Ghost Talkers (14 page)

“I was thinking about the time in London when we did the charity circus.” Ben leaned against the wall, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Ginger smiled at the memory. Pretending to sleep, she could murmur to him, without everyone on the train thinking that she was mad. “You were very dashing in your loincloth.”

He threw his head back with laughter. “That is kind. I mostly recall being very cold.”

“I think that is how most of us felt. Do you remember poor Miss Porter's moment of horror when she realized what wearing a skirt on the trapeze meant?”

“You were very kind to trade acts with her.” Ben winked. “I will grant that some of my appreciation was because you did not trouble with a skirt on the trapeze.”

“I do have the most delightful memory of your face when I came out for rehearsal.” She had been terrified of having her legs exposed, but also a little thrilled. Watching Ben's jaw drop had been more than enough reward for her daring. “You made a valiant effort to look only at my face.”

Ben suffused with pink embarrassment. “Well … I was only successful at that when you were facing me.” He swallowed and wet his lips. “It is a good thing we were already acquainted, or my motives might have been susp—”

“There! That's finished and not too shabby, if I do say so myself.” Mrs. Richardson's voice made Ginger jump in her seat. The older woman had been occupied with her knitting since they left Le Havre. She held up an olive green muffler. “I've made you a new muffler, Pvt. Merrow.”

“Oh…” The young man tugged at the ragged brown wool wrapped around his neck. “Thank you but … but this is—fine.”

Mrs. Richardson frowned. “My dear … I know that servicemen don't make much money, and in these times there's not much opportunity to rekit.”

“It's just…” He plucked at the muffler, which had loose stitches dangling from it. “It's just that my niece made it. To bring me luck, she said.”

“Oh. Well, that explains the—” Mrs. Richardson broke off, but Ginger could still see her opinion of the shoddy knitting as a sour patch on her aura. Still, the older woman smiled and patted Merrow on the knee. “How about some socks, then?”

“Thank you, ma'am.” He ducked his head. “That—that would be very kind.”

“Good. Now to find a home for this.” Mrs. Richardson sat forward and tapped the soldier sitting in front of them on the shoulder. Doing so, she reached through Ben, and, with the reminder that no one else could see him, the few illusions Ginger had been able to create about the nature of their trip snapped. “Excuse me, young man? I noticed you shivering. Would you like a muffler?”

The soldier turned, his brows drawn together in confusion. “A muffler?”

Ben appeared to lean against the wall in front of Ginger. Until Mrs. Richardson had asked the soldier about his shivers, Ginger had been able to pretend that the man in front of them was simply cold. But in July, his chills came from the parts of Ben that passed through him.

Ginger stood. “I am going to stretch my legs.”

Surrounded by the flower of Britain, all these young men who were alive while Ben was not, was too much. Before she began to scream, she had to move. She did not wish any of them dead, and yet … and yet.

She pushed into the aisle, stepping over the rucksacks that leaned against the seats. How many of these men would speak to Helen, or someone else at Potter's Field, by the end of the month? By the end of the week? Tonight?

The cool breath of Ben trailed behind her. Ginger braced herself against the swaying movement of the train as she worked her way back. If she could just stand on the platform, the fresh air would do her some good.

In Potter's Field, the soldiers came in reconciled to their deaths due to the nature of the conditioning that had been laid upon them. But none of these men had any real concept that they would die, and, given the course of the war thus far, probably only a handful would see England again without a wound.

A man stood up in front of her. “Pardon, ma'am. You're in the Spirit Corps, aren't you?”

“I—why do you ask?” She took a step backward before she could stop herself and shivered as Ben enveloped her. The man wasn't asking if she was a medium. The mundane version of the Spirit Corps had hospitality huts all through the arenas of war. Potter's Field was the only one with mediums. She was wearing her Spirit Corps uniform still, so there was nothing sinister in his question.

“I know you ladies just serve tea and all, and … this is an imposition, but it would mean a lot to me. I didn't get to kiss my sweetheart good-bye.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I close my eyes, and have you kiss my cheek? And pretend?”

