Page 18 of Unforeseen Affairs (The Sedleys #6)

Oh, but it is too cruel—I’ve a new frock and no leave to go out and enjoy myself. Abdon says he’s asked for your help in proving that devious medium’s accusation false. I pray you succeed, as I might go mad, locked up in here! Then no one of any merit would want to meet me, even if it were allowed.

She’d underlined of any merit in a heavy, confident stroke. Colin dropped his hand, with the letter, to his lap.

Aside from his parents and his doctor, he’d not told anyone of his difficulties, so he knew he ought not put much stock in Alice’s words.

But even still, his head throbbed with discomfort, recalling his father’s grave words: Some will think you unfit for service.

Some may think you’ve lost your senses. Colin knew the unspoken meaning—that his father would fail to acknowledge him, were Colin to fall to madness.

He took a steadying breath, then set back to reading.

She’d filled the rest of the page in her compact hand, mostly with the humdrum minutiae of her daily routine.

Details he had little interest in, such as what they’d dined on, the card games she’d endured, what she’d read, and the news that their tabby had produced a healthy litter and what she’d named each of the kittens.

He did actually enjoy that last bit, and felt some disappointment that he’d not have the chance to call on the Pearces and see the six little balls of fluff.

Ah well , he thought, setting the letter aside.

Alice’s tone hadn’t been that of one separated from her lover by circumstance; rather, it was more like that of a neighbor recounting the village goings-on. But they were young still. There would be time for romance, once Colin had fixed this mess with Beaky, and then the one with his own head.

Remembering his promise to Miss Sedley, he reached for a blank sheet of paper and pen. After thinking for a minute, he began to write.

To the esteemed Mr. Bass …

“Does your father not worry? What about your stepmother?”

Charlotte started at the sound of Mrs. Stone’s tiny, warbling voice, but managed not to show it. Slowly she rose from the floor, where she’d been working her way through a box of papers and correspondence she’d found tucked away in the shop’s storeroom.

“And in your stepmother’s condition. One would think they should prefer you at home, to assist her.”

“Assist her?” Charlotte raised a brow.

For all her inclinations toward enlightened thinking, sometimes Mrs. Stone could be positively primitive about roles and responsibilities. She even refused to allow Charlotte to refer to her as Elsie, deeming it far too familiar for their respective positions.

“Hm.” Mrs. Stone nodded, her expression severe.

“And what condition do you suppose her to have? That she’s carrying another child?”

Mrs. Stone flushed in confirmation, then turned away.

“She hasn’t said anything about that.”

“Oh, she will,” Mrs. Stone said, a bit absentmindedly. “You shall see.”

With a hard glare at the box of papers Charlotte had been occupied with, Mrs. Stone returned to the front of the shop, where she resumed noisily shuffling objects about the shelves under the guise of dusting.

While Charlotte—much to her chagrin—possessed no talent for mediumship herself, she did have two eyes and a brain, and could handily read the people around her.

Mrs. Stone had been prickly for weeks, ever since the blasted spirit circle where she’d been subverted by the flashy wheedling of Thaddeus Taggart Bass, though she would never in a hundred years admit that he had gotten to her.

Which was why Charlotte refrained from telling Mrs. Stone of her quest to ruin him.

Or that she planned to do it with the help of Sir Colin Gearing, who thought Charlotte “pretty” and “charming.”

She settled back onto the floor, tucking her skirts neatly around herself.

He’d said those things, quite openly and without subterfuge.

She lifted another sheaf of papers from the box: letters, handwritten pages of observations, copies of The Spiritualist and other, more provincial newspapers.

As she sifted through them, she allowed her mind to wander back to the memory of their exchange at the café.

Without anyone in the room to see her, she indulged in a wide grin.

Sir Colin thought her pretty. And he, as a matter of fact, was handsome.

Charlotte knew she ought not let that cloud her judgment of him, but the pleasantness of his appearance extended to his personality.

He was also, unlike most of the other young men she tended to meet, not some foolish cur or indifferent fortune hunter.

She couldn’t help but like him all the more for it.

When one was as inscrutable and introspective as Charlotte, friendships were rare, and admiration rarer still.

Perhaps that was another reason she’d cottoned to Mrs. Stone, outside of being drawn to her talent. For she was nearly as reticent as Charlotte.

