Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #3)
C.J. Archer
CHAPTER 1
London, Spring 1880
"Something's wrong," said the spirit of Lord Fulham.
"So I see." I squinted at the flickering entity standing beside the piano in Lady Willoughby's drawing room. The seven members of my audience watched me as I focused on the ghost they could neither see nor hear. Whether their expressions were mostly curious or afraid or a little of both, I didn't notice. I was much too intent on Lord Fulham.
He had been seventy-two when he'd died but was still a tall figure, albeit shaped like a wine barrel with a round, full middle. Yet he was not an imposing spirit. He trembled like a flame fighting a draught and was as transparent as a piece of fine muslin. I had never met a spirit that manifested so poorly.
"Are you about to cross?" I asked him.
He gave a nervous shake of his head. "I can't. None of us can."
"None?"
"I cannot stay here. It's much too difficult." His voice drifted off along with his body, but only for a moment before both returned even weaker. "The effort...costs...too much..." His wide eyes implored me, but to what end, I didn't know. If he weren't a ghost, I'd say he looked afraid, but what could a dead man possibly fear?
I was about to ask him when he disappeared altogether.
"Lord Fulham! Lord Fulham, return to me, please. Your loved ones wish to speak with you."
Nothing.
"Emily?" whispered my sister, Celia, sitting beside me at the table. "Is everything all right? You look like you've seen a... Oh, never mind."
Cold dread prickled my skin. Summoning spirits was an imprecise activity. Some had already crossed over to the Otherworld and could not hear my call, let alone act upon it. Others didn't want to revisit the living and simply ignored me. But never had I known ghosts that heard my call and wanted to come but could not.
Until yesterday. Lord Fulham was the second ghost in two days who had not been able to remain in our realm.
"Emily?" Celia prompted. "Is Lord Fulham's spirit with us?"
"He was," I said. "But he's gone."
"Gone where?" Lady Preston asked from her position on the opposite side of the table. The elegant countess clutched the hand of her friend, our hostess and Lord Fulham's daughter, Lady Willoughby, sitting next to her. The unease in her voice tugged at me. Lady Preston was particularly sensitive about communicating with the dead, having lost her son Jacob and then finding him again through me. Or, more accurately, she'd found his spirit.
"He has returned to the Waiting Area." I turned to my audience, which consisted of Celia plus six ladies from the upper echelons of London Society. It was the most elite séance we'd ever had, thanks to Lady Preston who'd suggested our services to Lady Willoughby. I didn't like disappointing them, but what else could I do?
"I'm sorry, Lady Willoughby." I gave her a sympathetic smile that I'd seen Celia use many times with the bereaved. She was very good when it came to death and dealing with mourners. Quite an expert, in fact. Undertakers could learn much from her simple, heart-felt gestures. I was the only one aware that she was acting. "He would like to speak to you," I went on, "but he...needs to crossover."
I congratulated myself on a lie well told. Not a single one of the audience appeared to disbelieve me. They did, however, seem disappointed to be missing out on the spectacle of objects moving around the drawing room, and indeed Lady Willoughby sniffed into her handkerchief. She had dearly wanted to speak to her father.
Only Celia frowned in puzzlement. She was still frowning when Lady Willoughby rose and tugged the bell cord for tea.
"What a shame," said Adelaide Beaufort, Lady Preston's daughter, sitting on my other side at the small rectangular table. She and I were the same age and had developed a friendship in the previous weeks once it became known I'd communicated with her brother's ghost. "I believe Lady Willoughby wanted to ask her father where he'd hidden the key to his wine cellar. No one can find it, you see, and he had a very fine collection."
As she spoke, my gaze drifted to Lady Willoughby herself. Our hostess straightened, wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something off, and turned her shoulder to me.
"She doesn't look too disappointed anymore," I muttered. "Adelaide, did your mother find it difficult to convince Lady Willoughby to host this event?"
Adelaide studied her fingernails. An avoidance tactic if ever I saw one. "A little." She cringed. "Sorry, I shouldn't tell you."
"No, it's all right. I thought she seemed enthusiastic at first, but now...now she looks at me as if I were a fraud."
"Oh, Emily. You're not a fraud. Mother and I both know it. Forget what others think."
I smiled as sweetly as I could. "Of course." But I couldn't forget. Celia's and my independence depended upon the public believing us. Our income wasn't particularly high, but we had begun to make good money thanks to Lady Preston urging her friends to engage us. Sometimes we had two bookings during the day and another in the evening, quite unheard of until now. I liked to be busy. It kept me from thinking about Jacob Beaufort and that I hadn't seen him since we'd sent a rather horrible ghost back two weeks ago after he possessed a number of our friends.