by Jill Morrow
“Mrs. Chapman is approaching the table,” Amy said calmly. “She is very pleased to see you all here tonight.”
Jim’s mind raced in an effort to organize this new influx of information. Granny Cullen had certainly never relied on eerie effects or rituals to dole out the comments she claimed came straight from his grandfather. He remembered her standing in the bright light of the kitchen, paring knife pointed in his direction: “Your Gran’da says you’re to cut your hair and straighten your spine. Stand proud, young man!” He’d grown used to receiving pithy commands from the beyond delivered in the midst of whatever mundane chore Granny happened to be doing at the moment. He’d believed them, too: why doubt when Granny’s pronouncements were nearly always right?
But he’d expected more here—instruments for the spirits to play, perhaps, or the adoption of strange voices and mannerisms as “Mrs. Chapman” spoke. Instead there was simply Amy, looking lovely but ordinary as she sat in her chair with her eyes closed, speaking in her usual tone of voice while delivering words she claimed belonged to someone else.
“Is this all that happens?” Nicholas demanded.
“Of course not,” his father said. “We talk about old times. And your mother offers the advice she’s been robbed of giving in physical form. You may ask her anything you wish.”
“Ask who anything I wish? There’s nobody here. Mr. de la Noye, I implore you to halt this travesty now.”
Adrian sighed. “I’d like to hear more, Mr. Chapman.”
“Your mother regrets that she wasn’t present to temper your rash disposition while you were growing up, sir,” Amy said, and a murmur of agreement from Catharine underscored her words. “She would have remained on this earth longer had she been given the choice.”
“Don’t fret, Elizabeth,” Bennett whispered. “We all understand.”
Amy’s voice softened. “Lady Dinwoodie, your mother brings words meant for you tonight. She recognizes your sorrow and longs to share the burden. She has a message from someone you miss very much.”
Chloe wrenched her hand from Adrian’s, but not in time to cover the gasp that escaped her mouth.
Nicholas half rose in his chair. “Mr. de la Noye. You must stop this at once.”
“No, Nicky. Wait.” His sister struggled to her feet, each tendon in her neck taut. “Please, continue.”
Adrian placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her back into her chair. “Lady Dinwoodie, there is much resting on this session tonight, and it’s necessary to ensure that justice is served. Will you allow me to ask the questions?”
She slumped against the back of her chair, too distracted to return her hand to his. “Please do. I’m not sure I can.”
He turned toward Bennett Chapman. “And you, sir—may I respectfully ask that you remain silent as well?”
“Indeed.” The old man’s eyes shone. “I am content simply to bask in Elizabeth’s presence.”
Adrian faced Amy, who sat quite still with her eyes closed and a sweet smile on her face. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Chapman?”
“You are speaking to Amy Walsh,” Amy said. “But I hear Mrs. Chapman and deliver her words.”
“I’ve heard that some . . . spirits . . . speak through their mediums. You don’t do this?”
Amy gave a slight shudder. “How ghastly. No, Mr. de la Noye. I don’t choose to give myself over to something I can neither see nor control.”
“So, if I ask a question of Mrs. Chapman, you will give me her response.”
“If she so directs, yes.”
“Very well. Mrs. Chapman says she has a message for Lady Dinwoodie. Who is it from?”
Once again, Amy tilted her head as if listening. “Lady Dinwoodie lost a loved one in the Great War.”
“Is this true, Lady Dinwoodie?” Adrian asked gently.
“Don’t offer any additional information, Chloe,” Nicholas interjected. “A skilled swindler will use every piece of information you provide to strengthen her own conjectures.”
Chloe bit her lip. “It’s true, though, Nicky. You know it is.”
“Of course it’s true. Everyone lost a loved one in the Great War. If ever a quack wanted to hit a bull’s-eye with a guess, this was the one to make. Very well then, Miss Walsh. So the generalization fits: the Chapman family endured a loss in the Great War.”
“Mrs. Chapman tells me that it was a beloved child.” Amy continued as if nobody had spoken at all.
