Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar (страница 4)

As he grew older, Richard began to run away from home for walks around the neighborhood. He would wander through fields of tall grass or sit by the river, fishing or simply watching the clouds. These moments were a true salvation for him – that's when he felt free and happy.

When he was sent to study at Harrow, life changed dramatically. Here he met other lonely boys like himself, surrounded by their parents' inattention and the endless expectations of their mentors. Each had their own story and their own truth. Here he learned his first lessons in friendship and betrayal.

After graduating from school and returning to his ordinary life, Richard no longer retreated into his solitude. Communication became the best cure for his melancholy. He loved to study people and listen to their stories. Therefore, when the professor offered him a chance to try his hand as a journalist at the "Ages" publishing house, he eagerly threw himself into the work. Investigations and article writing required a thorough and meticulous study of various topics, something the young man had been trained in since early childhood.

Richard stepped with a decisive stride onto the cobblestone pavement of the port square. In the distance, a white ocean liner, the size of several good houses, was visible. Something inside him treacherously tickled. A childish fear of the unknown and the anticipation of something magical mingled within him into a dizzying cocktail. His heart pounded with excitement.

The pier was bustling like a disturbed anthill. Porters in worn vests carried trunks and suitcases marked "First Class" onto the steamer. Passengers, the owners of this luggage, boarded via a separate gangway, carpeted in scarlet. Ladies in silks and crinolines shielded themselves from the sun's rays with lace parasols. Their escorts in tweed travel suits obediently walked beside them. Footmen in livery with the shipping company's crest took their hand satchels and escorted them to cabins on the upper decks.

Second-class passengers, which included Hodgson, boarded via their own, more modest but clean and trustworthy gangway to cabins located in the middle of the ship. Among his fellow travelers, the pastor's family, heading to distant India, probably for missionary purposes, immediately stood out.

The pater's children, eager to explore the new space, tried to break free from their mother's control. However, upbringing and propriety demanded a brief pause before the active phase of this operation could begin, so the mother, with a stern gaze, subdued the rascals, indicating for them to sit beside her.

At the far end of the pier, Irish emigrants, laborers, and the poor were crowded together. Having scraped together their last pennies for a third-class ticket, these individuals genuinely believed that fortune awaited them in India, but the ship rats scurrying between their legs seemed to mock their hopes.

The captain, in a blue uniform with gold embroidery, smoked his pipe, standing on the bridge and observing the surrounding bustle. The steamship's whistle tore through the air, and a flock of seagulls took flight from the masts. The "Gwalior" shuddered, releasing clouds of steam.

Piercing through the smoky sky, the sun cast glints on the brass portholes. The liner, like a colossal iron beast, moved out of the port, unhurriedly heading from London towards Madras.

Chapter 2. "Reflections in the Abyss"

Elen strolled slowly along the deck, savoring the unhurried atmosphere and a tranquility so unfamiliar to her. Her dress of purple silk, sun-bleached to the color of young wine, draped her form in wide folds, accentuating her ample hips and rounded shoulders. The fabric, embroidered with silver threads, rustled with every step. Her worn heels tapped on the parquet, as if marking the rhythm of a forgotten dance. Men in smart tailcoats followed her with their gazes – not so much with desire, but with a curiosity mixed with unease.

At nearly forty, she was a stout woman, visibly weathered by life, moving with a slow, stately grace, the languid confidence of those who need not prove their right to occupy space.

Without giving much importance to her appearance, Elen had never used fashionable cosmetics or creams. Her once fair hair now bore streaks of a sparse but confident gray. Escaping from a hastily gathered bun, tousled by the wind, they resembled the restless serpents of Medusa's head.

As she passed the deck chairs, society ladies hid their smiles behind fans: "A complete savage!" But the men noticed something else – how these unruly strands framed her face, broad and commanding, with skin tanned to the color of antique bronze.

Even her scent contradicted first-class elegance: instead of violet perfume, it was a blend of tart jasmine, cheap tobacco, and something sharp, like oriental spices.

