by Archer, CJ
She inclined her head. "I suppose I must be if you are Miss Emily Chambers."
"I am."
"And who is he? Why do you have a dead boy in your bedroom?"
"Jacob Beaufort," Jacob said, bowing slightly. He didn't answer the second question and I saw no reason to either. She may be my aunt but she had no authority over me.
Aunt Catherine expelled a humph. I suspected it was more than just an expression of her displeasure but I didn't particularly care to find out.
"I summoned you here to ask you about my mother," I said. I had a feeling polite chatter wasn't going to be on the cards with this woman.
"I thought as much. You may ask but I cannot guarantee you will receive an answer, particularly one to your liking."
Jacob glanced over her head at me. He raised a brow in question. I shrugged. I'd come this far, I might as well continue. Besides, any answer was better than not knowing.
I took a deep breath. "What can you tell me about my father?"
"Nothing."
I waited for her to say more but she didn't elaborate. "My mother never spoke to you about him? About a man other than her husband?"
She tossed her long hair over her shoulder. "No."
"But you knew about my birth?"
"Yes."
Jacob cleared his throat. "This would go a lot faster if you gave more than one word answers," he said.
Aunt Catherine lifted her chin and gave another humph. "Very well. I'll tell you what I know but it isn't much. About six months after her husband died, my sister wrote to inform us she was expecting a child. She refused to reveal who the father was but gave no reason for the refusal. She simply stated that she would raise the child on her own. Her late husband left her a small annuity for her to live on for some years, you see. Well, seven months after that, she wrote again and said you'd been born."
It all sounded so impersonal as if she were reading a newspaper account of the facts. "You didn't visit her before or after my birth?"
"Of course not!" She may have been somewhat hazy to look at but her eyes still managed to flash at me. "My husband was—is—a very important man in Bristol. We could not afford to have our reputation tarnished by your mother's foolishness."
I stiffened and blood rushed through my veins in a torrent. How dare this dragon speak about my mother like that? "Mama was never a fool, Aunt. As her sister I'd have thought you would know that. But then I'd have thought you'd be more sympathetic too. She was alone in London, without friends, and with one daughter already to care for. You couldn't have found it in your heart to visit her? Send her something? Offer her sympathy at the very least?"
Her nose screwed up the way a dog does just before it snarls. "Your mother never wanted sympathy so I never offered it. As her daughter, you should know that."
I hated admitting it but she was right. Mama had been a proud, independent woman. She would want neither pity nor charity from anyone.
I might agree with Aunt Catherine on that score but I didn't think we'd find common ground on much else, particularly in the area of sisterly compassion. Nevertheless I bit back my opinions and pressed on. "Do you think it possible she fell in love with someone so soon after her husband's death? Perhaps she was lonely or—."
"Love! Bah! You girls talk about it as if it is the answer to all your woes." She clasped her hands in front of her, looking very much like a severe governess, nightgown not withstanding. "Since you are the daughter of my sister, I'll give you some advice as she seems to have failed to do so before she died. There is no such thing as love, not the kind written by poets that is supposed to last forever. There is lust in the beginning naturally, and perhaps companionship for a few years if one is lucky, but not love. Not the all-consuming sort that silly girls spend so much time thinking about.
"Don't throw yourself away to any man who spouts pretty words in your ear. Even if he believes what he says, he'll soon forget that he ever did. The words will stop, as will his high regard, and he'll spend more and more time at his club. Marry for other things, Emily—money or breeding or comfort—but not because you think he loves you or you love him." She finished her lecture with a glance at Jacob. He simply watched her, his elbow on the mantelpiece, the back of his finger rubbing slowly over his lips. He said nothing.
I too said nothing. What could anyone possibly say after a tirade like that? Perhaps if she'd been alive I might have challenged her theory but there was no point now that she was dead. She was unlikely to change her opinion. Besides, I couldn't think of any long-married couples who were still in love as an example. If the evidence from our séances was any indication, then Aunt Catherine was right. Marriage was an endurance and if any of them had begun with love, it had expired years ago.
