by Dima Zales
She dropped my hair. "You could have hired a carriage."
"We were only around the corner."
"We?"
"Jacob and I. He escorted me home."
She grunted. "A ghost is not a suitable escort."
I sipped soup off my spoon and said nothing.
"So how was your visit with Mr. Culvert?" she asked.
"Good. We went to the Domestic Service school in Clerkenwell."
"Oh? Lucy said Mr. Blunt came here while we were both out this morning. Did you see him?"
"I did. He wants you to schedule a séance. He's being haunted." It was perhaps best not to tell her that Jacob was the culprit. Somehow I didn't think she'd see the funny side to it. My sister prided herself on her morals and taking money for a séance where the ghost was a friend of mine probably bordered on unethical in her book.
"I'll pay him a call tomorrow, or this afternoon if the weather clears," she said.
"Keep your eyes and ears open for any suspicious characters." At her raised eyebrows, I explained what had happened at the school and everything Jacob had learned afterwards from the boys. She sat on the sofa and listened without interrupting me.
"Oh dear," she muttered when I finished. "Do you think Mr. Blunt knew about the Finch boy's visits?"
"It's hard to say."
Lucy entered with a cup of tea for Celia. "Wait a moment please, Lucy," Celia said, taking the cup and saucer.
Lucy's gaze flicked between Celia and me before finally settling on my sister. "Yes, Miss Chambers? Is everything all right? I've not done wrong, 'ave I?" Her forehead creased and she looked like she might burst into tears. "I've been trying so 'ard to do everything right, I 'ave. I'm so sorry if I ain't done it the way you like but there's so much to remember and—."
"Calm yourself, Lucy." Celia smiled serenely. "You've done a superb job so far. We're lucky to have found you, aren't we, Emily?"
"Oh, yes! Very lucky." I smiled too. Lucy seemed to relax a little.
"We want to ask you a question about the North London School for Domestic Service."
Lucy brightened. "Really? That's all? Oh I can answer anything you want to know then."
"I went there today," I said. "I met Mrs. White and Mr. Blunt."
"She's such a kind lady is Mrs. White, ain't she. So nice to us girls, she was." The omission of Blunt from her praise wasn't lost on me.
"Yesterday you said Tommy Finch visited his sister when she was still a pupil at the school. You said no one told Mrs. White about it, but I wondered if it's possible another adult there knew of his presence."
Lucy shrugged. "Could've."
"Might Mr. Blunt have known?"
She shrugged again. "Don't know. Maybe."
"But someone must have let him in to the building."
"He's a thief. Don't matter 'ow many locks on the door, they won't stop Tommy Finch. He's the best thief in London." It didn't sound like a boast, just a simple statement of fact.
"Thank you, Lucy," Celia said. "That was very helpful." We watched as the maid bobbed a curtsy then left. "That wasn't helpful at all," my sister said when she'd gone. "So now what do we do?"
I shrugged. "George is going to speak to Leviticus Price. In the mean time, I have business of my own to conduct with Jacob's family. I'm going to tell them he's dead."
My sister's head snapped up. "Is that wise?"
I shrugged one shoulder. "I'm going to do it anyway. They need to move forward and they can't do that until they know he's truly gone."
She nodded. "I understand. It's very kind of you to offer. Will you go in the morning? We have a séance in the afternoon."
"I'm going today."
Her teacup came down on the saucer with such a loud clank I wouldn't be surprised if she chipped it. "You'll do no such thing! You need to stay home and keep warm and dry." She emphasized the last word with a pointed glare.
"Celia, I'm going today and that's final. I may not get time tomorrow, depending on what tonight brings." I shuddered at the thought of the shape-shifting demon claiming another victim.
"See!" She poked her finger at me. "You're shivering. You cannot go out so soon after that soaking. It's unhealthy."
"I'll take an umbrella."
"That is not the point."
"No. You're right." I stood and tossed my hair over my shoulder. It was almost dry. "I am going and that's final."
She stood too. "You'll do as I say, Emily. You are not going out again today."
