Free Seduction: A Novel of Suspense by Rose M J

curious smell. In Juliette’s house you wore your hairup, covered it with a cap, and donned a uniform that hid the ample bosom and small waist now apparent. Now your thick dark hair fell in waves around your face and down your back. In my mistress’s house you were an ordinary maid. Here you were a wanton, suffering woman.
    “I believe she has truly communicated with me.”
    “Tonight is the anniversary of my daughter’s death,” I said.
    The words hung on the wind for a moment and reverberated like church bells until the sound of crashing waves overwhelmed them.
    “I lost a child too,” you whispered. “She was stillborn.”
    “But you are so young.”
    “I’m twenty-five,” you said, as if it were very old indeed.
    “What of your husband?”
    Your gaze returned to the sea.
    “Lost?” I asked. The sea claimed so many lives, as I knew all too well.
    “He was not my husband. But yes, lost.”
    “Did you lose them both together?”
    You shook your head no. “But I can’t stop mourning either of them.”
    “Would you, if you could, talk to your mother now? If she is in the netherworld, would you want to know how she was, what it is like? Find out if she is looking after your baby for you?”
    “Of course.”
    “What would you pay for such a privilege?”
    “Anything asked of me.” And then you looked at me as if I were half mad. “You aren’t suggesting there’s a way, are you?”
    “I might be,” I said, and then told you about the séances. I remember how at first you had to hold back from laughing at me. From the questions you asked, it seemed you found me foolish and absurd. But as we continued our walk and I told you more about the sessions and spirits, your initial skepticism turned to curiosity.
    I fell in love with you a little then. I admire nothing so much as the willingness to suspend disbelief and open one’s mind to new ideas.
    “What was your daughter’s name?”
    “Leopoldine,” I said. “But I called her Didine.”
    “So have you talked to your Didine?”
    “I haven’t heard her voice, but I believe she is speaking to me.”
    You turned your gaze upon me now. No longer as if I were daft but as if I might not be entirely human.
    We continued walking for a few steps in silence. I was thinking about you now. Wondering about you. Clearly you were well educated. Out of place, being a lady’s maid in the Channel Islands.
    “How long have you been in Jersey?” I asked.
    “Two and a half years. I worked for another lady before Madame Drouet.”
    “What happened?”
    “She was elderly and passed away this summer.”
    “And were you a lady’s maid in Paris too?” I asked.
    “No, I worked with my father in his shop.”
    “What kind of shop?”
    “My father was a well-known perfumer.”
    “He is no longer with us?”
    You nodded.
    The sound of the water crashing on the rocks was an ominous symphony to all this talk of death. I knew I was prying. Your short, compact answers suggested you weren’t comfortable talking about your past. And I did worry about offending you. But I am a storyteller; I wanted to know your story. I tried to go gently.
    “And what happened to your father’s shop?”
    “My uncle who worked there also took it over.”
    “Have I heard of this shop?”
    “Probably, it has been in business for a very long time.”
    She named the family concern. I recognized it, in fact, knew it well. Often I’d bought gifts of fragrance for my wife, my daughters, even for Juliette at the establishment. I was lost for a few moments, thinking of Paris. It had been so long since I’d been home and I was nostalgic for my city.
    We’d walked a long way, far past Juliette’s house. We were on a stretch of beach I didn’t know well, because except at low tide, likenow, there was no beach to tread upon. This rocky section of shore was all cliffs. And where there were cliffs there were usually caves. Indeed, in the moonlight, I noticed many openings and was intrigued. The