Page 5 of Giving Up The Ghost
Charlotte’s expression was guarded. “They’re our family heirlooms. It is always a bit unsettling to think of them as artifacts,” she admitted. “They’ve always been in our possession, never in a museum or collection.”
Her defensiveness was understandable but also surprising. “I never thought otherwise,” I protested.
“Of course. I was just getting tea started. I’m sure you’re hungry after so much travel.”
Oscar linked his arm through hers and the pair of them trotted up the sparkly steps and disappeared into the house.
Charlotte closed the door behind them.
“Uh…”
“I’ll bet folding money she locked it too,” Ezra muttered, shouldering his duffel bag. “C’mon. Let’s get inside before she deigns to allow us to sleep in the dog run tonight.”
CHAPTER 2
OSCAR
“Ireally must apologize. I meant to go to the shops earlier, but time got away from me. I’m afraid what I’d planned for tea might be a bit too thin for four people.” Charlotte stirred a pot of broccoli cheese soup with a sort of loose grace that made me think of a heron, with her fine bones and quick movements. “I hadn’t planned…”
“Oh, we’re not fussy,” I said, brushing Charlotte’s polite concern aside as I stepped past her to peer into the fridge. “There’s stuff for sandwiches. It should go with the soup, I’d think!”
Charlotte’s smile was stiff, as was her nod. Embarrassed, I thought. “Of course. Soup and sandwiches. Classic tea, right? I’m afraid that, for all our English ways compared to our neighbors in Rouen, tea is something I’ve never quite mastered. The meal, I mean.”
“It’s my favorite meal of the day,” I admitted blithely. Charlotte winced as the cabinet I’d opened slammed shut by accident, gunshot loud in the small kitchen. “Shit, sorry!”
Her smile then was tight and small, and she busied herself with the soup again, doing her utmost to avoid looking at me.“It is nothing. Nerves. It has been a very busy month or so, between travel and organizing things.”
Ah. Nerves. Nerves, I got. Lord knows Istillfelt pangs of nausea before a séance, or whenever I remembered the camera was pointed right at me on filming days. “It’s my turn to apologize,” I offered. “It was an accident, but I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”
She brushed my concerns off with a very Gallic shrug as she moved the soup off the hob. “Eh, I’m just so used to the quiet. Maman always said I needed to be around the living more,” she added with a tiny chuckle. “Get too into my own head.”
“Kindred spirits,” I said with a quick grin in her direction. “Grandmere often told me the same thing.”
“Maman said Violet did not care much for this residence, which is a shame. It’s quite beautiful, in its simple way, and very old. Historic,” she corrected with a small smile. “I’ve found several little graffiti hidden on some of the outbuildings. So and so, 1891. L-heart-Y, 1901.” She giggled at that, pressing her fingers to her lips for a moment, holding in her pleasure at her discoveries. Clearing her throat, she made a dusting gesture with one hand, brushing away the amusement as she added in a more serious tone, “Seeing it all in situ like that, the weight of the history… it’s heavy but not unpleasant. Nadine and I lived in Rouen. There are many old homes there that are broken up into apartments. Or, ah, flats? Yes, flats. Some, they are in historic homes. Not part of the national scheme, obviously, but old and valuable.” She shrugged again. “So, we could not live there, as other distant family had them open to tourism and the graduate students. Still,” she sniffed again, an affectation that would get annoying soon I wagered. “It was always very important to me that I knew our truth. Living in our little place in Rouen, it was frustrating at times, being so removed from our roots. Being here, knowing that the Fellowes family has not only kept it in their hands but still lives in it?” She sighed. “We were—are—very proud of our history, yes? As Fellowes, and as mediums.”
A twinge of guilt burned my throat as I nodded. During our emails, then later texts and messenger chats, Charlotte had not let on much about her personal circumstances other than she and her daughter, Nadine, both lived in Rouen. And they were both working to keep the family history intact and alive. Should I have known, I wondered, that things did not seem to be so well for them? “Your daughter—Nadine, right? She’s helping you?”
Charlotte’s expression was arrested for just one moment, then she nodded furiously. “She’s going to be so sad to have missed your visit. She was keen to meet you, Oscar. She’s heard so much about you, not only from the bits of media you’ve popped up in, but thanks to the community of mediums as well, yes? You’re very well known.”
“Ah, well. That’s… that’s kind of what led me here,” I admitted dryly. “I’m well known to everyone but myself.” My tone was light but the knowing look she sent me told me it was also transparent. I hadn’t exactly been subtle in my later emails with her, hungry for information about my family and our long line of mediums.
Maybe I’d come off as desperate but, when we weren’t face to face, I didn’t much care. Now, standing in the kitchen just feet away from this cousin of mine, I was starting to feel a creeping sort of awkwardness that was going to spill out in a ramble soon if I didn’t get my shit together.
Ezra’s laugh followed by the low murmur of Julian’s voice reached down the stairs and into the kitchen. Charlotte glanced towards the door, her smile fading fast as she wiped her hands on her trousers and motioned for me to join her at the worktop to help prepare the sandwiches. “Speaking of our relatives, I have something to show you. Well. Many somethings. Which is your entire reason to be here, yes?”
Her laugh sounded forced and taut, mocking. My stomach executed a lazy flip at the sound, a pang of seven-year-old Oscar being mocked from the sidelines at sports day still lodged firmly in my chest. So I smiled in return and returned her earlier shrug. “I suppose so. You know, I haven’t been here in ages. When Grandmere was alive, she didn’t like coming here much. Grandfather did—he said it was quiet and he could think better here than at their home in London or, well, any of their other properties, but Grandmere…” I trailed off, gazing around the refurbished kitchen that still managed to complement the original structure of the house. “I have a bit of a memory of Grandmere choosing the fittings for the kitchen. It was just before Grandfather died.”
Charlotte’s hands stilled. “He died here, did he not? In the study.”
“Fell asleep, never woke up,” I murmured. “I wasn’t here. He’d come down on business, from what I remember. Grandmother never liked much to talk about his passing. Which, considering our line of work, is a bit ironic, hm? She’d talk to other people’s dead often. But her own?” I reached out and took a piece of lettuce from the plate by Charlotte’s hand, biting into it for something to do, something to keep from babbling more than any actual hunger.
“Sometimes,” Charlotte said slowly, not looking up from the plate of sandwich fixings before her, “when we are close to the spirits, it becomes exponentially more difficult to communicate. We know them too well. And when they do not respond as we would expect them to, it becomes… Hm. Problematic? Is that the word I want?”
I crunched the lettuce leaf, her words tumbling about and finding purchase as I considered that. “Has that been your experience?” It hadn’t been mine. The memory of my encounter with Grandmere during our summer holiday still sat heavily with me, outweighing all the times I’d tried to reach my parents and failed.Maybe there’s a trick to it Grandmere never taught me.
Charlotte finally darted a glance my way. Her cheeks were very pink, and the set of her mouth screamed embarrassment. “My own abilities are nowhere near yours,” she murmured. “The few spirits I’ve been able to communicate with… It has been unsatisfying for both parties.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
