by C. J. Archer
The odd thing about him wasn't that we'd not noticed him earlier—we'd had our heads bent against the wind after all—but the way he was dressed. He wore black trousers, boots and a white shirt but nothing else. No hat, no necktie, jacket or vest and, scandalously, the top buttons of his shirt were undone so that his bare chest was partially visible.
I couldn't take my eyes off the skin there. It looked smooth and inexplicably warm considering the cool air, and—.
"There you are," he said. I dragged my gaze up to his face and was greeted by a pair of blue eyes that had an endlessness to their depths. As if that wasn't unsettling enough, his curious gaze slowly took in every inch of me, twice. To my utter horror, my face heated. He smiled at that, or I should say he half-smiled, which didn't help soothe my complexion in the least. "Your mouth is open," he said.
I shut it. Swallowed. "Uh, Celia?"
"Yes?" Celia dug through her reticule, searching for the front door key.
"You can't see him, can you?"
She glanced up, her hand still buried in her reticule, the carpet bag at her feet. "See who?"
"That gentleman standing there." I waggled my fingers at him in a wave. He waved back.
She shook her head. "No-o. Are you trying to tell me Mr. Wiggam is here?"
"Not Mr. Wiggam, no."
"But..." She frowned. "Who?"
"Jacob Beaufort," the spirit said without moving from his position. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'd shake your sister's hand," he said to me, "but given she can't see me she won't be able to touch me either." I could see him, and therefore touch him, but he didn't offer to shake my hand.
Unlike ordinary people, I could touch the ghosts. Celia and the other guests at our séances simply walked through them as if they were mist but I couldn't, which made sense to me. After all, they could haunt a place by tossing objects about, or upturn tables and knock on wood, why wouldn't they have physical form? At least for the person who could see them.
I wondered what he would feel like. He looked remarkably solid. Indeed, he looked very much alive, more so than any ghost I'd ever seen. Usually they faded in and out and had edges like a smudged charcoal sketch, but Jacob Beaufort was as well defined as Celia.
"Er, pleased to meet you too," I said. "I'm Emily Chambers and this is my sister Miss Celia Chambers."
Celia bobbed a curtsy although she wasn't quite facing Mr. Beaufort, then picked up her bag and approached him. Or rather, approached the door. She walked straight through him and inserted the key into the lock.
"I say!" he said and stepped aside.
"She didn't mean any offense," I said quickly.
"Did I do something wrong?" Celia asked as the door swung open.
"You walked through him."
"Oh dear, I am terribly sorry, Mr..."
"Beaufort," I filled in for her.
"As my sister said, I meant no offense, Mr. Beaufort." She spoke to the door. I cleared my throat and pointed at the ghost now standing to one side on the landing. She turned a little and smiled at him. "Why are you haunting our front porch?"
I winced and gave Mr. Beaufort an apologetic shrug. My sister may be all politeness with the living but she'd yet to grasp the art of tactful communication with the deceased.
"Celia," I hissed at her, but she either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me.
"It's all right," Mr. Beaufort said, amused. "May I enter? I won't harm either of you. I simply need to talk to you and I'm sure you'll be more comfortable out of this breeze."
"Of course." How could one refuse such a considerate suggestion? Or such beautiful eyes that twinkled with a hidden smile. I told Celia what he wanted. She hesitated then nodded, as if her permission mattered. If a ghost wanted to come into our house, he could.
He allowed me to enter behind Celia then followed—walking, as ghosts don't float like most people think they do. They get about by walking, just like the living. Oh and sometimes they disappear then reappear in another location, which can be disconcerting.
Bella our maid met us at the door and took our coats and Celia's bag. "Tea, Miss?" she asked.
Celia nodded. "For two thank you." She didn't mention the addition of Mr. Beaufort. Bella was easily frightened and we didn't want to lose another maid. The last three had left our employment after witnessing one of our in-house séances. It was difficult enough to find good help with what little we could afford to pay but it was made even harder thanks to our line of work. Gentlewomen of leisure may find our séances a diversion, but I've found the servants and poor to be far more superstitious.
