Leonora - Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Torrents of crystal rainwater flowed down the cobbled gutters of Montpelier Square, a somewhat amusing observation seeing as Emily had decided not to take a coat, brolly or suitable hat. The small pill-box that adorned her pretty little head would hardly be suffice, but fashions had to be followed, and anyway, she would argue that the sun was shining when she left. I did remind her that it was the middle of March and the weather was subject to change, but my common sense was no match for her ever dangling pendulum. Perhaps I should explain.

At the beginning of the year Emily had decided to explore a new hobby, she had exhausted her previous pastimes, and although she still wished to be a prolific writer, a creative artist and a renowned collector of antiquities, her five page novel on Frankie the one armed bear, a crumpled watercolour of a drooping daffodil, and the ancient tooth of Genghis Khan did not quite satisfy. I did question the latter, especially considering the seller from Chelmsford had the exact same tooth missing, but she was far too lost in the moment to take any notice of me. She had paid four shillings and sixpence for the historic canine, but whether Mr Khan had actually made it to Essex was highly debatable. Anyway, without getting too distracted, I shall continue.

It was New Year's Day and we were entertaining a couple of friends. Emily had a glass of brandy in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and with a slight sway, or perhaps it was a stagger, she boldly announced, “At last night's party, Mrs Hargrove said that I was a natural. Apparently, I have a mystical persona that I should pursue.” She looked around the room for a response.

Henri leaned forward in his seat and in his French accent he asked, “A natural what? I don't understand.”

Emily huffed and replied, “A natural medium of course. Please do keep up.”

Mary, his well-refined English lover added, “But darling, you're too petite to be a medium. I think your clothes fit you perfectly.”

In pure frustration, Emily stamped her foot and retorted, “Not bloody dress sizes! I can speak to the spirits! I'm special!”

The study erupted with laughter, me included. Her petulance never failed to entertain and Henri added, “I speak to the spirits also, just ask my decanter.” Mary was not so impressed with that punchline, Henri's constant drinking had always been an issue.

Emily sat upon the couch and snuggled up to me, softly she said, “I am special Vlad. Tell them.” I kissed her forehead and assured her that she was always special in my eyes. My gentle words had appeased her sporadic temper and I asked her to explain further.

Once a week Mrs Hargrove held a séance, she also ran workshops on automatic writing, talking boards and telepathy. Indeed, she was a busy lady. In her spare time, she assisted her husband at the SPR, the Society for Psychical Research, their offices were situated in Kensington. To use Emily's words, “They were within spitting distance.”

The two ladies met at the new year eve's party and spent the whole evening discussing the paranormal. Apparently, I was too pre-occupied with Emma Thornton's cleavage to even notice, which was a complete lie. I was only asking after her father's well-being, the poor fellow had been recovering from the consumption and was no spring chicken. Granted, her evening dress was rather revealing, but that was nothing to do with me. By the stroke of midnight, I was on the front steps watching the stars above and feeling somewhat reflective. Meanwhile, Emily was sharing cold sores with every Tom, Dick and Harriet. 1908 had begun.