The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1) (3 page)

"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.