Bella hung up hats and coats and had retreated down the hall to the stairs. I indicated the first room to our right. "If you wouldn't mind waiting in the drawing room," I said to Mr. Beaufort. "I need to speak to my sister for a moment."
The ghost bowed and did as I requested. "Celia," I said turning on her when he was no longer visible, "please don't ask him any questions about his death or haunting...or any morbid things."
"Why? We have a right to know more about the people we invite into our home, dead or alive."
"But it's so terribly..." Embarrassing. "...impolite."
"Nonsense. Now, why do you think he's here? To hire us perhaps?"
"I suppose so." I couldn't think of any other explanation.
"Good. Hopefully the other party can afford our fees." She tilted her chin up and plastered a calm smile on her face. "Come along," she said, "let's not keep him waiting."
Jacob Beaufort was studying the two framed daguerreotypes on our mantelpiece when we entered the drawing room. A small frown darkened his brow. "A handsome pair. Your parents?"
"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.