The Wisdom of Madness: The Ministry of Curiosities, Book #10

by C. J. Archer

  So, considering it was a dress Celia made me wear whenever she thought eligible men would see me, it was a little disconcerting that she was making me wear it now when I was only seeing a ghost.

  "I think Jacob will take you somewhere today," she said, fastening the hooks and eyes at the back of the dress. "He has a sense of urgency about him. Hopefully he wishes to communicate with his family after all, and if he has a brother or cousin..." She let the sentence drift, full of potential and possibility.

  "It's more likely Jacob is concerned about the demon," I said.

  She guided me to my dressing table and forced me to sit at the stool. "It can't hurt to be prepared," she said, undoing my braid. "You never know whose path you'll be thrown into."

  I couldn't fault her logic although I didn't like to think about eligible gentlemen, or marriage or any of those things. Some girls of my acquaintance may be married by seventeen, but I wasn't sure wedlock was for me. What would happen to Celia? And why would I want to live with a man, by his rules, in his house, when I could live here with my sister and do as I pleased?

  Besides, what sort of husband would want a fatherless bastard for a wife? And if my parentage didn't concern him, surely the fact I had conversations with the dead would.

  A knock at my bedroom door made me turn around, yanking the hair out of Celia's hands. "Be still," she snapped, "or I'll have to start over."

  "I can appreciate that a lady needs time to prepare herself to face the day," Jacob said through the door, "but do you think you could go faster?"

  "He wants us to hurry up," I told Celia.

  "Hurry!" she scoffed. "A lady cannot rush her morning toilette."

  "I won't be long," I called out.

  "Good because we need to get going," he said.

  "We're definitely going somewhere," I said to my sister's reflection in the dressing table's oval mirror. "And where are we going to?" I shouted to Jacob.

  He suddenly appeared in the room at my right shoulder, his back to me. I jumped and Celia tugged my hair. "Be still."

  "Sorry," he said, "but I don't like shouting through doors. Can I turn around?"

  "Yes," I said and hoped Celia thought I was speaking to her. I didn't want her to know he was in the room. She was already wary of him and for some reason I didn't want to turn that into outright distrust.

  "It's like hundreds of little springs," he said in wonder, watching Celia's nimble fingers work my black curls into a manageable style on top of my head.

  "Little springs turn into little knots very easily," I said.

  Celia paused. "Pardon?"

  "I, uh, was just thinking about my hair and how I wish the curls were softer like yours." My gaze met Jacob's in the mirror's reflection.

  He quickly glanced away, down at the dressing table, up at the ceiling, at the wall, anywhere but at me. "Just tell her to put it up as best she can," he said.

  "He's growing impatient," I told her.

  "He's no gentleman, that one," she said and put two hairpins between her lips.

  I cringed and caught Jacob's sharp glance in Celia's direction. He seemed...alarmed, and then embarrassed by her off-handed comment.

  She removed the pins from her mouth and threaded them through my hair. "I wonder if he ever was one," she said, admiring her handiwork." Perhaps he lost all sense of honor when he died."

  "Dying tends to cause one to misplace a great many things," Jacob said, voice dark and distant.

  "Can you go out and tell him I'll be there in a moment," I asked Celia.

  Her hand hovered near the hair above my temple as if she wanted to touch it but didn't want to mess up her work. "Be careful, Em." She kissed my forehead. "You do look lovely. Let's hope it's worth it."

  She left and I heard her telling the empty air outside that I'd be there soon. Her footsteps retreated down the stairs and I turned to Jacob.

  "You deserved to hear that if you come and go uninvited," I said.

  "I'm not concerned about other people's opinions of me." He gave me a crooked smile. "It's a bad habit carried over from when I was alive."

  It was the first time he'd referred to his life and what he'd been like. It wasn't what I'd expected to hear. Instead of giving me a clearer picture of him it just threw up more questions. Why hadn't he cared what people thought? "I'm sure people cared what you thought of them." I don't know why I said it but it seemed appropriate somehow.