"So you know nothing of Mama's feelings towards my father then? My real father?"
"Nothing at all. Your mother may have thought she was in love with him but I do not know. She never told me. She never mentioned a thing about him in her letters." She shrugged and her hair rippled. "It was as if he never even existed." Her gaze roamed over my hair, my face, and her lips pinched tighter and tighter together. "If you want my opinion, I'd say he wasn't an Englishman." She waved a thin finger at me. "You certainly didn't get that dirty skin or that ratty hair from your mother. She had been a beauty as a young girl. Pale as a bowl of cream and hair like honey."
In other words, I was certainly no beauty with my 'dirty skin and ratty hair'.
"Not everyone likes cream and honey," Jacob said. No, not said, growled, deep and low in his throat.
Aunt Catherine turned on him. "What are you talking about?"
"Or a bitter tongue."
"You speak out of turn, young man." Her face contorted into an uglier version of itself and suddenly her presence brightened. "Is that the reason you died before your time? Someone found you disrespectful?"
"Aunt Catherine!" I couldn't believe it. My sweet mother and this nasty, vindictive woman had been sisters? No wonder they'd rarely kept in touch. "I think you should go now. I'm very sorry I summoned you."
"Not yet." Jacob came up behind my aunt and gripped her shoulders. She yelped and tried to shake him off but he wouldn't budge. I thought I heard him chuckle but I must have been wrong because there was a dangerous spark in his eyes, and not a hint of humor. "Look at her," he snarled. "Look at Emily." My aunt's gaze flicked to me then away. He shook her. "Look!"
"Let go," she ordered.
"Not until you look properly and tell me what you see."
My aunt's gaze settled once more on me, grudgingly. "I see a girl who has brought shame on her family."
I bit back the welling tears. I would not let them spill. Not in front of her. I did, however, lower my head. I couldn't bear to let her see the effect her words had on me.
Jacob snarled in my aunt's ear. "No. You're not looking properly. I want you to see her. See her flawless skin, her dark chocolate eyes and her mouth with its thousand different expressions." I lifted my head and his fierce gaze locked with mine. My heart skidded to a halt in my chest. When Jacob looked at me like that I felt beautiful, not at all abnormal, and I could believe that the stares and cruel words would never hurt me again. "Emily is as unique as every sunrise." He spoke quietly to my aunt but I could just hear him. "She has more beauty in her than you've ever had in your lifetime." He let go of her shoulders. "Leave us."
With a sniff, my aunt vanished.
I sat on the edge of the bed and began to shake. I couldn't stop. It wasn't from the cold, or even from learning that my aunt wasn't the person I'd hoped her to be. I shook because of Jacob and what he'd said. His words were like a soothing balm on burnt skin, a lighthouse beacon in the darkness. And yet...had he truly meant them? Or was it merely a retaliation to put a bleak-hearted woman back in her place?
I opened my mouth to ask but realized he too had left.
With a sigh, I flopped back on the bed and wondered if I really wanted to know the answer anyway.
; CHAPTER 7
I'd been wrong about the peddler. She did show up at a little after ten o'clock that morning, except...
"That's not her," Celia said, staring at the woman standing on our doorstep.
"Who am I then?" the woman asked, thrusting out one hip. She was dressed in a gown that could once have been deep red but had faded to a dull rust-brown. The shawl draped over her shoulders looked more like a rag than a garment and the bonnet sitting lopsided on her head had frayed at the edges and lost all of its ribbons, if it ever had any.
She pulled back the cover on her basket to reveal her goods but did not take any out. Usually she began her sales spiel before the door had fully opened but this time she seemed to sense our disinterest in her wares from the start.
"She's the previous peddler," Celia explained. "The one before the one who sold me the amulet." She glanced up and down the street. "Are you alone?"
"Alone as any soul can be in this Godforsaken city." The woman smiled, revealing a top layer of teeth worn almost to the gums.
Celia recoiled. "Yes, quite."