This time, both hands flew to Chloe’s mouth. “Please, Nicky, I must hear . . .”
“But your mother tells me that she must speak to you about certain matters before we go any further,” Amy said. “There are . . . habits . . . that must cease. It is imperative that you stop your abuse of alcohol, Lady Dinwoodie.”
“The obvious conclusion of anyone who has observed you for more than five minutes,” Nicholas muttered.
“You cannot continue to live as if your life doesn’t matter to anyone.” Amy’s voice had receded into a mildly hypnotic singsong. “Your mother says that each day compromises your health and well-being a little more. The surest way to honor and remember someone you loved is to live well on their behalf.”
A single tear made its way down Chloe’s cheek, leaving a light trail in her heavy makeup foundation. “I know,” she whispered. “It’s just so hard to go on.”
“The vast amount of money you spend on bootleg and other means of dissolute behavior could be spent in better ways.”
“It was only a matter of time before money entered this conversation,” Nicholas said. “Mr. de la Noye, if you won’t ask the crucial questions, then you must allow me to do so.”
Adrian handed Chloe his handkerchief and turned back to Amy. “Would Mrs. Chapman be so kind as to give us more information about the departed? Where was the place of death?”
The room grew even quieter as Amy paused. Bennett Chapman’s eyes widened slightly, then tracked a short path along the table to settle on a spot between his children’s seats. Catharine leaned forward, gripping the table as if she feared the room might sway.
“A German artillery shell . . .” Amy began.
Chloe started to tremble.
“Another easy guess.” Nicholas shot a quelling glance at his sister.
“. . . hit an Evacuation Hospital on the Western Front,” Amy continued. “But all is well, Lady Dinwoodie. You’re not to grieve. Your child is happy and at peace.”
Chloe’s fingernails scrabbled against the table as she again struggled to her feet. “I must hear . . .”
Nicholas rose as well, clamping his fingers around his sister’s wrist in a grasp so tight it would surely leave a mark. “Not a word, Chloe.” His head snapped toward Amy. “Tell us, then, Miss Walsh,” he said. “What words of wisdom does Chloe’s deceased son have for her today?”
“Nicholas!” Bennett Chapman’s voice cut through the challenge. “For the love of God!”
Chloe’s face contorted.
Amy’s eyes opened wide beneath Nicholas’s penetrating stare. She raised her gaze to meet his. “Why, Mr. Chapman,” she said, surprised. “I should think you’d know that your sister did not lose a son in the Great War.”
The lines around Nicholas Chapman’s mouth grew deeper. His jaw clicked as he clenched his teeth.
“She lost a daughter,” Amy finished.
Nicholas remained rigid as Chloe’s shoulders shook with sobs.
CHAPTER
7
Adrian quickly rearranged his features into bland neutrality. Nicholas Chapman was correct: fatalities conjured from the Great War were safe bets. But it was harder to explain Amy’s knowledge that Chloe’s loss had been a daughter rather than a son. Of course, it was nothing that a little research couldn’t uncover. Catharine Walsh had certainly ingratiated herself into Bennett Chapman’s confidence and could have easily received such information. But Catharine looked just as startled as everyone else at the table. Her cheeks had flushed scarlet, and the fingers of her left han
d now fanned across her swanlike neck. Bennett, too, looked slightly ill, as if he’d stashed away this family tragedy with no intention of ever revisiting it again.
“My poor Margaret,” Chloe whimpered. “My poor, poor baby. She felt such a strong calling to nurse the wounded. She was a British citizen through her father, you know, and when Britain went to war . . .”
“No more, Chloe.” Nicholas placed both palms firmly on the table and leaned in, an inquisitor in search of a victim. “This is information anyone could discover. Don’t let it deceive you.” His chin jerked in Catharine’s direction. “How much more family knowledge have you coaxed from our father, Miss Walsh?”
Burgundy glints shone in Catharine’s hair as she straightened in the dim glow of the candlelight. Her mouth curled into a sneer. “I’m sorry to deflate your insufferable ego, Mr. Chapman, but the subject of you and your sister rarely comes up.”