  He didn't comment but he was no longer smiling, crookedly or otherwise. Indeed, he'd turned all his attention to my hairbrush sitting on the dressing table as if it was the most interesting object in the world. Its tortoiseshell back and handle certainly weren't worthy of such scrutiny.

  I knew an avoidance tactic when I saw one.

  "How long ago did you die?" I asked him. He might want to avoid all awkward questions but I certainly wasn't going to shy away from them. If I was to spend time alone with him, I needed to know more about him.

  "About nine months ago. I was eighteen." He shook his head, dismissing the topic. "Are you ready?"

  So much for my investigative scheme. "Where are we going?"

  He strode to the door. I pulled on my boots, quickly laced them and followed at a trot. "The house of someone I went to school with," he said, opening the door. "George Culvert. He lives in the Belgravia area with his mother."

  "And why are we visiting this Mr. Culvert?"

  He turned around and his gaze dropped to my waist and hips. His mouth fell open and a small, strangled sound escaped. "You're going to wear that?"

  "Something wrong with it?"

  "No," he said thickly. "But can you breathe?"

  "Sometimes."

  He laughed softly. "I like it. It's very...snug."

  "So what were you saying about George Culvert?"

  His gaze lifted to mine and a shiver rippled down my spine. His eyes blazed like blue flames but then he blinked rapidly and shifted his focus to something behind my left shoulder. He cleared his throat. "He's a demonologist."

  "A what?"

  "A demonologist. Someone who studies demons, fallen angels, that sort of thing." He waved a hand casually, as if 'that sort of thing' was like studying for a career in law. "We can't wait until tomorrow to start looking for this demon. We have to start today. Now." He ushered me through the door onto the landing without actually touching me.

  "Before it hurts someone?" I asked.

  His gaze met mine for a brief second but in that moment I saw genuine worry in his eyes. There was no need for him to answer me. We both knew the demon might have already killed overnight.

  "Why didn't it attack us when it was released in Mrs. Wiggam's house?"

  "Until it makes contact with the master who set the curse on the amulet and controls it, the demon is weak and relies on instinct. It would have seen it was outnumbered and felt too vulnerable to attack so it fled. Once it felt safe, it would begin to search for nourishment."

  I swallowed. "How awful. So tell me more about this Culvert fellow."

  "George's father was a demonologist before his death and George has an interest in the field too."

  "Demonology," I said. "What an odd thing to study."

  "Not really. You'd be surprised at how many people are interested in the paranormal. Although I doubt there's much money in it. Not sure how his father could have sent George to Eton. He must have had another source of income."

  "You went to Eton?" The boy's school was the most exclusive in all of England. Money wasn't enough to get accepted into the school, it required wealth and privilege. It would seem Jacob's family had both. Another piece to the puzzle that was Jacob Beaufort fell into place.

  He shrugged and it would seem the question was dismissed, just like that. As if it were nothing. As if my curiosity could be swept away without consideration. It was most frustrating.

  "I'll meet you there," he said. "I need to speak to more spirits in the Waiting Area."

  "About the meaning of the words spoken in the
incantation?"

  He nodded. "The language must be an obscure one as none of the spirits I've asked so far knew its meaning. And anyway, someone might have heard of another demonologist who can aid us. That's how I learned Culvert's name."

  "I thought you went to school with him."

  "I did but we didn't socialize. Different friends, you understand."

  I didn't. Not really. My formal schooling had finished at age thirteen, as it did for most girls, and I'd known every pupil at the small school. After I left, Mama had continued to tutor me and then Celia had tried after Mama's death, but much of my understanding of the world had come from reading books left behind in Celia's father's study. He'd been a lawyer and a great reader apparently. His study was still in tact and the bookshelves covered two entire walls, but most of the books were dry texts with only a few novels squeezed in between. Not a single one touched on the supernatural.

  "So what shall I tell this George Culvert when I meet him?" I asked. "I can't very well ask him about shape-shifting demons straight away. He'll think it odd."