Bella hung up hats and coats and had retreated down the hall to the stairs. I indicated the first room to our right. "If you wouldn't mind waiting in the drawing room," I said to Mr. Beaufort. "I need to speak to my sister for a moment."
The ghost bowed and did as I requested. "Celia," I said turning on her when he was no longer visible, "please don't ask him any questions about his death or haunting...or any morbid things."
"Why? We have a right to know more about the people we invite into our home, dead or alive."
"But it's so terribly..." Embarrassing. "...impolite."
"Nonsense. Now, why do you think he's here? To hire us perhaps?"
"I suppose so." I couldn't think of any other explanation.
"Good. Hopefully the other party can afford our fees." She tilted her chin up and plastered a calm smile on her face. "Come along," she said, "let's not keep him waiting."
Jacob Beaufort was studying the two framed daguerreotypes on our mantelpiece when we entered the drawing room. A small frown darkened his brow. "A handsome pair. Your parents?"
"Our mother," I said, "and Celia's father."
"Ah," he said as if that satisfied his curiosity. I could only guess what had piqued his interest. Most likely it was my skin tone, so dusky next to Celia's paleness, and the fact I looked nothing at all like either of the people in the pictures he held.
Celia sighed and sat on the sofa, spreading her skirt to cover as much of the threadbare fabric as possible, as was her habit when we had company. "Really, Emily," she muttered under her breath.
The ghost's gaze darted around the room. "Is there no image of your father here?"
"My father?" I said for Celia's benefit. "No."
She narrowed her gaze at me and gave a slight shake of her head as if to say not now. It was a well-chewed bone of contention between us. She insisted I call our mother's husband, Celia's father, Papa as she did. She in turn always referred to him as "Our father" and even Mama when she was alive had called him "Your Papa" when speaking of him to either one of us.
Despite the fact he'd died over a year before I was born.
I knew he couldn't possibly be my real father but I had long ago accepted he was the closest I'd get to one. Mama had refused to discuss the matter of my paternity despite my repeated questions. Not even Celia cared to talk about it, but I wasn't entirely sure she knew who my father was anyway. She had only been sixteen when I was born, and it was unlikely Mama had confided in her. It must have been terribly scandalous at the time, and explained why we never spoke to any of our relations and had few friends.
Although I accepted I may never know, a part of me still burned to learn the truth. I'd even tried to summon Mama's ghost once after her death to ask, but she'd not appeared.
"Mr. Beaufort," I said, shaking off the melancholy that usually descended upon me when thinking of my father.
"Call me Jacob," he said. "I think we can dispense with formalities considering the circumstances, not to mention my attire."
"Of course." I tried to smile politely but I fear it looked as awkward as I felt. His attire was not something to be dismissed casually. It was what he happened to be wearing when he died. Mr. Wiggam must have died wearing his formal dinner suit but it seemed Mr. Beaufort—Jacob—had been somewhat more casually dressed. It's the reason why I'll never sleep naked.
"What's he saying?" Celia asked, linking her hands
on her lap.
"That we're to call him Jacob," I said.
"I see. Jacob, do you think you could hold something so I know where you are? The daguerreotype of our father will do."
I rolled my eyes. There she goes again—our father indeed.
"That's better," she said when Jacob obliged by picking up the wooden frame. "Now, please sit." He sat in the armchair which matched the sofa, right down to the faded upholstery. "Who do you wish us to contact?"
"Contact?" Jacob said.
"She means which of your loved ones do you want to communicate with," I said. "We can establish a meeting and you can tell them anything you wish, or ask a question. It'll give you peace," I said when he looked at me askance. "And help you cross over. Into the Otherworld." Good lord, he must be a fresh one. But he didn’t look in the least frightened or wary as most newly deceased do.
"For a small fee," Celia added. "To be paid by your loved one of course."
