Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier, or Shadows over Adyar (страница 5)

"Very well," she smiled, "tonight at midnight. In the salon. I await all who are not afraid to hear the truth. You will come, Major Crowley, won't you?"

"You leave me no choice, madam!" the Briton snapped, regaining his composure.

Helen slowly walked away to her cabin in complete silence. It seemed even the gulls following the ship had fallen silent at that moment, huddled in groups on the masts.

The dead silence was broken by the elder Lord Whitmore:

"What the devil, Charles, did you approach that Russian sorceress?" he exclaimed, not holding back his words. "Your mother, bless her soul, allowed you far too much! And here is the result!"

"But you will go to this séance, my lord, won't you?" one of the ladies inquired, almost in a whisper, trying not to be overheard, fanning herself with a bone fan adorned with white ostrich feathers.

"Of course I'll go, Lady Worcester!"

A few minutes later, the upper deck was deserted. News of the upcoming performance spread among the first-class passengers with indecent speed. All the respectable public dispersed to their cabins, discussing the upcoming evening and its main protagonist.

Meanwhile, Helene, left alone, sat in a deep armchair, examining the pattern on the carved ceiling of her cabin. On her lap lay a letter from her father, received just before departure. The dim lamplight softly illuminated the tired woman's face. She needed to get up and change her attire for the evening session. By herself. There was never enough money for servants. Not since she, at seventeen, had run away from her elderly husband, defying herself and entrenched society. Her father had supported her then, knowing that no one could hold his daughter back once she had made up her mind.

She needed to get up. But thoughts and memories kept her chained to the armchair. Visions of her distant homeland floated before her eyes. Endless fields, the rustle of forests, quiet rivers, and the blue, infinite sky. She was born on the last day of July, a weak, sickly child. Even her mother didn't believe the girl would survive, and so, while still a tiny baby, it was decided to baptize her.

To avoid exposing the newborn to unnecessary danger, the baptism was held in a specially designated, largest room of the family estate. But even it couldn't accommodate all those wishing to attend the ceremony. The room, filled with the scent of frankincense and the smoke of church candles, was packed with a dozen relatives and even more servants.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit!" the priest, dressed in golden festive vestments, solemnly pronounced, beginning the sacrament of baptism. "May this child be blessed, may the Lord protect her from all evil!"

The mother quietly sobbed, looking at her firstborn. The girl silently gazed around and made no sound.

"Rejoice, Virgin Mother of God," the priest continued to read the prayer in a bass voice, paying no attention to what was happening around him. "Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the Fruit of thy womb, for thou hast borne the Savior of our souls."

"Lord, save the innocent child!" whispered one of the relatives.

Unable to hold back her tears, the young mother burst into sobs, clinging to the arm of her husband standing beside her. The brave officer, Pyotr Alekseevich Gan, maintained his composure, gently embracing his wife.

The godmother's trusted representative was her very young aunt, a couple of years older than her newborn niece. Tired of the long stillness, the little one decided to sit on the floor and, unnoticed by the adults, began to fall asleep in the crowded, stuffy room. Her eyes slowly closed to the monotonous singing of the priest, and her fingers became soft and limp. The candle slipped from her hands and, as it fell, brushed against the priest's long vestments. The fire instantly engulfed the dress.

"We're burning! Fire!" someone in the crowd shouted, before panic and a terrible stampede began.

Elena was only a few weeks old then, and it was a miracle, of course, but she still remembers the frightened face of the nanny who rushed to her.

"Lord, save and protect!" she wailed, grabbing the child. "How could this have happened! It must mean disaster!"

"Disaster! Disaster!" echoed the superstitious housemaids in unison, scattering in all directions.

These words merged into a mournful song, and echoed in her head.

Helen opened her eyes. It had already grown dark outside the cabin window.

She needed to get up and change. She folded the letter from her father into a square and, rising slowly, placed it on the coffee table, where, next to a Bradshaw's guide and phrasebook, lay an open copy of "The Works of Plato."