  He paused then said, "Tell him you have a general interest in demonology and you'd like to look at his books." He shrugged. "We'll make it up as we go."

  "Very well." I couldn't see any other way that didn't involve telling George Culvert everything. And that wasn't an option. Not yet. Not until I'd decided if I cared whether he thought I was mad for speaking to ghosts. "Give me Mr. Culvert's address and I'll meet you there after breakfast."

  "Fifty-two Wilton Crescent in Belgravia." He gave me one more appraisal—a lingering one—from head to toe then vanished. But not before I saw the same heated flare in his eyes that had been there when he first noticed me in the dress. It would seem the gown hadn't lost any of its power.

  Celia had a simple breakfast of toast and boiled eggs waiting for me in the dining room when I arrived.

  "I thought we'd eat in the kitchen since we have no maid," I said picking up a plate.

  "Just because there's no one here to see us doesn't mean we can let ourselves go. We have standards."

  Celia had standards. I had a growling stomach and didn't care where I ate. I buttered a piece of toast and took two eggs from the sideboard and joined her at the table.

  "What did he want?" she asked.

  I filled her in and her interest piqued at the mention of George Culvert. "I wonder what he's like," she said more to herself than me.

  "He went to Eton," I said, rapping the knife on the eggshell. "With Jacob."

  I'd thought it impossible for her eyes to light up even more but they did. "Oh! He must be a gentleman then. I'm so glad you're wearing that dress, it's perfect. But you can't go alone. I'll accompany you."

  "I'll be all right."

  "Emily," she said on a sigh.

  "Please, Celia, I'm old enough." Because our lives were so thoroughly interconnected, my sister and I usually went everywhere together. We just had no need to be separate. But of late I found I wanted to go out more and more without her. It would be nice to have people deal with me as an individual and a woman rather than as Celia's little sister. The visit to George Culvert was a perfect opportunity to do so and I wasn't going to let it pass me by.

  She paused with her fork in the air, a piece of buttered toast only inches from her mouth.

  "Jacob will be with me," I added before she could protest. "That's all the protection I need. Besides, you've got to go to the Clerkenwell school and hire another maid."

  She seemed to struggle between the two options. "It's not seemly for a young lady to pay calls on a young gentleman alone. You know that."

  "His mother will probably be in at this early hour," I said hopefully. "And besides, I could be there all day studying his books." Celia's eyes went blank at the thought, just as I'd hoped. My sister had never been a great reader. Whereas I'd devoured all of her father's books, even the dull ones, she'd not been in his study for a long time. "Besides, if you don't find another maid today you'll have to cook supper. I'm sure I won't be home in time. And of course there's all the cleaning..."

  Celia sighed. "You're right."

  I ate the toast and one of the eggs and left the other. It was too dry. When we'd finished, Celia collected our plates. "You'd better go or Jacob will be back demanding to know why you haven't left yet."

  She didn't need to tell me a second time. I'd avoided both the cooking and the cleaning so far but I wasn't about to test my luck by staying home any longer.

  "Wear the hat that matches the dress," she said as I left. "But don't take a parasol. We don't have one in the right shade of green."

  Five minutes later, I walked out the door feeling like a perfectly matching green peacock. A few pairs of eyes followed me down Druids Way and I can't deny that it felt good to be noticed for all the right reasons. It made a pleasant change to the suspicious glances usually cast my way by those neighbors and shopkeepers who knew I could speak to ghosts. The stares were something I'd not yet grown used to, even though we'd been in business for over a year. I wondered if there ever would be a day when I'd enjoy the attention.

  Oh dear. It sounded like I resented being a medium and wished I didn't have the gift. Sometimes I did, true, but on the other hand I liked being able to reconnect people with their deceased loved ones. I just wished those same people wouldn't treat me with such wariness.

