not go in yourself.”
“What was it?” Jessie whispers as they climb down the stairs. “You must tell me, Madame De Cassin.”
“My dear Miss Malone,” Madame De Cassin says, “strange times are a-coming.”
* * *
Madame De Cassin assures Jessie that evil spirits, or whatever the strange presence was, departed from the sitting room when she turned up the gaslight. But the unflappable spiritualist looks unsettled herself. Jessie pays her the usual fee, picking out a few gold coins from those Mr. Heald paid her, and begs her to return and ensure that the sitting room hasn’t become haunted. The spiritualist readily agrees, consulting her little black leather appointment book, and schedules another visit.
“Madame De Cassin, you must advise me what to do.” Mr. Watkins confronts her as the spiritualist pins on her riding hat.
“Beware,” she says. “Beware of others. Beware mostly of yourself, sir.” With that, she stomps out the door.
Mr. Heald hurries out the door, too, without another word about going upstairs. Sure and it’s just as well. Jessie is hardly in the mood for the biz. But an anxiety grates at her. Truth be told, she must admit that Mr. Heald is a nice old sport, a dear friend after all, and always flush. Those diamonds swinging from her earlobes? They were paid for by all the Mr. Healds. Mr. Heald is no worse than most and better than some. She must remember to invite him to the musicale on Sunday night at the Parisian Mansion and stand him a bottle of champagne. She cannot afford to lose the patronage and goodwill of Mr. Heald.
A séance usually refreshes her. Not this time. She’s only glad that her Rachael is doing well in the Summerland after life cheated her so cruelly. That bittersweet thought instantly hardens her heart as she finds Li’l Lucy lingering in the foyer with Mr. Watkins.
“Pack your things,” she orders the girl. “Off to Sutter Street with you.”
“But Miss Malone,” Li’l Lucy says, “I still ache, and Chief Silver Thorne said. . . .”
“Never mind Chief Silver Thorne. Be quick about it.” There, you see? Never mix employees in personal affairs. Oh, give them an inch! The biz is the biz. “And clean the place up proper, Li’l Lucy. I’m letting out those rooms today.” She smiles at the young gentleman, who is definitely looking quite the worse for wear. “Mr. Watkins, we should talk. Will you come up to my parlor? Would you care for some champagne? I’m as thirsty as a camelopard myself.”
“Gladly. I’m dry as a bone, Miss Malone. But I do believe you mean a camel. Nasty beasts that run about the desert and spit and bite and smell something dreadful. A camelopard, on the other hand, is a lovely creature with an extraordinarily long neck that lives on the African savannah far south of the desert and nibbles charmingly on jungle foliage.”
“Ah, a scholar, then.”
“And a gentleman.” He shows off his sparkling white teeth. “Please excuse my poor manners. I just got off the train from Saint Louis, and I’m beat.”
Bang, bang, bang! Firecrackers pop in the street. “I’ll show you, ya lout!” Two bruisers commence a brawl in front of her door, fists swinging, their pals cheering them on. “Heeey, biff ‘im one, Johnny!” “I’ll smash yer ugly mug!”
Never has Jessie seen such a Fourth of July.
* * *
Huffing and puffing every blasted inch of the three flights up, her stays cutting into her liver at every stair, Jessie takes Mr. Watkins to her private parlor on the top floor. “Got to look into one of them elevator contraptions that the swells use in their skyscrapers downtown,” she tells him as she leads him inside. Sure and this is her pride and joy. A room of her own design, not at all like the sitting room for the sweet spirits and Madame De Cassin.
When Jessie bought the three-story Stick-Eastlake mansion with the intention of securing her private residence above, private boarders below, the place was as plain as a pig, the paint peeling to shavings. Since the seventies, lower Dupont Street had become a tenderloin. Respectable folk fled the old city as the poor of every nation flooded in, tainting once-genteel streets with vice and sport and crime, with laundry flapping on clothes lines and sour cooking smells and unruly children.
But the rooms were huge, the architecture sound, the views superb. A good purchase it was, in spite of the rough neighborhood. To the southwest, Jessie sees the top story