In the bedroom, Helen changed into a shapeless satin dress that concealed all her figure's imperfections. Throwing a dark, long tunic over it, she approached the dressing table with a mirror, cast a fleeting glance at her reflection, took a bottle of her favorite jasmine scent, sprayed it into the air, and, passing through the fragrant cloud, left the cabin, unhurriedly heading towards the main salon on the "Eunomia."

The first-class salon was a spacious room where genuine luxury and refinement reigned. The walls, paneled with dark polished oak and mahogany, reflected the soft light of crystal chandeliers. In the center of the room stood a long table set with silver cutlery and exquisite porcelain dinnerware, surrounded by comfortable high-backed chairs.

Guests, dressed in evening attire, were seated on plush armchairs and sofas lining the walls, eagerly awaiting the séance. They were already on their second or third glass of champagne, whispering amongst themselves, when she appeared in the salon doorway.

"Elena Petrovna!" Major Crowley greeted her, rising from his armchair.

"Good evening, gentlemen! Major Crowley!" Blavatsky addressed the assembled company. Then, turning her head towards the Sinclair twin brothers seated on the sofa, she continued in a voice that was no longer entirely her own, with a characteristic Bostonian accent, "You shouldn't have forged your brother's signature, Harry!"

The Sinclair brothers, Charles and Henry, young Americans as alike as two peas in a pod, had recently inherited a multi-million dollar fortune. Their father, in the mid-50s, had successfully invested in the construction of a transcontinental railroad and became the owner of one of America's largest fortunes. For the past couple of years, the young dandies had been traveling the world, enjoying all the benefits of civilization and squandering their inheritance.

"What is she talking about?" Charlie's dazzling smile vanished from his face. He looked questioningly at his brother.

"This is some kind of nonsense, Charlie!" Henry Sinclair exclaimed, trying to rise from his seat, but the sofa seemed to hold him fast. "I have no idea what she's talking about, just like you."

"We're talking about the Union Pacific Railroad shares that you acquired by signing a forged gift deed in your brother's name!" Blavatsky replied calmly, in their father's voice, her gaze fixed intently on the elder of the Sinclairs.

"Utter nonsense!" Henry's face turned red with indignation. "You know, Charlie, we've always shared everything equally!"

"But not this time, Harry…" the ventriloquist's voice was firm, imbued with unshakeable confidence and cold clarity.

"I suspected you were deceiving me!" Charles exclaimed agitatedly, rising from his seat.

A deathly silence fell upon the drawing-room. The grandfather clock in the far corner could be heard ticking away the seconds. The assembled guests held their breath, awaiting the resolution of this family drama.

"Do you truly believe that, brother?" Henry asked in a hoarse voice, his throat dry.

"Perhaps it would be best to continue this conversation elsewhere," the younger Sinclair replied firmly, heading for the exit.

Henry finally managed to get up from the sofa, and as he caught up with his brother, he snarled at Blavatsky, "I don't know how you did it, you vile witch, but you will answer for this!"

Both brothers departed, leaving behind a heavy silence. The drawing-room felt stifling.

"Well, Lord Whitmore, as you can see, not everyone enjoys hearing the truth," Blavatsky said with a smile, her voice returning to its usual tone, as soon as the door slammed shut behind the Sinclair brothers.

The renowned London patroness of the arts, Lady Margaret Chadwick, snapped her ivory fan shut with such a click that the young Lord Whitmore standing beside her flinched.

"What… an unpleasant spectacle!" she said through gritted teeth, striving to maintain her composure and her usually impeccable manners. Her fingers, clad in lace gloves, nervously fiddled with the links of the diamond necklace adorning her slender neck.

"Do you think so?" Blavatsky immediately turned her attention to her. "Everyone here has their secrets, Lady Chadwick. Surely you don't have any?"

"I do not!" Margaret replied confidently, smiling. "Every step I take is illuminated by the British and foreign press, and everyone knows I have an impeccable reputation. I fear, Madame Blavatsky, that my person will not be of interest to you."