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.