Amanda Quick - Quicksilver

“Thank you,” Helen said, her voice leaden with anxiety. “I am so afraid that she will come to grief before I can find her.”

“You said your daughter is an aura-reader.”

“That is how she refers to herself.”

“Is she a sensible young lady?”

Helen sighed. “I had always believed that to be the case until this morning.”

“If she has a degree of common sense and if she can read auras, she is not as unprotected as you might think,” Virginia said.

“How can you say that? She has no experience of the world.”

“Her talent provides her with a strong intuitive ability that will surely help her avoid people who might be a danger to her. Aurareaders are very good at that sort of thing. That sensitivity will help keep her out of harm’s way.”

“She does seem to have recently developed very sound instincts when it comes to judging others,” Helen admitted. “I can only pray that you are right.”

Virginia rose. “I shall write the note to Mr. Welch immediately.”

Helen got to her feet. “I am very grateful, Miss Dean. I realize that you have no reason to feel any vestige of obligation to Elizabeth.”

“All I am going to do is send a note,” Virginia said. “It is nothing.”

Helen looked at her with an unreadable expression. “The gossip was right, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a strong family resemblance. You and Elizabeth both have your father’s eyes.”

Helen went out into the hall. Mrs. Crofton opened the door for her with a respectful air. Helen went down the steps and got into the waiting carriage.

Virginia went into her study to write the note to Welch. After she gave it to Mrs. Crofton to send around to the Institute, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and removed the photograph inside.

For a long time she sat, looking at the picture of her handsome, dashing father, her attractive mother and herself. She had just turned thirteen when the photograph was taken. She looked innocent and happy and loved. For all her budding psychical talent, that day she’d had no premonition that in a few short months her world would come crashing down around her.

The note from Mrs. Fordham, Welch’s assistant, came within the hour. A young lady is here requesting a consultation with you. Won’t give her name. I assume she is the one you asked Mr. Welch to watch out for. I informed her you would see her shortly.

Virginia dashed off a note to Helen and went upstairs to change into a walking dress. By the time she returned to the front hall to collect her cloak and gloves, Mrs. Crofton was waiting at the door. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since Helen had left. Evidently she had not yet recovered from the shock of discovering that her employer was the by-blow of a shady psychical practitioner and a gentleman descended from one of the most distinguished families in society.

“Please have one of the street boys take that note around to Lady Mansfield in Hamilton Square immediately, Mrs. Crofton,” Virginia said. “She is very worried about her daughter.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Crofton said. The words were stilted and tight. She opened the door.

Virginia went out onto the front step.

“Miss Dean?” Mrs. Crofton said quietly behind her.

Virginia paused. “Yes?”

“Under the circumstances, I think you were very generous to Lady Mansfield.”

“It was not her fault that her husband chose to keep a second family on the side.”

“He wasn’t the first to do so, and he won’t be the last. But it does not follow that you owe Lady Mansfield anything.”

“My concern is for Elizabeth. She is the innocent one.”

Mrs. Crofton looked knowingly. “She is growing up in luxury and will inherit a fortune. She will take her place in society and make a grand marriage. You will spend most of your life working for your living. You’ll be fortunate, indeed, if you are able to put enough aside for your later years.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Crofton. Given the rosy future that you portray, I really do need to see about attracting higher-quality clients.”

“Time you raised your fees, as well. People don’t value services unless they pay dearly for them.”

Virginia smiled. “Thank you for the advice, Mrs. Crofton. I shall consider it closely.”

She pulled up the hood of her cloak and set off briskly into the fogbound afternoon. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the Leybrook Institute. There were usually a number of carriages and cabs parked in the street in front of the large building that housed the Institute’s offices and meeting rooms. This afternoon was no exception. Lectures on the paranormal and demonstrations of psychical powers were given frequently during the week. They attracted enthusiastic audiences, which, in turn, generated clients for practitioners affiliated with the Institute.

Those who chose to associate with the Institute paid a portion of their fees to Gilmore Leybrook for the privilege, but Virginia considered the cost to be more than worthwhile. Her business had increased dramatically in recent months. She was now making twice what she had earned as a practitioner on her own.

She went up the broad front steps and into the marble-tiled hall. Fulton, the porter who sold tickets to the lectures and demonstrations, signaled to her.

“Miss Dean,” he said. “Mr. Welch said you were expected shortly. Asked me to send you straight to his assistant’s office. There is a young lady waiting to see you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fulton.”

She went down a corridor lined with offices and demonstration rooms. A familiar voice drifted out from behind a closed door. Dr. Gatwood was giving a lecture to a group of fellow researchers.

“It is clear from my investigations that psychical energy is similar to electrical energy, but rather than passing through wires, it flows in the form of currents through the ether.”

She went past the door and on down the hall. When she reached Mrs. Fordham’s office she raised her hand to knock. For a few seconds she hesitated. What would she say to the sister she had never met?

Before she could come up with an answer, Jasper Welch opened the door of the neighboring office.

“There you are, Miss Dean,” Welch said. He was a serious, scholarly looking man in his early thirties with nondescript light brown hair that was starting to thin. He peered at her through his spectacles. “I see you got the message. Mrs. Fordham tells me the young lady is most eager to speak to you.”

“I must thank Mrs. Fordham for being so prompt,” Virginia said.

Welch lowered his voice and cast a meaningful glance at the closed door of his assistant’s office. “Mrs. Fordham informs me that the young lady is obviously very well bred. The girl wouldn’t give her name, but Mrs. Fordham suspects she is the daughter of a very fine family. Just the sort of people Mr. Leybrook likes to encourage as clients, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, Mr. Welch, I know what you mean. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, of course. See you at the reception tomorrow evening.”

“Certainly.”

Welch popped back into his office and closed the door.

Virginia took a deep breath and knocked.

“Come in,” Mrs. Fordham called, her crisp, no-nonsense voice tinged with impatience.

Virginia opened the door. Mrs. Fordham was at her desk. She was a woman of a certain age, prim, gray-haired and a model of painfully erect posture. She regarded Virginia with sharp, birdlike eyes.

“Miss Dean,” she said crisply. “This is the young lady who is asking for you.”

She inclined her head toward the girl, who sat, stiff and uncertain, in a wooden chair.