Юлия Красинская – The Hodgson’s Dossier (страница 6)

Lady Chadwick took the arm of the elder Lord Whitmore standing beside her, as if seeking support and protection. The Lord approvingly covered her hand with his warm palm. However, Blavatsky had no intention of backing down so easily from the utterly false aristocrat.

"Not at all, dear Miss Margaret!" she said, her voice as sweet as poisoned wine. "Your person is far more interesting than you try to show us. And your jewels speak even more about you."

Blavatsky slowly traced a circle in the air with her fingers, pointing at the prim British woman's jewelry. In the candlelight, the stones flared with a brilliant light, as if illuminated by an inner fire.

"That's Cartier, isn't it?" Blavatsky inquired, making a theatrical pause. "Exquisite work!"

"It's a family heirloom, madam!" Lady Chadwick coolly retorted, though her voice betrayed a slight tremor.

"Of course," the seeress nodded with a smirk, "if one considers Mademoiselle Barucci and her generous patrons as family."

All the women in the room gasped. Lord Whitmore Jr. choked on his champagne, and Whitmore Sr. hastily removed his hand from Lady Chadwick's.

The story of the jewels belonging to the Parisian courtesan Julia Barucci had recently caused a true scandal in high society. In the autumn of the previous year, 1870, she had been agonizingly dying of consumption in her apartment on Rue de Bains, surrounded by revolutionaries and paupers who had seized the city. After her death, jewels worth hundreds of thousands of francs remained, which shrewd heirs hastened to sell at the first opportunity. Thus, in early 1871, clutching the handle of a case filled with jewels obtained by not the most dignified method by not the most dignified woman in Paris, Alfred Cartier, whose jewelry company was on the verge of bankruptcy due to revolutions and wars, boarded a ship bound for England.

And then, in a matter of weeks, the jewels were scattered across the world for a pittance. And their ill repute spread even faster. Wearing the jewelry of a deceased courtesan in polite society was considered the height of impropriety.

"Well," the aristocrat replied, composing herself. "Since you are so well-informed, Madam Blavatsky, I presume you are aware that jewelry from the House of Cartier is worn by royalty. These stones," Lady Margaret touched her necklace, "these stones may remember the dirt of Parisian streets, the moans of a consumptive harlot, and the touch of her lustful patrons. But they are still perfect. They are a flawless creation of nature! And they cannot be stained or elevated to the heavens by the history of a former owner."

Blavatsky raised an eyebrow in surprise. The salon again fell silent in anticipation.

"And therefore," Lady Chadwick beckoned a waiter, took a glass of champagne from the tray, and drank it in one gulp. "I will wear these stones with pride, Madam Blavatsky! Today, tomorrow, and always!"

Someone in the audience applauded. However, receiving no support, these isolated claps quickly died down.

"Praiseworthy, Lady Margaret," Blavatsky replied in a quiet voice. "You were not afraid to show us your true face. Today you have shed your heaviest adornment – your mask."

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped aside, losing interest in Lady Chadwick and her jewels. This time, the assembled guests did not fall into silent stupor. Some were even whispering, discussing what had happened.

Blavatsky stood motionless by the window, her back to the audience, as if waiting for something.

"M-madam?" Lord Whitmore Jr. coughed timidly from somewhere behind her. "S-shall we… c-continue?"

She turned around slowly. And looked at him with the cornflower blue eyes of his mother. Agatha Whitmore had died suddenly a couple of years ago under mysterious circumstances in her Richmond mansion.

"Continue?" her voice became soft and quiet, a barely perceptible, familiar smile appearing on her lips. "Oh, my dear boy…" she reached out a hand towards the young man's face.

"M-m-mother?" Young Whitmore's face turned pale, and he froze in anticipation.

Lord Whitmore Sr., standing beside him, began to choke, instinctively loosening the scarf constricting his neck. Blavatsky cast him a look full of contempt. In her eyes, he read what remained invisible to others. She knew everything.

On that fateful evening, he had returned home later than usual. His clothes reeked of the tavern and the cheap perfume of local girls. Loosening his silk ascot and kicking off his uncomfortable shoes, Lord Whitmore went into the drawing-room, where, as usual, he had another glass of whiskey before retiring to his chambers.