“Catharine!” Bennett sounded as if he might send his fiancée to bed without dessert. “They’re boorish brats, but they are still my children. There’s no need to insult them.”
Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “Very well, then, Miss Walsh. Have your little acolyte tell me something you couldn’t know.”
Adrian started as Catharine’s fingers intertwined with his. He felt anger quiver through her like an electric current. He doubted she was even aware that they still held hands. The proud set of her shoulders . . . that flare of delicate nostrils . . . Somewhere deep inside him, a long-closed door finally burst its safety locks, creaking open with an invitation as teasing as a siren’s song.
He carefully extricated his hand. “I believe that Amy—rather, Mrs. Chapman—has more to say.”
Amy’s eyes flickered beneath her closed lids. “She does indeed, Mr. de la Noye.”
“Please, are the words for me?” Chloe asked anxiously.
“Your Margaret wishes you peace,” Amy said. “She wants you to know that she was able to bring great comfort to many brave boys, and that she would do it all again if given the opportunity. She felt no pain in her death and sends great love to you.”
Chloe laid her head in her arms as deep sobs wracked her body. Neither her father nor her brother made a move to comfort her. Bennett merely stared into space as if awaiting celestial orders, while Nicholas glanced impatiently at the clock on the fireplace mantel.
Jim rose from his place and circled the table.
“Stay seated!” Bennett cried. “You’ll break our chain and Elizabeth will leave us!”
“No.” Amy’s eyes flew open. “No, she’s still here.”
Jim placed an awkward hand on Chloe’s shoulder and bent toward her. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “The sacrifice was too great to ask of either of you, but I am grateful for your daughter’s selflessness. She was a true hero, Lady Dinwoodie.”
Chloe gazed at him through wet eyes. Slowly, she reached up to squeeze his hand. Jim waited until her breathing sounded less ragged before turning back toward his chair.
Amy did not speak until he’d returned to her side. “Mrs. Chapman thanks you for your kindness,” she said, reclaiming his hand. “You have a stout heart, boyo.”
Jim blinked. “And who says that?” he asked, his voice light.
“I don’t know.” Amy frowned. “But Mrs. Chapman says that you will.”
“It’s what my granny always called me.”
Nicholas Chapman groaned. “You’ve the map of Ireland splashed across your face, Mr. Reid. Here’s another lucky guess that has hit its target.”
Jim sank into his chair as if underwater, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I believe we’re finished here,” Adrian said quietly.
“We are in agreement at last, Mr. de la Noye,” Nicholas said. “I’m afraid you’ve most likely missed the last ferry off the island tonight. You can catch one early tomorrow. As for you, Miss Walsh . . . I’ll give you one last evening with your niece before I make good my promise to call the authorities.”
“There’s no need to call anybody.” Adrian rose to his feet, frowning slightly as he brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of his dinner jacket. “This matter has been settled in your father’s favor, not yours. Mr. Reid and I will draft his will according to his wishes.”
A vein pulsed in Nicholas’s temple. “You must be joking. You can’t possibly believe that ‘Mrs. Chapman’ is real.”
“That was never the question. We don’t sit here tonight to prove the existence of life after death. We need only agree that your father has reason to believe such existence might be possible.”
“Anybody of right mind can see through the fakery here!”
“I don’t think it’s fake, Nicky,” Chloe said in a tiny voice.
“And why should your opinion matter, Chloe? You’re a lush.”
She did not look up from the tablecloth. “I haven’t had a drop this evening. And I must confess that this isn’t my first séance. I’ve been to several since Margaret died, dreadful spectacles filled with parlor tricks and silly spirit voices. But this . . . this feels different. I believe that my Margaret’s words have come through Miss Walsh.”
“My dear girl.” Bennett Chapman’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I always knew there was a good egg beneath that foolish shell.”
Adrian did not retreat from Nicholas’s cutting stare. “You considered your father incompetent because, in your mind, no sane person could believe that the words Amy Walsh delivers might come from any source other than herself. Yet here’s another who believes that very thing. Is she incompetent as well?”
