Page 22 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Maribeth’s black brow winged upward, reminding Perliett of a raven. “Would you withhold hope from the grieving and heartbroken?”
No. She wouldn’t.
Perliett stifled the niggling sense of disquiet in her spirit. “No, Mother. But I would be cautious not to offer it senselessly—Mrs. Withers isn’t of sound mind.”
“We’ve already established that Mrs. Withers will not be in attendance.”
“But she’ll hear of the evening’s experiences and—”
“IfEunice even makes a connection. All may be silent.” Maribeth straightened a chair that was positioned too close to its neighbor.
“And if Eunice isn’t at peace?” Perliett asked.
Maribeth stilled, then raised her eyes to her daughter.They were firm but gentle. They carried that distant vagueness in them that kept Maribeth just above Perliett in understanding. “Then we should know that.”
“And do what? How do you rescue someone in the afterlife?” Desperation was leaking into her tone. Perliett could hear it. But she was also seeing someone other than Eunice. Someoneshewished to hear from. Someone who had failed her miserably by refusing to visit from the afterlife no matter how many times Perliett pled with Maribeth to attempt a summoning.
PaPa.
Maribeth neared her, reaching out and gently stroking Perliett’s upper arm like a mother would—should—comfort their child. Her face was gentle, her eyes searching Perliett’s. “Darling, I know you wish to hear from him, but he is silent. I can only conclude his soul is at peace.”
“Of course his soul is at peace.” Perliett sniffed, and Maribeth offered her a handkerchief pulled from the waistband of her skirt. “But I miss him so.”
“I know.” Still, Maribeth didn’t add her own shared empathy. She never did. PaPa’s passing had almost seemed to set her free in a way. To do as she pleased without the restraints of her pious husband, who followed the Scriptures and believed the Old Testament’s warnings against beseeching the spirit world.
Maybe that was why PaPa didn’t come forward now. He was as firmly convicted in death as he was in life. Honor God’s commands.
Perliett grimaced, feeling quite stuck between her living mother’s and dead father’s beliefs. If she could find a compromise of sorts...
She snapped back to the present conundrum. “What will you do if Eunice is like PaPa and remains silent? Tell Eunice’s family that she is not in distress? Or tell them that her soul lingers, incomplete and unfulfilled?”
“Whatever my spirit senses, I will communicate.” Maribeth moved back to the table, positioning her items with an eye to detail.
“But how will thathelpthem?” Perliett slapped her palms on the table, demanding her mother’s undivided attention. “If Eunice stays silent like PaPa?”
“Your father”—Maribeth swallowed her emotion—“is as stubborn in death as he was in life, Perliett. It ishischoice to remain silent from the beyond.”
“And it ismyagony that must bear it repeatedly.” Perliett clutched the lace tablecloth in her fingers, causing the candlestick to tip and fall. “I’m not convinced—”
“You don’t believe?” Maribeth sucked in a shocked breath.
Perliett flattened her lips as she drew a breath and released it. “I’m not convinced conjuring the spirit of a murdered woman is the wisest thing to do at present.”
“But if Eunicecanprovide a clue? Should we not assist the authorities?” Maribeth’s expression was so open, lacking in judgment and instead shrouded in sincere concern. “Why would we silence the voice of the dead if they wish to speak?”
Maribeth reached out and righted the candlestick. She smoothed the tablecloth, then left Perliett with a plea. A plea to believe in full and to remain silent about her misgivings.
Her mother paused at the doorway, looking over her shoulder at Perliett. Her countenance was one of concern, almost disheartened. She opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again, speaking words that Perliett could tell her mother didn’t wish to speak.
“Perhaps it isyouwho silences your father, Perliett, and not his own spirit. Until youtrulyare open...” She breathed in a sad breath through her nostrils. “Well, I will not withhold hope from the Withers family. Not in their time of grief.”
Perliett had no argument against showing compassion. One could not resist it. Compassion trumped moral code,did it not? Because the intent was good, and therefore any action ladened with it followed suit.
The sitters had arrived. Of course, it was after dark, just as her mother preferred. Darkness seemed to assist in the summoning, although Perliett wasn’t sure why.
She stepped aside as Mr. Withers entered through the front door. He immediately swiped his hat from his head, twisting it in his hands, his nervous energy evident. His daughter, Angelica, entered behind him. Her hazel eyes were wide and surveyed the corners of the entryway as if ghosts already hovered there, waiting to greet them. Her husband, Errol, accompanied them. He met Perliett’s eyes directly, and she saw her own misgivings reflected in his. She dropped her gaze before her unspoken questions discredited her mother.
Another body entered, squeezing broad shoulders in between Angelica and Errol. His dark hair was combed neatly, but no hat covered it. There was a darkness over his features that created a niggling of doubt in Perliett. He leveled his eyes on her, and she was sure all reasonable thought fled beneath the smoldering gaze.