There, he was met by his wife, who, surprisingly, was still awake at such a late hour. Agatha Whitmore – a lady of high society, always reserved and calm, stood by the window with a proud posture as Lord Whitmore stumbled into the room.

"We must divorce," she said with icy coldness, turning around.

Lord Whitmore flinched, his face contorted with anger.

"Divorce? Are you mad?! It's impossible!"

"It is possible, my dear! I have already discussed everything with my lawyer."

The Divorce Act of 1857 had given English women more freedom. Lord Whitmore, who had once participated in the bill's review, was against its adoption due to his conservative views on marriage and family.

"But you have no grounds!"

"Lipstick on your shirt collars – that's my grounds!" Agatha exclaimed. "I am retiring to my chambers; we will discuss all the details tomorrow. When you are sober and don't reek of cheap women!" Lady Whitmore headed towards her quarters, located on the second floor of the mansion. The oak staircase, curving gracefully, led upstairs to the rooms of the owners, their son, and the guest bedrooms.

"Do you think you can just walk away?" He caught up to her on the steps and grabbed her arm. "You are my wife! And I will not allow you to destroy our family and the reputation of our house!"

"Let go!" Agatha screamed and tried to pull free.

In the next moment, she lost her balance. Trying to steady herself, Lady Whitmore reached for the banister. And she would have held on. If not for the treacherous shove in the back.

When all was quiet, Lord Whitmore descended to the still warm, lifeless body. An expression of fear, hatred, and contempt was forever frozen on Agatha's face.

Sharply pulling her hand away from the young lord's cheek, Blavatsky said, "Well, what kind of mother am I to you, my lord?" Her voice became sharp. "Your mother is dead."

With these words, the young lord emerged from his stupor, and Helena Petrovna, looking at the elder Whitmore again, whispered, "From now on, you are my debtor!"

At that moment, the grandfather clock struck midnight.

"I ask everyone to take their seats at the central table, gentlemen!"

The public followed Madame Blavatsky to a long table covered with a snow-white tablecloth. Taking advantage of the ensuing commotion, someone hastened to leave the salon, fearing exposure or becoming the object of the seeress's heightened attention. Despite several people retreating, there were still not enough seats at the table for everyone, and some gentlemen remained standing in a semicircle around it. Helena Petrovna took the central seat.

When everyone fell silent, she closed her eyes. An oppressive silence filled the room; not even the breathing of those present could be heard.

Gradually, Blavatsky's face became calm and still. Her lips began to move almost imperceptibly, whispering incantations in forgotten languages. Something invisible to the eye was happening within her. Her breathing became even and slow.

Only now did everyone notice the miniature ornament on Helena Petrovna's chest, moving in rhythm with her breathing. A small key with a snake's head coiled into a ball was attached to a thin chain. With each word spoken, visible transformations occurred: she seemed to grow larger, her scales shimmered and sparkled in the candlelight, creating an illusion of movement.

"Guardians of ancient knowledge, rise from oblivion!" Blavatsky's voice filled with power and energy. "Let your forces awaken! Open to me the gates to truth!"

At that moment, one of the ladies shrieked. A real snake coiled around the seer's neck. It slowly slithered upwards towards Blavatsky's face, emitting chilling hisses.

The audience held its breath.

When Helena Petrovna opened her eyelids, not only the ladies but also some particularly sensitive gentlemen cried out. They were met by murky yellow serpent eyes, which had terrified the fearless Major Crowley on deck earlier that day.

In a low, hoarse voice, full of sinister power, she declared:

"Why have you gathered here, pathetic mortals?"

"We want to know the truth, Madame!" the Major took on the role of negotiator.

"The truth?" Blavatsky laughed a ghastly laugh. She turned her head towards the snake, frozen on her shoulder. "They want to know the truth!"

At that instant, a glass of red wine, Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1869, slipped from the hands of Lady Worcester, who had been silent all evening. It slowly tipped over onto the snow-white tablecloth, as if the air around had become viscous and thick, and time had greatly slowed. Dark ruby streams, resembling thick blood, began to spread, branching out across the damask linen. Lady Chadwick, sitting next to her, mechanically pulled her hands away, but drops of wine had already left their mark on her light lace gloves.