Harry took a long drink of water. “I am perfectly willing to believe,” he said, “but I need significant proof to back any claims I put in print.”
Gladys came to her brother’s defense. “Certainly you cannot expect Harry to support your claims simply because you are friends. He has a reputation of respectability that he has to uphold.” Gladys was more of a skeptic even than Harry and had tried for years to convince him that their mother was not going to come through to them, much to Harry’s dismay.
Doyle was insulted. “And I do not have a reputation to uphold? I must tell you, I feel sore about it. You have all the right in the world to your own opinion, but I know the purity of my wife’s mediumship, and I saw what the effect was upon you when we were in England. You believed.”
Lady Doyle sat quietly beside Bess, sipping her wine. She looked neither supportive of nor embarrassed by her husband’s outburst.
Sir Arthur stood up. “If agreeable, Lady Doyle will give you a special séance, as she has a feeling that she might have a message coming through. At any rate, she is willing to try.” He continued, “I’d like for her to give you some kind of consolation, and change your mind.”
Harry glanced at Bess. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “But I assure you I did not mean my article as an affront to you or your wife.”
What Bess and Gladys had not told Lady Doyle was that it happened to be Mrs. Weiss’s birthday. If this fact came through in the séance, then perhaps Lady Doyle’s powers could be proven real. Bess felt a little thrill at being in league with Harry again, as they had been during their stage days. But she also felt sorry for Harry and for Gladys, dredging up all this business with their mother yet again. If Harry had been depressed since her passing, Gladys had been even more so. Mrs. Weiss had been her best friend and confidante, as well as her eyes. Losing Mrs. Weiss had been, surely, like losing a limb. One could never, ever, be the same. Bess only hoped that Gladys wasn’t expecting anything to come of this séance, especially having heard Lady Doyle pressing for information earlier.
They proceeded back into the library, and Harry dimmed the lights. They sat in a small circle and placed their hands on the table between them. Once again, Doyle began with a prayer, and Lady Doyle, a pad and pencil in front of her, began by drawing the sign of the cross and asking the spirits, “Do you believe in God? You must say so if you wish us to continue.”
Then she began to convulse, and her hand flew across the page, writing furiously.
“It’s your mother,” Doyle whispered. “It has to be.”
I am so happy, my beloved son and daughter, Lady Doyle wrote. I know that you think of me often, that you often wear the clothes and gifts I’ve given you because you think it will help you reach me. You must know that you have a guide who is often with you at night. He helps and instructs you over here. He is a very, very high soul, sent especially to work through you on the earth plane. He wants me to say, my dears, that there is much work before you.
“In this world?” Doyle pressed. His hand was flying, too; he was tearing sheet after sheet from the pad of paper as they filled up.
Yes. It is here in this gray earth that you are needed.
Bess could not bring herself to open her eyes and look at Harry. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous.
Then Lady Doyle’s convulsions stilled abruptly. Bess opened her eyes. The woman appeared, suddenly, very composed. It was odd; her dark eyes were open, but there seemed to be a kind of emptiness behind them. Bess shuddered; the room felt very cold and drafty.
Doyle started to read his wife’s recent scribbling and paused. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Harry. Bess saw Harry’s face grow white. “She writes—” His voice broke. “My son, you are in danger. My God, my God, save you.”
Bess stood up, knocking the table over. She motioned to Harry and Gladys. “Enough of this! Don’t you see what you are doing to them?” She pointed at Lady Doyle, whose forehead was covered in sweat, as if she had exerted great energy. “You are nothing more than a fraud, who has managed to deceive even her own husband! You dare to tell my husband that his life is in danger? Did you know that Cecilia Weiss spoke five languages, but English wasn’t one of them? And yet she is somehow writing through your hand in a language she didn’t speak.”
Sir Arthur took Bess’s arm to calm her down. “Of course it’s probable that in heaven we can speak all languages, is it not?”
“But if she were trying to convince Harry and Gladys of her authenticity, wouldn’t it be even more remarkable if your wife began writing in German, a language she herself doesn’t speak?” Bess snatched her arm away. “And today is Mrs. Weiss’s birthday—a fact that was never mentioned. You should know that before you try to defend your wife any further. Surely this is proof of her disingenuousness.”