"Celia," I said on a sigh, "you know I will so let's not argue about it. Red is really not a becoming color on your face."
"Emily!" She stomped her foot. My sister! Stomped her foot! I don't think she's ever done anything so childish in her life. "I am trying to do what's best for you."
"But you're not!" How could she not see that helping Jacob was what was best for me? "You're being selfish and, and … interfering!"
"I am—."
"You are not my mother and I will not do as you say." I was so angry my voice shook.
She thrust her hands on her hips. "You're being unreasonable, Emily."
"You're the one who's being unreasonable. I am as healthy as I've ever been and going out this afternoon will not change that." I stormed towards the door and jerked it open. "I'm going to my room and I don't wish to be disturbed."
I ran up the stairs to my bedroom and locked the door then leaned back against it. I breathed deeply to regain my composure but it didn't help. My veins pumped with my rushing blood and my heart pounded. I couldn't remember the last time I'd argued with Celia on such a scale. Our disagreements were usually petty affairs—who was going to wear the crimson bonnet or whether the grocer's son would be completely bald by the age of twenty-five (I said yes, she thought not). We rarely needed to raise our voices.
I checked my small pocket watch that I'd left on the dressing table after changing clothes. It was half past one. Only half an hour until Jacob arrived. Fortunately I hadn't told Celia about his pending visit. This way I could speak to him alone, in peace, in my room.
Thirty minutes suddenly seemed like a long time.
10
"You look upset," Jacob said when he finally winked into existence. "Is it my fault?"
"No," I said from the chair beside the fireplace where I'd read the same page of my book five times. I still had no idea what it was about. I'd sat there after fixing my hair, a task which had taken considerable time as I hadn't requested Lucy's help. I didn't want to place her in the awkward position of aiding me in my escape. "Why would it be your fault?"
"It never hurts to check." He sat on the foot of my bed and stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. He looked so perfect, so handsome and real with his too-blue eyes regarding me closely. His hair and clothes were dry and I wondered how long it took for that to happen in the Waiting Area. Perhaps it was instant. "So what's wrong?" he asked.
"I had a disagreement with my sister." I waved my hand. "Nothing of consequence."
His eyes narrowed and I thought he'd detected my lie but he let it go with a nod. "So you didn't catch a chill?"
I rolled my eyes. "It would seem not."
"Good. Good."
"It was fun, wasn't it?" I said. "Dancing in the rain."
He breathed deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. "It was irresponsible. You should have waited in the coffee house."
"You're beginning to sound like Celia. It was simply a little rain—."
His eyes flew open and I stilled at the flare of anger I saw in them. "There are many spirits in the Waiting Area who are there because of a little rain."
I bristled and formed a defense in my head but bit my tongue before I could let it free. Nothing I could say would sound appropriate after his outburst because he was right. Sometimes people died from a chill. Usually the old or very young or the weak, but not always. So I blew out a calming breath and thanked him instead.
"What for?" He looked surprised, as if my failure to argue with him had
caught him off guard. Almost as if he'd wanted me to disagree.
"Well," I began but stopped. I stood and set my book down on the writing desk then sat beside him on the bed. He lowered his gaze to our hands, inches apart on the bedcover.
And then something happened. His fingers moved ever so slightly towards mine. My breath caught in my chest and I watched, waiting for his fingers to move again, but they did not. Nevertheless, they had moved. Jacob was still looking down at them.
Silence enveloped us but it didn't feel awkward or heavy. More … charged, thick with unspoken words and a thousand jumbled emotions.
All of a sudden I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel his skin against mine, explore the bruises of his knuckles, the smoothness of his fingernails. I inched my fingers closer and his moved too, towards mine, as if we were two magnets drawn to each other. Finally we touched, just our pinkies, but it felt like a spark jolted through me on contact.
"Emily," he whispered. My name had never sounded so good, like the hush of a gentle breeze across a grassy meadow. "Tell me what you'd been about to say." His voice was buttery soft.
"What?"
"Why are you thanking me?"