I shifted my sister aside gently and smiled at the peddler. "Who worked your area last week?"
The woman shrugged. Her shawl fell off her shoulder and she didn’t bother to pull it back up. "No one."
"Somebody must have," Celia said. "You are not the woman I bought an amulet from on Thursday."
"You like pretty jewelry?" The woman sifted through the pieces of cutlery, trinkets, and rags—some clean—and other odds and ends in her basket.
"I don't want to buy any jewelry," Celia said tartly. "I want to know who took over this area last week."
The woman held out a thin bracelet covered in grime. It was as black as my hair. When Celia didn't move to take it, the peddler shook it, all the while smiling that gummy smile.
"How much?" I asked her.
"Three shillings."
"Three!" Celia clicked her tongue. "What's it made of?"
The woman rubbed it with her shawl. "Could be silver."
"I highly doubt it."
"Wait here." I went inside and retrieved my reticule. I dug out three shillings and placed them palm up in my hand. The peddler reached for them but I closed my fist. "Information first."
"Yes," Celia chimed in, giving me a nod of approval. "Tell us who worked your area last week."
The woman tapped her nose with her finger then pointed it at me. "Smart girl. But I can't tell you who done my area last week 'cause no one did." She held her finger up to stop Celia's protest. "Wait, wait, I didn't say nuffink about this street, did I?"
Celia hissed out an impatient breath. "Go on."
"A lady comes up to me last week, she did. Just round the corner there. She gives me twenty shillings to do me job on this here street. Twenty! That's more than what I got in 'ere." She shook the basket. "Course I gave 'er me value-bulls. Why wouldn' I for twenty? Bit later she gave 'em back to me and never asked for her money back neever. Job well done, I say." She laughed and wiped her nose on the back of her dirty glove.
"And you didn't find that suspicious?" Celia asked.
"Course I did but didn't you 'ear me? She gave me twenty shillings!"
"Did she tell you her name?" I asked.
"Nope."
"And you'd never seen her before?" Celia asked.
"Nope. Like I said, she came up to me round that corner and gave me the money. Twenty shillings!" She chuckled so hard it turned into a racking cough.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
She nodded then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Twenty shillings! Still can't believe it. Course she could prob'ly 'ford it and more."
"Afford it?" I echoed.
"But she was as poor as dirt," Celia said, waving her hand at the woman as if to say "like you".
The peddler didn't seem to notice the slight. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"But her clothes were a motley collection of rags," Celia persisted. "Nothing matched and most of it had holes in one place or another. Even her boots were odd and worn out."
The woman tapped her nose again. "Aye, but she spoke like you two. A toff, she was, I'll bet ya."
Celia tilted her head to the side. "Nonsense. She dropped her aitches and savaged her vowels. She most certainly was not a toff as you put it. Or like us."
"She most cert'ly was!"
Before the disagreement heated up, I thanked the peddler for her time and gave her the coins. She relinquished the bracelet with a smile.
Celia shut the door on her rasping chuckle. "She doesn't know what she's talking about. The woman who sold me the amulet had the most atrocious East End accent."
"Perhaps it was part of her disguise," I said. "Perhaps she wanted you to think she was from the East End. Or at least didn't want you to know she was a lady."
Lucy entered the hallway from the front drawing room, a rag and bowl of paste in hand for polishing the fireplace. She kept close to the wall, as far away from me as possible. Although she now spoke to me without her voice shaking, she was still wary. Her eyes never left me when we were in the same room, as if she didn't dare look elsewhere in case I summoned a ghost while she wasn't looking.
I held up the bracelet to assess my purchase. It was very thin but the links had a pleasing shape to them, despite the coating of filth. "Would you clean it up for me please, Lucy?"
"Yes, Miss Chambers." She stretched out her hand as far as she could reach but leaned back slightly.
I handed her the bracelet without getting too close. "You may keep it if you like."
She gasped. "Oh, Miss Chambers!" Her fingers closed around the chain and she clasped it to her breast. "Really?"
I nodded. "Think of it as a welcoming gift."
