The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1) (14 page)

"No! I want
you to stay." At his puzzled expression, I added, "Unless you've got
something better to do."

He barked a
short, harsh laugh. "Not really." He stood by the mantelpiece and
held out his hand in a go-on gesture.

I drew in a deep
breath and let it out slowly. "I summon Catherine Sloane from the Waiting
Area. Do you hear me, Catherine Sloane? Someone in this realm needs to talk to
you." To call a ghost to this world, a medium simply needs to phrase the
request and use the ghost's name. The portal to the Waiting Area is always
opened for us—or for me. As far as I knew, I was the only legitimate medium in
the world.

A woman of about
sixty appeared between Jacob and I. She faded in and out two or three times
until she finally maintained a presence, albeit a flimsy one. I'd seen gauze
curtains with more strength than her.

She was a taller
version of my mother. Mama had been short like me with soft brown hair and
curves. Aunt Catherine had the same nose, same mouth, same eyes as her older
sister but they were somehow more masculine. The nose was a little longer, the
eyes set deeper, the mouth firmer. She wore an ankle-length nightgown and her long
gray hair hung loose.

Aunt Catherine
stared at me for a long time, her gaze assessing. If her lack of a smile was
any indication, she didn't approve of what she saw.

"Aunt
Catherine?" I asked, just to be sure.

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.