"Oh. For caring about my health of course."
His fingers recoiled and curled into a fist as if I'd slapped them away. I felt the abrupt loss of his touch so keenly it hurt. "Don't," he said, desolate.
"Don't what?"
He stood and dragged a hand through his hair and took one step towards the fireplace, backtracked, then changed his mind again and stalked across the room. He picked up the coal scuttle and poured more coal onto the dwindling fire. "Let's discuss what you're going to say to convince my parents I'm dead." He set down the scuttle and, still crouching, watched the fire blaze to life. The dancing flames brightened his face and eyes but did nothing to brighten the dark mood that seemed to have descended upon him.
"Yes, er, very well." I tried to concentrate on the task at hand but it wasn't easy. My mind was still scrambled from when we'd touched and his rapid change of mood.
We spent the next little while going through some events from his childhood that only he and his parents could have known. I'd hoped to use our time together to learn more about him but he recounted the memories with little emotion and no invitation to discuss them in detail. He simply imparted the facts and ended the conversation abruptly.
"Whatever my parents say, don't take it to heart," he said on finishing. He stood by the fireplace, one elbow on the mantelpiece, having not sat down the entire time. I'd remained seated on the bed.
"What could they say that would have an effect on me?"
He studied the fire. "Just promise me you won't."
It seemed like an odd thing to warn me about but I shrugged instead of pressing him. "I promise."
"Good." He nodded and suddenly looked over at me. His gaze caught and held mine. "Take an umbrella with you this time." And then he was gone.
I sighed and stood. I picked up my heavy woolen shawl from the bottom drawer of the wardrobe and slung it around my shoulders. Hopefully the extra thick one would appease both my sister and my spirit. Not that I planned on telling Celia I was leaving.
Fortunately I didn't have to. I slipped downstairs, tiptoed past the drawing room, plucked an umbrella from the stand near the door and left without her noticing.
The drawing room of the Belgrave Square house belonging to Lord and Lady Preston was larger than one entire floor of my home. The value of the paintings, vases, sculptures and other artworks—all with a touch of gold—was probably higher than the whole contents of my house too. It was difficult to appear sophisticated and worldly in the presence of such wealth and exquisite taste, particularly as I was ensconced in an enormous armchair that seemed bent on swallowing me whole. I felt like a small child again.
Lady Preston sat with regal elegance on the sofa beside her daughter, her exact replica only younger. Both had hair the color of honey, coifed in an intricate style atop their heads, and both had eyes of the same vibrant blue as Jacob. Whereas his face was all masculine angles, theirs—while no less perfect—were softer and rounder as if the sculptor had lovingly polished instead of chipped. Against the gold tones of the room, they looked like royalty.
As if their fair beauty wasn't intimidating enough, their shrewd gazes studied every inch of me. Although I was wearing the green gown with the tight cuirass bodice again, it looked almost drab against their silks. Whereas Lady Preston's expression remained bland and unreadable, her daughter Adelaide's was more open and friendly. She even attempted a smile. I smiled back but it faded when Lady Preston's lips flattened in disapproval.
"You say you knew my son, Miss Chambers?" she prompted.
I had introduced myself to the butler who'd let me in only after I told him I needed to see Lord and Lady Preston about Jacob. Since the viscount was taking lunch at his club, the servant had shown me into the drawing room where I'd waited for Lady Preston to join me. She'd arrived within a minute, her daughter on her heels.
"Actually, that's not quite correct," I said. "You see … " I shifted in my seat but that only made me sink further into the massive armchair. All the bravado I'd felt when talking to Jacob about this meeting had vanished. Part of me wished I was curled up on the threadbare sofa at home reading a book in front of the fire. "You see, I know Jacob."
Lady Preston's face finally formed an expression. Shock. She clasped her long fingers in her lap and lifted her chin, revealing her slender white throat. She swallowed. "Know?" she whispered. The cool, bland woman changed before my eyes. Small, thin lines striped across her forehead and everything about her seemed to slacken, loosen, as if she'd had enough of holding herself together.