Lucy thanked me, twice, then trotted down the hallway to the basement stairs.
"Do you intend to bribe her into not being afraid of you?" Celia asked when she was out of earshot.
I sighed. "Do you think it might work?"
"Yes, but only after several more gifts." She squeezed my hand. "And we cannot afford such extravagances. We can't really afford that bracelet but if it helps us send the demon back then I don' begrudge its expense. So now what do we do about the amulet woman?"
I sighed. "I don't know."
"But you're supposed to be a 'smart girl'," she teased, echoing the peddler.
"Stop it. I don't know what to do. I could ask Jacob."
She let go of my hand and her mouth tightened. "If you must."
"You don't want him here do you?"
She made her way into the front drawing room and beckoned me to follow. "I don't mind him," she said carefully. "I just worry about him coming and going so freely. None of the other ghosts have ever done so before."
"He's harmless, Sis, I guarantee it." If he'd wanted to harm me he would have had ample opportunity before now. He could have done anything to me this morning while I was asleep. Instead he just sat there, watching.
"I'm sure he is." She sighed and perched on the edge of the sofa. "It's just that...there's something unsettling about ghosts." She picked up her embroidery and began stitching. "Now understand, this is entirely from the point of view of someone who cannot see them, but...they have nothing to lose. Nothing to fear. The Bible tells us that we are judged in the Afterlife by our actions when we're alive. If that's true then what is to stop ghosts from doing wrong now they are dead?"
In a way it was what Jacob had said to me that morning. He and ghosts like him no longer had any fear of losing their lives or their reputations, and they didn't feel physical pain. So what was to stop them from doing everything they'd wanted to do during their lifetime but hadn't for fear of punishment either in this world or the next?
"A good upbringing is what stops them," I said to her. "And a good heart. Most of us don't need the threat of punishment hanging over us to do what we know to be the right thing." But as I said it, I wasn't entirely convinced by own argument. Could people change so much after their death? Could they forget
or dismiss the code of behavior they'd learned during their life?
She smiled at me but it was weak and unconvincing.
I sat beside her and picked up my own embroidery. I wasn't very fond of the activity, preferring to read, but sometimes the repetitious task helped me to think. "Celia, what do you know of Mama's family? She had a sister, didn't she?"
"Aunt Catherine, yes." She pulled a face. "Horrible woman. Mama and she didn't get on at all well. I met her once when I was about ten. She and Uncle Freddie came for a visit. She used to rap my knuckles whenever she caught me fidgeting and I could never eat, sit, speak or breathe in the right way. Horrible woman," she said again. "As I recall they left after only two days. Papa couldn't stand them and insisted they leave before they drove Mama to distraction with their endless demands. Why?"
I lowered my cloth. "She died last month. I spoke to her ghost this morning."
"You what?"
"I wanted to ask about Mama and...my father."
"Oh, Em, how could you!"
"I just needed to know if she knew him, that's all. I had to try, Celia, since you won't tell me anything."
She resumed her embroidery but stabbed her finger on the first stitch. "Ow!" She sucked off the blood. "Now see what you've done. I'm all flustered."
I took her hand and inspected the wound. It had already stopped bleeding. "If it makes you feel any better I didn't learn anything from Aunt Catherine, except to confirm what you just told me about her. Horrible doesn't even begin to describe her."
Celia turned her hand over in mine and clasped my fingers. "I can only imagine what she thought of you," she said quietly. Her eyes shone with sympathy and understanding.
I was grateful that no tears came at the memory of my aunt's cruel words. I didn't want to upset Celia over something she couldn't control. She could not summon Aunt Catherine's ghost and chastise her. "She can't hurt me," I said. Not with Jacob around to counter everything she said with his beautiful words. "She's only a ghost."
Celia smiled. "I should be sorry that she's dead, but I'm not."
I had nothing to say to that so I resumed my needlepoint and we both worked in silence. After a while Celia announced she would pay Mrs. Wiggam a visit to see if her husband had departed yet. "Will you come?" she asked.