Mrs. Stone had, in fact, attempted to shoo Charlotte away several times over the course of their acquaintance. She was a tiny, prickly hedgehog of a woman, a widow who was unwilling to allow anyone to get too close to her. Was it because she could foresee what was to come?

A few papers fell from the bottom of the stack, scattering as they hit the floorboards.

Or , Charlotte mused as she gathered them back up, Mrs. Stone could not help but dwell on the past, ruminating on those who had betrayed her.

As she gathered the papers she had dropped, the top one caught her eye.

She’d never heard of it, and she considered herself familiar with the modest number of papers that comprised the spiritualist press.

The Carlisle Transference , proclaimed its masthead in heavy block letters, with the date below it in smaller type: March 1859 .

Something about it called to her, beckoning her to examine it more closely. Never one to resist her own curiosity, Charlotte set aside the other items and began to read.

She gave a cursory glance to the advertisements on the front.

Tailor and habit maker. Liberal discount for cash.

Likely some hack who sewed massive pockets into fake mediums’ skirts.

And below that: The best book for enquirers.

2nd Edition. Where Are the Dead? Or, Spiritualism Explained.

That one amused her. Where were the dead, indeed?

If such a thing were common knowledge, none of these books and newspapers would exist.

From out in the front of the shop she heard the door open, along with faint voices as Mrs. Stone greeted a customer.

Charlotte turned the page. There was a dry essay about the nature of the soul, as well as meeting notes from the Cumbrian Spiritualist Society recounting a debate over whether or not to raise their dues to a guinea a year—a price that seemed awfully dear, especially considering the paper was nearly twenty years old.

She turned the page again, and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

Another Case of Clairvoyance from Miss Wilson , read one headline. The author wrote:

I recently had the privilege of attending a circle featuring the young Miss Elspeth Wilson and her sponsor, one Mr. Thaddeus Taggart Bass—a handsome man, and a promising medium himself besides. We met at—

Suddenly she heard approaching footsteps. Charlotte folded the paper and hastily stuck it under her arm before shoving the box out of view.

“Miss Sedley?”

Mrs. Stone appeared before her, wearing a tight expression.

Behind her stood Sir Colin, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder in the direction of the shop.

“Sir Colin Gearing is here,” Mrs. Stone explained, as if Charlotte could not see him standing right there. “He informs me that you instructed him to meet you.”

“That’s right,” Charlotte said flatly.

“Meet him here ,” Mrs. Stone said, hissing the last word.

“Yes.”

“The Black Candle is not intended to be a social meeting place.”

“I’m aware.”

“It is a place for serious learning.”

Charlotte said nothing.

“I allow you to come and go as you please, and even accept your assistance when needed,” Mrs. Stone continued, her voice pitching even higher than usual. “But you are no medium in your own right; you are a young lady of means. And your father will be asking after you—”

“What?” Charlotte said, suddenly alert. “Has he spoken with you?”

“If I may—” Sir Colin piped up, stepping forward confidently, hat in hand.

“I can assure you, Mrs. Stone, that there is nothing untoward happening between Miss Sedley and myself. This is not…” He flushed, but only slightly—enough to add to, rather than detract from, his plea.

“This is no lovers’ assignation, or anything of the sort.

I inquired with Miss Sedley about certain aspects of spirit communication, and she very graciously offered her expertise. ”

Mrs. Stone looked as skeptical as ever, but then she stepped back, quite suddenly as if she’d seen a ghost. She glanced to Charlotte, her pale eyes wide, and then to Sir Colin again.

She had seen something.

A spark of excitement skittered through Charlotte. What is it? she wanted to beg, resisting the urge to seize Mrs. Stone’s hand. She could not do that in Sir Colin’s presence.

Then Mrs. Stone’s expression softened, and her posture relaxed. “Who am I to… very well, very well. Carry on, then. Do not mind my presence.”

She turned to bustle back to the front of the shop, then paused before Sir Colin, stretching her miniscule height to its maximum to peer more closely at his face.

“Your brother… he’d a stutter as a child, did he not?”

Sir Colin went white.

“A stutter?”

Mrs. Stone took this as confirmation.

“So I thought,” she murmured, nodding to herself. And then she left.

Sir Colin stared at the door long after Mrs. Stone had shut it behind her.