman with a birdlike face—Mrs. Willard—but they did not say where she was from. All the women had on lovely dresses and hats trimmed with lace and feathers.
“Amelia has told us so much about you,” they chirped as they led me through the parlor, with its ornate furniture and oil paintings on the walls, and into the dining room, where the table with a pressed white tablecloth was all laid out with a fine lunch—little sandwiches cut into triangles, potato salad, pickled beets. The places were set with bone china, crystal glasses full of something that bubbled. The wallpaper was dark blue with flowers that seemed to wink and sparkle.
“She has?” I sat down and began serving myself as food was passed to me, wondering what Amelia had been thinking—how could she imagine I might be up for so much socializing? What I wanted more than anything was to beg to be taken home, to resume my search for Gertie.
“Indeed,” said the youngest, Miss Knapp, who couldn’t have been much older than eighteen.
I picked up a chicken-salad sandwich, nibbled at the corner. My mouth felt dry, and chewing was difficult. I put down the sandwich, picked up my fork, and tried a bite of the beets; their taste was as sharp and metallic as blood. I felt the eyes of all the women on me. It was simply too much.
“But she’s not the only one who has told us things about you,” said Mrs. Cobb, pouring tea. She was a plump woman with a ruddy face. “Isn’t that right, ladies?” she practically chortled. It was as if they all shared a joke.
They all nodded excitedly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I confessed, setting my fork down on the china plate. It made a terrible clanking sound. My hands began to tremble.
It was the old woman, Mrs. Willard, who spoke. She was sitting across from me, staring fixedly at me. “We have a message for you.”
“A message?” I asked, dabbing at my lips with a starched napkin. “From whom?”
“From your child,” Mrs. Willard said, her dark eyes boring into my own. “Gertie.”
“You … you’ve seen her?” I asked. Was this where my Gertie had gone? To these ladies? But why?
Mrs. Cobb chuckled, her cheeks growing even more pink. “Good heavens, no,” she said. “The spirits don’t manifest themselves to us that way.”
“How, then?” I asked.
“Various ways,” Amelia said. “We meet once a month and ask any spirits who are present to join us. Sometimes we will request a certain spirit.”
“But how do they communicate with you?” I asked.
“Rapping on the table. They can answer questions that way—one knock for yes, two for no.”
My throat tightened as I remembered talking with my beloved Gertie this way only yesterday.
“Sometimes they can communicate through Mrs. Willard,” Amelia explained. “She’s a medium, you see. A very gifted one.”
“A medium?” I looked at the old woman, who hadn’t taken her eyes off me.
“The dead speak to me. I’ve been hearing their voices since I was a little girl,” she said. Her eyes were so dark, so strangely hypnotic, if I looked into them for too long, I began to feel dizzy.
Parched, I reached for the crystal glass, took a swallow of cloyingly sweet wine.
“The message your Gertie has for you is this,” Mrs. Willard said. “She says to tell you the blue dog says hello.”
I gasped, put a hand over my mouth.
Mrs. Willard nodded knowingly and continued. “She also says that this thing that you are doing is not right. She doesn’t like it at all.” Her look turned sharp, almost angry.
I set my glass down carelessly, and it toppled. I stood to blot the spilled wine from the table with my napkin and swayed dizzily, steadying myself on the edge of the table. The room felt dark and airless.
“Aunt Sara, are you all right?” Amelia asked.
“May I have a glass of water?” I asked.
“Yes. Please, sit down. Why, your face has gone white.” Amelia hurried over with water, dampened a napkin, and began to dab at my forehead.
“I’m afraid I’m not well,” I whispered to her. “Could you please take me home?”
“Of course,” Amelia said, helping me to rise and making apologies to the ladies.
Once outside, I took in gulps of cold air until my head felt clearer. The sun was directly overhead, and made the world seem impossibly bright. Amelia helped me into the carriage and laid the blanket over me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps it was all too much.”
“Perhaps,” I told her.
The other luncheon guests crowded together in the open doorway, waving their goodbyes, brows furrowed with concern. As we pulled away and moved down Main Street, I saw other faces watching, too. Abe Cushing peered out from the window of the general store and raised his hand in a wave. Sally Gonyea was wiping down tables in the dining room at the inn. She stopped and watched us pass, her face somber. And across the street, Erwin Jameson watched us from the window of the tack-and-feed store. When he noticed that I saw him, he looked away, pretended to be busy with something near the window.
I know what they are all thinking: There goes poor Sara Shea. She’s no longer in her right mind.