"You have the wrong idea," he said, putting up his free hand. It was broad and long-fingered with scrapes and bruises on the knuckles, which struck me as odd. They looked fresh. He must have got them just before he died. So what was a handsome man with an aristocratic accent doing brawling with his bare knuckles? "I'm not here to contact anyone."
Bella entered at that moment carrying a tray of tea things. I had to lean to one side to see past her rather prominent rear as she bent over to set the tray on the table. I forked my brows at Jacob to prompt him—asking him outright might seem a little odd to Bella, particularly if Celia, the only other person in the room as far as the maid was concerned, failed to answer.
"I'm here because I've been assigned to you," he said.
"What?" I slapped a hand over my mouth.
Bella straightened and followed my line of sight straight to the framed daguerreotype of Celia's father hovering—as she would have seen it—above the armchair. She screamed and collapsed onto the rug in a dead faint.
Celia sighed. "Oh dear. She was such a good maid too."
* * *
CHAPTER 2
"I don't think your maid will last long," Jacob said as the drawing room door closed on Celia guiding a trembling Bella down the hall.
I waited until the door was completely shut and Bella's terrified mutterings had faded before I spoke. "I hope she's already prepared supper." It sounded uncaring but I'd been in this situation before and it was very trying. As our only maid, Bella worked long, hard hours. I appreciated that enough to know I didn't want to take on her chores. "Good maids are difficult to find, particularly ones not afraid of the supernatural." Or ones we could afford.
"Have you tried the North London School for Domestic Service in Clerkenwell?" He returned the picture frame to the mantelpiece and remained standing. "They train suitable orphans in all aspects of domestic service and help them find employment by the age of sixteen or so. We’ve hired many of our servants from there."
"We?"
"Ghosts." I must have had an odd look on my face because he snorted softly which I think was meant to be a laugh. "Joke," he said without even a twitch of his lips. "I meant my family. The one I had before I died."
"Oh." I swallowed. So he came from a family wealthy enough to afford servants, plural. I wanted to ask more about his life but it didn't seem like the right time. It also wasn't the right time to ask about his death, although I'm not sure there ever is an appropriate time to enquire about that. It feels a little like prying into one's private affairs.
Besides, a far more pressing question was why was he standing in my drawing room looking every bit the gentleman of the house as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece. Perhaps it was the casual attire that made him look like he belonged precisely there as if this really was his home. Or perhaps it was the strength of his presence. I think I would have known where he was at all times even with my eyes closed. A remarkable feat for a spirit. "What did you mean by assigned to me? Assigned by whom and for what purpose?"
"Assigned by the Administrators—."
"The Administrators?"
"The officers who control the Waiting Area and the gateway to the Otherworld's sections. They ensure each spirit crosses to their correctly assigned section, as well as keeping the Waiting Area orderly." It all sounded terribly efficient, more so than our own government's departments, notorious for their crippling rules and mountains of paperwork. "Haven't you ever asked the ghosts you've summoned about their experiences there?"
"Of course," I said, reaching for the teapot on the table beside me. "All the time." I poured tea into a cup. "Why wouldn't I?"
"You haven't, have you?"
I stared into the teacup and sighed. "Not really. I'm not sure I want to find out too much. I mean, I know about the Waiting Area and how ghosts need to release all negative emotions associated with this world in order to cross over but...I don't want to know anything more."
"You mean before your time."
I nodded. Hopefully I had many years to wait.
I glanced at Jacob over the rim of my cup and caught him watching me with a steely intensity that made my skin tingle. I blushed and sipped then risked another look. This time his attention seemed to be diverted by the tea service. I would have offered him a cup but there was no point since he didn't require sustenance. Perhaps I should have offered out of politeness anyway. I wasn't entirely sure of the etiquette for when ghosts came calling.