All the deferred kisses this war produced, and most of them would never be collected. “Of course.”

He closed his eyes and turned his head, holding on to a seat for balance. Ginger rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. It was lightly stubbled and smelled of cheap soap. He was taller than Ben and had straight hair of an in-between brown.

Ginger whispered, “Be safe.”

“Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, and he turned away without looking at her, but not before Ginger saw that the rims of his eyes had grown red.

“Me, too!” Another man popped up out of his seat. Skinny and with freckles under close-cropped red hair, he winked at Ginger. “Just plant it right here.” He leaned toward her, laying a finger on his cheek.

“I'm next!” Behind Ginger, a soldier tapped her on the shoulder. Built like a bulldog, he had an upturned nose that wrinkled when he grinned at her.

A breeze ruffled the bulldog's tie. Ginger glanced into the spirit realm. Ben stood with his hands clenched into fists, twice the size he usually was, with red shuddering out of him.

“Please don't.” She put out her hand as if that could stop Ben. If he poltergeisted here, she did not have the circle to calm him again.

“I would very much like a body.” Ben growled and shoved his hands through one of the men.

The soldier who had asked first stood up again. “Hey—hey, fellows. Leave the lady alone. She was just being nice.”

“I just want her to be nice to me too,” the freckled soldier said.

The bulldog nodded and glanced around the car. “A kiss is all we want, right, fellas?”

A roar of agreement went up around Ginger. She ground her teeth together. Of all the stupid things. Where the devil was their commanding officer? No doubt riding in the first-class cars.

The first man shook his head. “Come on—”

Chuckling, the bulldog glanced around him and other men from his unit stood.

“Gentlemen, I am but one woman.” She held out her hands in placation. “Please understand that kisses are outside our normal purview. When you arrive in Amiens, my fellow sisters of the Spirit Corps will be happy to make you feel welcome in any other way.”

“Going straight to the front.”

“That's right.”

“You're our last chance.”

“Then I'm afraid that, with behaviour like this, you have no chance at all.” Oh, but her tongue was going to get her into trouble someday. Likely today. Ginger tried to slide past the bulldog so she could return to her seat.

“Hey.” He put his arms across the aisle and held on to a seat on both sides. “I asked nice.”

At the front of the car, Pvt. Merrow stood up. He straightened his coat and walked back to Ginger. “Let—let her pass.”

The bulldog glanced over his shoulder. His aura did not even flicker at the sight of Merrow, who had to be two stone lighter than him at least. “Beat it, kid.”

“No.” Merrow licked his lips and swallowed. “This is your only warning. Act like—like a gentleman and let her pass.”

The bulldog and his fellows laughed. Oddly, Ben laughed too. “They have no idea…”

No idea about…? And then Merrow moved with a speed and fluidity that astonished Ginger. It was not boxing, or any other sport she had ever seen. Two quick strikes with the edge of his palm broke the bulldog's grip on the seat. Another strike with a flat hand spun the man, whose eyes had widened as his aura flared with red anger.

Merrow grabbed the bulldog's arm, pulling the man toward him, and then flipped him over his shoulder and dropped him over the bench, in the laps of his fellows. They went down in a tangled mass.

Straightening, Merrow tugged his uniform until it was tidy and stepped to the side, blocking them long enough for Ginger to pass. As the men began to stagger to their feet, the other soldiers, who had been content to watch, filled the aisle and stopped them from reaching Ginger and Merrow.

She sat down, shaking a little, between Mrs. Richardson and the wall. The older woman gave Merrow a hug when he sank into the seat. “Oh, well done, young man.”

“I've never seen anything like it.” Ginger glanced to the back of the train. “How did you do that?”

“It's—It's called bartitsu. I … I read about it in a Sherlock Holmes story, and then it turned out it was a real sport, so I found a teacher and … I'm a little guy. This…” He spread his hands, which were shaking, and gave a shy grin. “You didn't—you didn't think Captain Harford kept me around for my looks, did you?”

