The Wrong Girl(83)

"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."



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