Reaching the very edge of the deck, Elen stopped. Her handbag – worn crocodile leather with a tarnished clasp – dangled from her elbow like an unnecessary accessory from someone else's life. Her fingers, adorned with rings bearing cracked stones, deftly extracted a tobacco pouch. Just as unhurriedly, she began to roll herself a cigarette. A pinch of dark tobacco, a scrap of thin paper, a deft twist of the wrist.

The smoke, acrid and sweetish, rose in clouds, mingling with the scent of the sea breeze. Ladies in silks and crinolines, wrapped in lace shawls, fidgeted on their wicker deck chairs.

"Disgraceful!" hissed one, covering her nose with a monogrammed handkerchief. "At her age, and with such manners…"

"I'm sure she drinks whiskey straight from the bottle!" another woman added sarcastically.

"Again, everyone has to meekly endure her poisonous smoke! Excuse me, I'm out!" a third woman exclaimed indignantly as she stood up.

Helen seemed not to hear them. She inhaled the smoke deeply, her eyes half-closed.

The sea was a little stormy. Having left the port of Piraeus two days ago, the "Eunomia" was slowly cutting through the incredibly blue waters of the Aegean Sea, heading towards Cairo.

A timid cough was heard behind Helen. Turning around, she saw a very young man in front of her. Stammering and blushing, he spoke after an awkward pause that was only awkward for him.

"Madam Blavatsky, p-permit me to i-introduce myself. L-Lord Charles Whitmore at your service," he comically stamped his thin feet and bowed deeply. "Even though y-you are traveling incognito, I r-recognized you!"

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you." Helen extended her graceful hand with long, slender fingers to the young man. It seemed as if her hands did not belong to her large body. "It's doubly pleasant to receive attention from such a young man to my humble person."

"You are being unnecessarily modest, m-madam! The entire first class has been doing nothing but discussing you for the p-past two days."

"Really?!" Helen exclaimed in genuine surprise, taking another drag from her cigarette. "And what are they saying?"

"Th-they're saying th-that…"

"They're saying that you can communicate with the souls of the dead!" Major Crowley, proudly wearing medals for suppressing the Sepoy Mutiny on his chest, came to the aid of the embarrassed young man.

Blavatsky snorted loudly.

"Major Crowley," he extended his hand to Helen. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam!"

Strict and cynical, having seen much in his life, the major looked searchingly at the woman about whom rumors had been circulating in society for years.

"They say you convey messages from those who are no longer with us. I've seen many wonders on the battlefield and heard countless legends and tall tales, but your tricks…"

"Tricks?" Her eyes narrowed, and in the next moment, the major saw something he wanted to see but couldn't forget for a long time. She lifted her eyelids, and Crowley recoiled. From beneath her short, faded eyelashes, two murky yellow, serpentine eyes with narrow vertical pupils stared at him. The major felt a chill run down his spine. "Tricks? So your brother Edward – that's tricks too?"

Crowley flinched. He was thrown into a cold sweat, even though the sun, reflecting off the sea, was mercilessly scorching.

"Who told you about Edward?!"

"He stands behind your right shoulder. In a uniform, torn at the chest. Thick scarlet blood still flows from his wound."

Major involuntarily looked back. There was no one behind his shoulder. The ladies on the deckchairs watched the scene with undisguised curiosity, while young Lord Whitmore pressed himself against the railing, doing his best to hide the terror that had seized him.

"Enough!" Crowley cried out, desperately hoping to dispel the persistent delusion.

"Do you want the truth, Major?" the possessed woman hissed, approaching him to an uncomfortably close distance. The scent of tobacco and jasmine hit his nose.

"We all want the truth!" a trembling voice of the young lord unexpectedly rang out from behind. "Tonight, prove to us all that you are not a charlatan and a fraud! Conduct an open séance to communicate with spirits!"

Helen closed her eyes and slowly turned her head towards Lord Whitmore. When she opened them again, he was met by surprisingly beautiful blue eyes, full of calm and confidence.