Ben leaned against the wall, aura unruffled again, and grinned. “Tell him I kept him around for his pluck. The bartitsu was a bonus.”

 

Chapter Twelve

When they disembarked from the train in Amiens, Ginger realized how much the sound of the engine had been masking the guns. She had been able to hear them, of course. Even in Le Havre, the battery range had been like distant thunder.

Here though, her very bones vibrated. Mrs. Richardson flinched at a particularly loud explosion, although her aura did not show any alarm.

The soldier to whom she'd given the green muffler paused by them. “That's one of ours. Nothing to be worried about.”

“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Richardson patted him on the arm and winked at Ginger. “Now, do take care of yourself, and if you write to me, I'll mail you some socks as well.”

Ginger stifled a smile, as the older woman had deftly detained him as a shield while the bulldog and his cronies disembarked. There had been no more incidents on the train, but the crush of the platform would make a casual shove very easy. Ranks of smartly uniformed men disembarked from the train, clean and ready for duty. Standing on the platform waiting to board were bedraggled rows of soldiers covered in dirt and smoke, unshaven and unwashed. Amid these unwashed masses wove an unexpected scent of musk and honey.

Beside her, Ben suddenly stiffened.

“Miss Stuyvesant, is that you?” Familiar aristocratic tones cut through the hubbub in a timbre strikingly like Ben's. “By Jove, it is.”

With a smile, Ginger turned to meet Reginald Harford. “Captain. How do you do?”

“Very well indeed, if you're here.” The tall blond man peered past her toward the train. His hair was perfectly pomaded, and his cheeks shone as if he had come straight from the barber. “Where's Ben? Off struggling to manage all your luggage?”

She had thought to break the news gently, but his comment changed her mind. “He's dead.”

Reginald gave a laugh and then stopped. His aura went white with shock. “You're serious.”

Ben leaned close to Ginger and murmured, as though anyone else could hear him, “Don't tell him that I—well, not survived exactly, but that I am a presence still.”

She hadn't planned to. It didn't matter how shocked Reginald's aura looked, she didn't trust him further than she could throw him. “The explosions at camp 463.”

He reached up as though to pull a hat from his head in respect, but his head was already bare. “Devil of a thing.” Reginald glanced around the platform. “And you are here to … forgive me if this is indelicate, but there won't be a body to view.”

“I … I know.” Ginger plucked at the strap of her rucksack. “His parents asked me to collect his belongings.”

Reginald scowled. “I hadn't realized how little they trusted me.” He brushed the words out of the air, though he could not erase the discontent from his aura. She could hardly blame him. It had not occurred to her until just that moment that Reg might receive Ben's belongings. “Forgive me. That was unnecessary. Of course they would want you to have his things. And I would be a cad if I let you carry on alone.”

“I'm not—”

“Johnson!” Reginald stepped to the side and called past Ginger. “Escort Miss Stuyvesant to HQ and then— Where are you staying, Miss Stuyvesant?”

“At the…” She trailed off. The solder, Johnson, was the bulldog from the train. “At the Spirit Corps lodgings. And truly, I have Ben's batman with me, so I shan't need a guide.”

“That runt, Merrow?” Reginald barked a laugh. “Ben would want me to look out for you.”

“No, really. I wouldn't.” Ben ran a finger down Reginald's back, making him shudder.

“I am well provided for already.”

“It's war, Miss Stuyvesant. I know that all you Spirit Corps ladies see is the dancing and tea in the hospitality rooms, but trust me. You'll want a man with you. I'd come myself, but I have to get these misfits to the front.”

“Then, please, take all of your men with you. I do not require Johnson in the least.”

“I insist.”

“And yet, I have already declined.” Ginger offered her hand. “I wish you the best at the front, Captain.”

Chuckling, he bowed over her hand. “The red hair should have been a clue that you'd be a firebrand.”

Ben circled his cousin. “God. And he's going to inherit the estate. He'll run it into the ground by the time he's thirty.”

“Captain … where is your hat?”

“What?” Reginald straightened, a hand going to his head. “Never wear the thing, if I can help it.”