Chapter 4
In which intentions reveal
Sir Hubert rarely gave way to hysterics, so his behaviors of the morning baffled even himself. Indeed, he had felt rather outside of himself, as though he weren’t in full control of his manner.
He had the fleeting thought that perhaps he had been possessed.
Sir Hubert didn’t feel he’d been shoved into an empty room. He wasn’t watching his body speak and move through the windows of his eyes (or so possession had once been described to him). He was very likely not possessed.
Sir Hubert paced his bedroom, hands clasped behind his back. Ever since he and his niece Tessa had returned from Continental Europe to stay at Hartwell House, more supernatural events than normal seemed to occur in their presence.
Dame Hartwell had called Tessa an “amplifier” medium.
It was this theory that chiefly preoccupied the latest scribblings in his journal.
That a medium could bolster the abilities of another medium.
Rather than operating in a room surrounded by compliant guests, it made far more sense for spiritualist societies to employ multiple mediums at once.
It seemed both a safety and efficiency concern.
It was also a highly controversial theory. He was certain it would make his publication the talk of the Spiritualist networks. A team of mediums, running around town solving ghostly capers? And with the best mediums primarily being women? Well!
One could depend on men somewhere demanding the shutdown of entrepreneurial women.
Sir Hubert reflected on his argument with Dame Hartwell.
She had been animated today, excited at the prospect of his journal being gone.
He wondered, as his stomach dropped with dread, whether she had taken it for her own purposes.
Perhaps to publish under her name to bolster the Hesitant Mediums?
But no, she had put her name on the list, which spoke of easy confidence that she would be found innocent.
“Of which theft, though?” Sir Hubert thought ruefully.
He was always very careful not to stand too close to Dame Hartwell, for fear she might notice the nature of his feelings toward her. He had second-guessed kissing her hand. Yet he had her hand in his before he knew what he was about.
Sir William had been the steadiest of men, that much Sir Hubert remembered. They had traveled in the same circles, for Tessa’s father (Sir Hubert’s older brother) and Sir William were the best of friends.
Though ten years had passed, Sir Hubert knew he still couldn’t compare to the slow, quiet smiles of Sir William. Sir William had been Dame Hartwell’s rock, she was always fond of saying. He was her anchor, her dock, her shelter from the storm. And he indulged her spiritualist interests deeply.
Sir Hubert looked nothing like Sir William, other than height.
Where Sir William wore his hair in rich brown waves, Sir Hubert had been shaving his head once his own fair hair had all but fallen out before he was thirty.
Very against the fashion, but far easier to maintain, and less itchy.
Hats were his favorite and necessary fashion statement.
Sir William had had a muscular broadness about him.
One imagined an impenetrable wall. Sir Hubert, while having broad shoulders, still had a lankiness.
No doubt thanks to his migrant lifestyle of the last decade seeking out the best mediums to train Tessa in her Sense and provide research for his book.
Sir Hubert considered calling his publication The Handbook for the Recently Haunted. It had a nice ring to it. And it reflected the state of mind of his intended readers. Indeed, it rather marketed itself.
Sir Hubert checked his pocket watch, his stomach grumbling. He was late for his afternoon tea and biscuits, and thus late for another round of verbal sparring with the lovely Dame Hartwell. My, but he did admire her distinctly English sass.
He took one last look around his room, which was handsomely if simply decorated. Dark furniture, heavy drapes, and a secretary desk tucked beneath the window to make the best of the natural light during the day. He had hidden the journal in this secretary and locked the top, of which he was sure.
He unlocked it once more, and rifled through every piece of paper, but his large, obvious leather journal was nowhere to be found. He slammed the secretary shut and locked it again. Spinning on his heel to head down for tea, he stumbled in place.
His journal.
His journal was there, just out of reach, floating in the air as though sentient and studying Sir Hubert.
A chill and a thrill ran down Sir Hubert’s spine. He stepped forward.
The journal, as it were, stepped back.
Sir Hubert tilted his head to the side, trying to discern whether strings held the journal aloft, or perhaps some sort of powerful magnets.
There were none. That left only one option, and, given the entire contents of his journal focused on studying such a phenomenon, one would have thought him delighted.
“I don’t suppose you might identify yourself?”
The journal bounced in place, as though giggling.
His niece Tessa always admonished him to think more creatively.
The spirit world of Beyond was nothing if not strange and unusual.
Indeed, Sir Hubert had written only yesterday that those seeking to interact with Beyond should notice such.
It was surely an indication of the spirits having their fun.
This was as good a time as any to indulge in ridiculous thoughts, he supposed. He was alone and no one would witness him needing to be sent to an asylum for talking to a floating journal.
“Where have you been all day? You’ve made quite a mess of things.”
The journal bobbed, which Sir Hubert interpreted as an uncaring shrug.
“Come here so I might tell the dame and Edith that you’re back. I can continue with my edits for the book.” Sir Hubert reached out.
The journal spun away, as though someone hid it behind their back.
“You’re a ghost, aren’t you?” Sir Hubert said, his shoulders slumping. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed. “I’m not speaking with my journal at all.”