Nicholas rounded Chloe’s chair until he stood face-to-face with Adrian. He was the taller of the two, but Adrian didn’t even blink as the other man’s angular figure bent toward him.
“What about you, Mr. de la Noye?” Nicholas asked. “Do you believe?”
“What I believe, Mr. Chapman, is irrelevant.”
“A lawyer through and through, aren’t you?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.”
Nicholas whirled toward Amy, long finger pointed at her nose. “Very well, then. No more vague pronouncements. No more information inveigled by your aunt from my father. Tell us something you could not possibly have known before.”
Amy shrank against the back of the chair, her wide eyes and tousled blond hair making her resemble a grade-school girl instead of an adult. Her breathing came in short little gasps.
“Behave yourself, Nicky,” Bennett Chapman commanded. “I won’t have my guests harassed. You’re frightening the girl with your loutishness.”
“Oh, her type doesn’t frighten easily, I guarantee. Let me guess: ‘Mrs. Chapman’ is no longer with us . . . there are no more messages to be had for this evening, and it’s all my fault.”
Amy bit her lower lip. “No,” she whispered. “She is indeed still with us. I don’t understand at all. I thought she required a solid chain, that she needed things to be done just so . . .”
“Has she more to say?” Bennett Chapman and Chloe spoke at the same time.
“You needn’t speak further if you’re tired, Amy,” Catharine interjected.
“I am tired. But Mrs. Chapman is so eager tonight. I can’t deny her the voice. Lady Dinwoodie—for Margaret’s sake, she begs you to love your husband. He is a good man at heart and suffers his own grief over the loss of his beloved daughter. You should grieve together rather than alone. He will take care of you if you let him, and you will not feel so lonely.”
“Again, tell us something we don’t know,” Nicholas muttered beneath his breath.
“And you, sir . . .” Amy’s eyes fluttered shut. “Your selfish, loutish nature has denied you the company of your child . . .”
“I have no children.”
“You do indeed, your mother says. One.”
Catharine, Chloe, and Bennett sat in shocked silence as, for the first time that evening, Nicholas fumbled for words.
“I am not aware . . .” he began, genui
nely surprised.
Amy’s voice dropped in both tone and volume. “Your mother says that you should be.”
Catharine recovered first. “There you have it,” she said, breathing hard. “You asked for information you did not know before.”
“Obviously, I meant information that could be proven. This is insanity. What am I to do, travel the world in an attempt to prove that I’ve no offspring?”
“That shouldn’t take much, boy,” Bennett Chapman said. “You’ve never been much of a lothario, after all.”
“Stop.” Jim leaned toward Amy, who was swaying unsteadily in her chair. “Miss Walsh—Amy—are you all right?”
“There’s a bit more, I think.” Her voice was barely audible. Her cheeks, so pink only moments ago, now looked unnaturally pale in the candlelight. “I have to say it; she’ll be most displeased if I don’t.”
“I disagree.” Jim kicked his chair from beneath him and dropped to one knee beside her. “It’s time for you to stop.”
Amy’s head lolled to one side as she struggled to find the words. Catharine half rose from her chair.
A warning jab gnawed in the pit of Adrian’s stomach. He covered Catharine’s hand with his own and gave it an urgent squeeze. The expression she turned his way was just as startled and helpless as he himself suddenly felt.
“You must stop her,” he said softly, fighting back an unexpected sense of unease.
“Dear God, don’t I know it.”
The intimate tone of her voice nearly robbed him of breath. Decades fell away as he stared from those chocolate-colored eyes to her full lips, noted the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the deep-rose dinner dress she wore.
Their eyes met. Catharine’s breath caught.
She tugged her hand from his to hurry to Amy’s side. “Amy,” she said, giving her niece a gentle shake. “Enough. You must stop.”
Amy opened glassy eyes and stared unseeing into her aunt’s face. “The message is about a girl named Cassie and . . . and someone in this room. Mrs. Chapman is most insistent that it be delivered.”
Then her eyes rolled back as she crumpled into Jim’s waiting arms.