"Dear lord," Adelaide said on a gasp. She was about my age but seemed older. Perhaps it was because she was so tall and willowy or perhaps because she looked sophisticated perched as she was on the sofa, her soft pink skirts spread daintily around her. "You mean he's alive?"
"No, no, you misunderstand," I said quickly. Oh dear, I'd gone about this all wrong.
The two beautiful faces crumbled. "Then what … ?" Adelaide pressed. Her mother straightened again and her expression tightened once more. She sat like an automaton waiting to be wound up, serene but lifeless.
"I'm a spirit medium," I said to Adelaide. I couldn't look at her mother. Something about her unnerved me. She was so still, so empty … it was unnatural. "Jacob's ghost visits me regularly."
Adelaide's jaw dropped. "Ghost," she whispered. She bit her lower lip and blinked rapidly.
There was an awful moment when no one spoke. Then, "Get out," Lady Preston snapped.
"Pardon?" I spluttered.
"Get out of my house." The venom in her voice was matched by the hatred in her eyes. At that moment, I think she genuinely despised me.
"But—."
"Mother," Adelaide said, placing her hand over both of her mother's, "I think we should listen to what Miss Chambers has to say."
"She's a fraud." Her face contorted into a sneer. I think I preferred the blandness. "She wants to make money from our loss but I'll have none of it."
"No, I've heard of her." The knuckles of Adelaide's hand went white. "I wondered why her name sounded familiar and now I recall. She and her sister hold séances to communicate with the dead. They're very popular."
"That doesn't mean she's not a fraud."
"I am not a fraud," I said. "And I can prove it to you."
Adelaide shifted forward on the sofa without letting go of her mother's hands. "Please do," she whispered.
"She must be a fraud," Lady Preston said again as if neither I, nor her daughter, had spoken. "Because Jacob is not dead."
Shadows of pain passed over Adelaide's face. She momentarily closed her eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them again. "Mother, we've been through this. We don't know for sure—."
"I know. He's my son and he is not dead until I say he is." She shot to her feet and strode to the window, keepin
g her back to us. From the slight shake of her shoulders, I knew she was crying.
For the first time since my arrival, I began to doubt my reasons for coming. Would proving to Lady Preston that her son really was dead help her move on, or simply send her over the edge she so precariously clung to?
I looked to Adelaide for an answer but she wiped a tear from her cheek and shook her head at me.
Just as I thought about leaving, a tall man with steel-gray hair and a bushy moustache strolled into the drawing room. He took in the scene but instead of going to his wife, he lifted a thick brow at Adelaide.
"Father," she said, "this is Miss Emily Chambers. Miss Chambers, this is—."
"Chambers!" He snorted. "I know that name."
"She's a spirit medium," Adelaide said.
"She's a fraud," he said, with much more authority but less malice than his wife. "What's she doing here?"
Adelaide glanced at her mother then back to her father. Her gaze didn't falter beneath his cold one. But it wasn't directed at her. It was directed at me. "She's been telling us that Jacob truly is … dead." She looked to her mother again but Lady Preston didn't move. She stood completely still, staring out the window.
Lord Preston stepped closer and regarded me down his long nose. He appeared to be a good twenty years older than his wife but was strongly built nevertheless. He was as tall as Jacob but his features were bolder, heavier, not refined and handsome like his son's. In some ways he reminded me of the sketches I'd seen of cavemen—big-limbed and thick-browed, but not nearly as ugly. He was handsome in his way, but intimidating, particularly when he stood so close.
I tried not to shrink away. "Good afternoon, Lord Preston." I held out my hand in an attempt to maintain some semblance of civility.
He ignored it. "I've been looking into you and your operation."
"He belongs to the London Association of Skeptical Scientists," Adelaide explained.
"Ah. Jacob told me he was a scientist."
There was a moment's silence then, "Bah!" The sound came from deep within Lord Preston's chest. "I'll not listen to another word of your nonsense. You're a trickster, Miss Chambers, just like the rest. And if you think you'll get any money from us—."