The journal bobbed again, and this time Sir Hubert interpreted a nod.
“Well, what are you doing with my journal?”
The journal remained stationary in the air. Sir Hubert rubbed his forehead. What an amateur move, asking an open-ended question of a ghost incapable of more than yes or no responses. “Will you give it back?”
The journal zoomed from side-to-side. A very emphatic no, then.
Sir Hubert muttered something about finding Edith, so at least he might know which ghost he spoke to.
Another side-to-side zooming.
“You don’t want me to find Edith?”
The journal bobbed.
“You wanted me to know a ghost took the journal?”
The journal bobbed again.
“And what of the dame? Might I tell Dame Hartwell?”
The journal hesitated.
Sir Hubert’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and he stepped forward with a frown. “What do you want of the lady?”
Another hesitation.
Sir Hubert stared at an unoffending, unimportant spot on the wall, turning over phrases until finally settling on: “Should Dame Hartwell continue with the séance tonight?”
The journal bobbed.
“Are you in league with one of the attendees?”
The journal bobbed.
A thundering sort of anger bubbled in Sir Hubert. This ghost was teasing him to threaten Dame Hartwell, and he wasn’t having it. Sir Hubert leaped forward, hands outstretched. The journal disappeared with a loud popping noise.
Panting, Sir Hubert looked wildly about the bedroom, but the journal was gone.
“Edith,” he bellowed. “Ediiiiiiiith!”
Edith sat up on the chaise, her heart beating too fast for comfort. She had meant to sit for a moment. The shadows revealed she had lost an hour or more to her unearthly exhaustion.
It was an unfortunate side effect of using her Sense.
Edith tired annoyingly easily these days.
While Dame Hartwell assured Edith it was simply a lack of stamina, she wondered otherwise.
Ever since her mother had called forth her deceased twin, Edith’s naps and night times were plagued with sights and visions she suspected were the result of her ghostly twin’s escapades.
It was these escapades that had led her to Hartwell House and the Hesitant Mediums, and as such, Sir Hubert, Dame Hartwell, and this silly lost journal.
“Ediiiiiiiith!” she heard Sir Hubert shout.
Edith sighed, sliding from the chaise. Her twin sister Eloise used to tease her about her proclivity for chaises. There was no denying their convenience when suffering a ghost-induced faint.
Brushing her skirts, she stood just as Sir Hubert and Dame Hartwell burst into the room. The dame demanded what was going on. Sir Hubert declared he had found the journal only to lose it again.
“Really, Sir Hubert,” Dame Hartwell scolded, “this is becoming an unattractive habit, always losing your most important possession!”
He bristled. “A point of clarification, madam. I didn’t lose it this time. It disappeared.”
Edith frowned. “Disappeared, as in, it was visible and became invisible?”
Sir Hubert nodded. “I daresay the spirit is having their fun with me, though why they’re choosing me, and threatening you, Dame Hartwell, is befuddling.”
Dame Hartwell took this news with immense pleasure, and she colored prettily. “You’ve no idea? None that might make a certain spirit want to tease you and I?”
“A certain spirit?” Edith asked, thinking back to her séance.
Sir Hubert chose to remain silent.
“I mean Sir William, of course,” the dame said, impatiently.
“Are you certain, my lady?” Edith said. “He hasn’t shown himself to me.”
“Well, if it is Sir William,” Sir Hubert said, “he decided to show himself to me, in a fashion, by using my journal as a form of . . . of . . . spirit board.”
Edith and Dame Hartwell blinked at Sir Hubert, having no idea how this might have happened, and so he explained in a quick pantomime, and seemed very cross about it.
“So we don’t need to host the séance tonight after all,” Edith said, not bothering to hide her relief. She hid a yawn behind her hand.
“This is no time to shirk your duties,” the dame snapped. “You are the only medium at hand. Sir Hubert just said the spirit teased him with the very thing we’re searching for! Edith, really, where is your sense of accountability?”
“Likely at home with my common sense, my lady, for it’s clear that I’m sacrificing both to hone my spirit Sense.” Edith ignored the dame’s sidelong glare. Truly, did no one in this house care that she could hardly keep her eyes open?
“Couldn’t you call out to the ghost?” Sir Hubert asked. “See if they will come forth without a full séance? These spirits seem to just hang about this house. I hardly think we need to invite our list of suspects now.”
Edith breathed deeply, both to calm her frustration and clear her mind.
She had, thanks to the guidelines of Sir Hubert’s niece, learned how to turn on her Sense Sight by focusing just before a very intentional blink.
Doing so often turned the room inside out .
. . living souls dimmed and faded, and those who now habituated Beyond became bright lights of interest. The brighter the light, the more risk of malevolence.
“What do you see?” Dame Hartwell asked.
There between Dame Hartwell and Sir Hubert stood a spirit. His edges were a bit faded, as one might expect of a ghost tenured ten-years, or thereabouts. In his hands, he held the journal, and Edith sighed. So this ghost knew how to hide items until he wanted them visible to the un-Seeing eye.
How very convenient for him. How very tedious for Edith.
“Our thief,” she replied.