  I had to hold onto my hat until I turned off Druids Way and the strong wind eased to a gentle breeze. The sun came out from behind the clouds, briefly, but did little to brighten the day, covered as it was by London's smoky haze. I knew how to get to Wilton Crescent so my thoughts were left to wander. And they didn’t wander to the demon or the dangers it posed but to Jacob. The way he'd noticed me in the dress, and how he watched me with such intensity when he thought I wasn't looking.

  But there was something troubling him too, something that had nothing to do with the demon. Despite telling me he didn't care what people thought of him, he seemed to bristle at Celia's assessment of his ungentlemanly conduct. And he avoided all questions about his life and what it had been like.

  Was he ashamed of it? Or was there something else, something he was hiding?

  Whatever it was, his behavior was very confusing, but then he was a ghost so I suppose he could do what he wanted.

  I wished he'd accompanied me on the walk. The twenty minutes it took to reach Wilton Crescent would have given me ample opportunity to find out more about him. But then I would have drawn many unwanted stares by seemingly conversing with myself. The mere thought made me cringe and I lowered my head, not wishing to encounter any ghosts that happened to haunt the streets. I'd seen only two over the years who'd met with a road accident and had not progressed to the Waiting Area, having chosen to maintain the negative emotion tying them to this world. I never understood why anyone would choose to linger where they couldn't be seen or heard. Perhaps I would think differently if I were dead.

  I turned into Wilton Crescent and strolled along the elegant curved street until I reached number fifty-two. It looked like the other grand houses in the crescent-shaped terrace with its cream stucco façade and colonnaded porch. The main difference I could see was the brass knocker on the door. It was shaped like a large paw.

  A footman answered my knock and showed me into a spacious drawing room on the first floor crammed with furniture and knick-knacks. Aside from the usual piano, sofa and chairs, there were tables. Many, many small tables—a console table, a sofa table, at least three occasional tables and a sideboard. Scattered on top of them all were framed daguerreotypes, figurines, vases, busts, decorative jars, boxes and other little objects that seemed to have no use whatsoever except to occupy a surface.

  I was admiring an elaborate display of shells arranged into the shape of a flower bouquet when a tall young man entered, smiling in greeting. He was handsome but not in the masculine, classical sense like Jacob but more angelic, prettier although not feminine. Definitely not. Blond hair sprang off his head in soft cur
ls and his pale skin stretched taut over high, sharp cheeks. He wore small, round spectacles through which gray eyes danced. He looked younger than Jacob and if I hadn’t known they went to school together and were about the same age, I'd have thought him my own age or younger.

  "Miss Chambers?" He glanced around the room, perhaps looking for a chaperone. Eventually his gaze settled back on me, or rather my hips, before sweeping up to my face. His cheeks colored slightly. "The footman said you wished to see me and not my mother?" It was a question not a statement. Mr. Culvert was probably unused to visits from unchaperoned girls.

  I cleared my throat then held out my hand for him to shake. He looked at it like he didn't know what to do with it then took my fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I'm definitely here to see you if you are Mr. George Culvert."

  His face lit up. "Indeed I am." He squeezed again. His own hand was smooth, soft. It made me think of the split skin and bruises on Jacob's knuckles and again I wondered why a gentleman had hands more suited to a laborer or a pugilist.

  Jacob chose that moment to appear beside me and I jumped in surprise. "Tell him you knew me before my death," he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied Mr. Culvert, "and that I told you about his interest in demonology. Pretend you also have an interest too and decided it was time you met. That should suffice."

  But before I could say anything, Mr. Culvert said, "Do you have a supernatural matter to discuss with me?"

  I choked on air and tried to cover it with a cough.

  "Are you all right, Miss Chambers?" he said, frowning. "Tea is on its way but if there's anything else I can get you?" He took my hand again and patted it.

  Jacob scowled at him.

  I managed to stop coughing long enough to say, "Thank you, I'm fine."

  Jacob, still scowling, approached our host and waved a hand in front of his face. Mr. Culvert didn't blink. "He definitely can't see me," Jacob said. "It must have been a guess—an uncannily good one."

  "You're right," I said. "I do have a supernatural question. That's very intuitive of you, Mr. Culvert."