He really was undeniably handsome though. The more I looked at him, the more I liked his features. None were remarkable on their own—except for the vivid blue of his eyes—but together they made his face extraordinary. What a shame he was dead. Even more so because he'd come from a wealthy family—Celia would be particularly disappointed by the waste. The number of eligible gentlemen we knew could be counted on a butcher's hand—five less a few missing digits and fingertips. Perhaps it wasn't a complete loss however. Jacob might have a living relative or friend he wanted us to contact while he was here. Preferably one of Celia's age or a little older.
"So these Administrators," I said, "why have they sent you here? Is it something to do with Barnaby Wiggam? Because if it is, I should explain that it was his own choice not to return to the Waiting Area. We tried to convince him—."
"It's nothing to do with Wiggam." He drew his attention from the tea tray and gave it all to me. There was heat in his gaze, an undeniable flare of desire that tugged at me, drew me into those blue eyes and held me there. I couldn't look away but I could blush and I did, although hopefully the darkish shade of my skin hid the worst of it. I hated being the center of attention, which made being a legitimate spirit medium a rather difficult occupation at times. As our reputation grew so did the stares and the whispers. But I'd never been the center of this sort of attention. No man had ever looked at me like that.
"Whether Wiggam's ghost wants to stay and haunt his wife or return to the Waiting Area is entirely up to him," he finally said, breaking the spell. "The Administrators allow spirits to make up their own minds. No, Emily, what you've done is something much more serious."
"Oh." My stomach dropped. I lowered the teacup to my lap and wished the sofa would swallow me up. "You're talking about that...that horrid shadow, aren't you?"
He nodded. "That shadow is a shape-shifting demon."
"What!" The cup rattled and I put my hand over it to still it. I stared at him and he simply stared back, waiting for me to ask the questions. I had many questions but all I said was, "I'm sorry" in a whisper.
He didn't say "You should be" or "You're a stupid girl" but simply "I know" in that rumbling voice that seemed to come from the depths of his chest.
"What is it? What does a shape-shifting demon do?"
"When it first emerges into this world it holds no shape. Its first instinct is survival, safety, until it can gather its strength. Once it has, it takes on the form of someone or something else almost perfectly." He paused and his lips formed a grim line. "And then it needs to satisfy its hunger."
From the way he couldn't meet my gaze, I suspected that hunger wouldn't be satisfied by buying fish from the markets. It would eat whatever it could kill. Rats, dogs. People.
I cleared my throat. "It was summoned quite by accident. I didn't mean to do it." Celia had better thank me later for taking the blame. It was entirely her fault that we'd released a demon with that new amulet. Not that I would tell Jacob. She was the only family member I had left and although we didn't always see eye to eye, we were all the other had and I wouldn't toss her into the lion's den, so to speak, even if the lion appeared relatively tame. I needed to find out more about Jacob and what the Administrators would extract for her folly first. I was better equipped than Celia to cope with the supernatural.
"Tell me how it happened," he said, sitting beside me on the sofa, not at the other end but close so that I could touch him if I moved a little to the right. I felt very alert and aware of him, but I could not meet that gaze. "I want to know exactly what was said, how it was said, and what object was used to summon it."
I stood, reluctantly, and fetched the amulet from Celia's bag. When I sat down again, I made sure I was sitting exactly where I had before, not an inch further away. I wanted to sit closer but I didn't dare even though Celia would never know because she couldn't see him.
"A peddler gave it to my sister."
"Gave it? She didn't buy it?"
"Apparently not."
He ran his thumb over the amulet's points.
"The woman said to repeat an incantation three times if we ever needed to solve something."
His hand stilled. "What was it?"
"We couldn't understand the words."
"But you repeated it nevertheless?"
I chewed the inside of my lower lip and shrugged one shoulder.
"Bloody hell, Emily, do you know what you've done?" He stood and paced across the rug to the hearth and back. He completed the short distance in two strides. "Shape-shifting demons are dangerous. They roam at night, searching for food. And I'm not referring to the pies and boiled potatoes variety. I mean living flesh and blood."