I've finally entered the inner sanctum of Ruskin House and met the mysterious silent partner, but instead of reassuring me, the experience has left me shaken.
The room is lit by gas wall sconces and everything from the furnishings to the man sitting before me appears to be from another time.
I often joked with my friend, Jake, that the organization reminded me of a Victorian counting house, but I never suspected that it actually was.
“No need to be afraid, Grant," the man from the past reassures me. "I’m sure you’ve noticed by now I cast no shadow. I’m not merely a silent partner, but a phantom one as well.”
He eyes me narrowly gauging my response. I refuse to flinch.
“Care for some port?” A glass slides across the coffee table and a bottle pops its cork. It floats several feet through the air to decant two ounces into my glass.
I shakily lift the glass to my lips, readily drink it all and feet the liquid warming me as it goes down.
The spirit smiles indulgently. “A wise decision to fortify yourself, my boy.”
He has a gaunt Abraham Lincoln face—complete with grizzled hair and beard and a long aquiline nose that gives him the air of a patrician.
“Are you really a ghost?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, I am unfortunately, physically challenged. In life, I was Anthony Ashley-Cooper, 7th Earl of Shaftesbury. Now that I’m dead, I’m doing in death what I did in life—I’m a philanthropist and social reformer. I like to help people.”
I stammer, “Then, you’re the foundation’s secret benefactor?”
He shrugs. “I amassed a considerable fortune in my life—mind you, when I was young I was, neither wise, nor good, nor useful, but as I went on I’d like to think I made a difference.”
“When did you live?”
“I was born in 1801 and passed in 1885.”
“My God, you’re over two hundred years old!”
“Well, I see myself in my mid-eighties, but I suppose you’re right. Time does fly when you’re on the other side.”
My mind is whirling trying to make sense of something totally incomprehensible.
“You know Dickens admired me—I worked to enact child labor laws, help chimney sweeps and boot blacks. Then, I worked with the Church Missionary Society and supported the work of Florence Nightingale. Unhappily, I died while trying to curb the opium trade.”
“So then, why not just enter your deserved rest, Anthony?”
“Well, some souls do rest, if their life work is over—but mine was still unfinished. I couldn’t rest. One day Alfred New visited my family estate in Dorset, and stayed overnight. I found he was a sensitive—he could actually see me. We conversed, discovered we shared the same passion for helping the poor, and so I accompanied him back here, and the result is Ruskin House.”
I smile at him warmly. “That’s very admirable.”
“Alfred told me he saw the same light in you, Grant. So, if that’s the case, and pardon the pun, but why are you so willing to give up the ghost?”
I decided to be frank with him.
“To tell the truth, Anthony, I’m smitten with Jeannie, but she doesn’t seem to know I exist. I don't see much point in staying on here only to be tortured by having her ignore me”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s the case at all, my boy—quite the contrary.”
“I hate to disagree, but if Jeannie Church even knows I’m alive, I’d be surprised.”
The old man shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “But that’s just it, Grant—she’s well aware you’re alive—but unfortunately, she isn’t.”
My jaw drops as I sit there thunder-struck. It's one thing to work for a ghost but quite another thing to be infatuated with a wraith.
I begin trembling and my knees turn to jelly.
What did I let myself in for—joining a company of ghosts?
