The Medium

Chapter 12

I sat on the rug and stared at the chair where Jacob had been sitting. The cushion, embroidered with a vine pattern by my mother, hadn't yet sprung back to its full plump shape. I lowered my head and would have cried—I wanted to cry—but the tears wouldn't come. Perhaps I had none left. I felt empty.

After a while I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. But I didn't sleep. I couldn't. Jacob might come back. He might explain the meaning of his final words to me.

You should be.

I should be afraid of him. But I wasn't. Not of Jacob. He was gentle and considerate and protective. He would never hurt me, nor would he harm someone who didn't deserve it, I was certain. Frederick had hit him first and he'd been dogging Jacob for some time if his visits to the Beaufort's house were an indication. Jacob wasn't to blame for his death.

But Frederick was the key to Jacob's.

I knew that as well as I knew my own name. The events leading up to Jacob's murder were too coincidental for it not to be linked to Frederick and the incident in the alley. But if Jacob had killed Frederick in the fight, who had killed Jacob later?

The answer to that lay in what might have happened after Jacob felled Frederick. I couldn't believe he'd leave the boy lying there, dying. Jacob was no coward. He would have faced up to his actions and I doubt he simply walked away.

So what had happened next?

And who on earth was Frederick?

These questions and a thousand others swirled around my head until, drained, I finally drifted to sleep.

I awoke with a start the next morning to knocking on my door. I jumped out of bed. "Jacob!" I opened the door but Celia stood there alone.

"No," she said with suspicion. "Why would you think I was he?" Her already narrowed eyes became slits. "Has he been visiting you?"

"Occasionally."

Her lips puckered. "Please don't tell me he's been in your room."

If Celia wanted to make it easy for me then she'd just given me the perfect opportunity. "Of course not." Of course not, I won't tell you. It wasn't exactly a lie...

"Because if I learn that he has—."

"Celia, stop questioning me." I stood with my hands on my hips blocking the doorway but she still managed to slip past me into my room.

"It's most improper," she said from my wardrobe where she contemplated my gowns.

"I doubt my reputation will be ruined by the irregular visits of a ghost."

She turned to fix me with a withering glare. "Don't be so sure. Anyway, I'm worried about more than your reputation."

More than...? Oh. "Jacob has been the perfect gentleman, Sis, don't worry." I bit the inside of my cheek. He’d kissed me. Perhaps perfect was too strong a word.

"Emily..." She shook her head but I could tell she was bursting to ask me something. I had a feeling I would regret prompting her but I did anyway.

"Ye-es?"

"Well, do you think ghosts can...you know?"

Oh dear, regret wasn't a strong enough word for how I felt about this conversation. It was heading into very murky waters. "I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't think I want to."

"I know you know what I'm suggesting because we had that little chat only last year."

"Oh, that," I said, feigning nonchalance. "You're asking me if ghosts can have marital relations?" It was the phrase Celia had used during our talk on how babies were made. Even though most unwed girls my age were quite ignorant about what happened between men and women, my sister had insisted I be made aware. I'd thought it very progressive of her, particularly since she was essentially a prude. Not even I had seen her without her clothes on. Still, discussing it with her now was no less embarrassing than it had been then.