Authors: Sarah M. Eden
“Then how did I manage to convince you to take pity on me and host this ghost-condemned gathering with nothing more than a letter?”
“I am afraid your words were smiling, my dear Nickolas.” She laughed, emphasizing the cheery nature of her lightly lined face. “And you flattered my feminine vanity quite unabashedly. How could I resist? It helped, of course, that you were inviting us to your new
Welsh
estate. Mr. Davis could hardly resist welcoming his pseudo-nephew to his own homeland.”
Mr. Davis was excessively Welsh, something Nickolas had realized within thirty seconds of meeting his friend’s father. The gentleman, who had most likely descended from Welsh warrior stock, swelled with pride whenever his native land was mentioned in conversation and took on a very defensive nature should the comments be unfavorable. Nickolas had managed to look entirely pleased with the location of his windfall when he’d mentioned his good fortune to the Davis family.
“We’ll make a Welshman of you yet, Nickolas,” Mr. Davis had said, slapping him on the back. The gentleman had nodded his approval repeatedly since arriving earlier that day. He’d spoken to Mrs. Baines in Welsh, bringing the first smile to that woman’s face since the house party had been proposed a fortnight earlier.
Mrs. Davis was as English as they came, hailing from Essex. She had, however, come to love Wales nearly as much as her husband, even agreeing to bestow Welsh names on their children, though choosing names that her relatives would be able to pronounce.
“I will admit, Mrs. Davis”—Nickolas lowered his voice conspiratorially—“I was not particularly excited about the location of my new home when I first learned of it. I am finding, however, that Wales is growing on me.”
“Ah, yes.” Mrs. Davis sighed. “It does that.”
The peaceful quiet of the home was quite suddenly rent by a horrified scream.
Chapter Four
Nickolas ran frantically up the stairs toward the source of the disruption, Mrs. Davis hard on his heels. A second cry followed the first, and though less panic-ridden, it was still worrisome.
He turned down the corridor that led to the guest wing to find all three Castletons gathered outside Miss Castleton’s room, the lady in question enfolded in her father’s arms and appearing quite disconcerted.
“Calm yourself, Charlotte,” Mr. Castleton instructed his daughter. “What has overset you so entirely?”
“There was someone in my room,” was the shaky reply.
Mr. Castleton patted her back. “One of the maids—”
“No, Papa. Not a maid. Someone . . . someone else.” She motioned toward the open door to the exquisite white bedroom. “By the window. In a white dress. She was . . . f-f-floating!”
“Floating?” Mrs. Castleton looked shocked, perhaps a touch embarrassed.
“Floating?” Mr. Castleton echoed his wife, but with a tone far more intrigued and excited.
“And shimmery.” Miss Castleton’s voice shook more with each word.
Mr. Castleton turned his eyes toward Nickolas. “Do you have a resident ghost, Mr. Pritchard?”
The man looked positively gleeful. Nickolas barely refrained from staring. “There is a legend about a ghost at Tŷ Mynydd, I understand,” he answered diplomatically. But Mr. Castleton did not look satisfied with that explanation. “I am not overly acquainted with the details,” Nickolas pressed on. Was the man truly so excited about a ghost story? “Our local vicar, Mr. Evans, will be joining us this evening. He could, I am certain, provide all the details you desire.”
“Splendid, splendid.” Mr. Castleton put his daughter from him and moved eagerly into the bedchamber she had fled only moments earlier. The man actually rubbed his hands together in anticipation. So much for paternal concern.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Castleton?” Nickolas asked his delightful houseguest, who still appeared a bit overset.
She nodded, her eyes wide. It would have been a perfect opportunity to offer what comfort and consolation he could, but with her mother standing beside her, such a thing hardly seemed appropriate.
“Would you consider your privacy overly invaded if I were to make a quick inspection of your room—with your parents here, of course—to make certain all is well?”
“I would appreciate that.” Miss Castleton nodded, having already attached herself to her mother rather firmly and still looking very nearly undone.
Nickolas wondered fleetingly if Miss Castleton was always so chickenhearted. He dismissed the thought as uncharitable, especially when he considered a few tangible benefits of having a ladywife who regularly threw herself into his waiting and comforting arms. He felt certain his smile had grown.
Feeling rather like a hero worthy of an epic poem or two, Nickolas stepped into the room he’d chosen for his damsel in distress.
He made a quick visual sweep of the room but found no one lurking in the corners, other than Mr. Castleton and Miss Castleton’s noticeably confused abigail. He certainly encountered not a single person
floating
about or
shimmering
.
Nickolas turned toward the silent abigail. “Did you happen to see what it was that startled your mistress?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. I had only just stepped out on my way below stairs. I came back when I heard her . . . er . . .”
Obviously she worried Nickolas would condemn her mistress’s outburst as an excess of sensibility or perhaps a dearth of understanding. He smiled at her, and she blushed, dropping her efforts to explain.
Nickolas tipped his head to one side, eying the window hangings rather closely. They were white, just as Miss Castleton had described the dress worn by her imagined visitor. And when the sunlight hit them just right, the curtains did seem to shimmer. He glanced quickly at the bottoms of the curtains. As he’d expected, they ended several inches from the floor, as if floating above the ground.
He crossed to the window. It was the slightest bit open, no doubt the reason for the occasional rustling of the fabric. Nickolas pulled the window shut, convinced that would put an end to their difficulty.
“I shall ask your vicar about this ghost of yours,” Mr. Castleton declared, peeking behind one of the sheer bed curtains. “Int’resting things, ghosts.”
Nickolas couldn’t recall ever seeing Mr. Castleton so animated. Ironic that his first positive response from the gentleman was on a topic they saw so differently from one another.
“I am certain Mr. Evans will be delighted to discuss her with you.”
Dafydd would be thrilled. He would enjoy crowing over the subject if yet another individual was taking his side.
Mr. Castleton rubbed his hands again as he left, obviously reluctantly. Nickolas followed him but stopped at the doorway, glancing back into the room. With the way the shadows played across the window hangings, Nickolas could easily see how Miss Castleton could have thought she’d seen someone there, especially if a light breeze had helped further the belief of movement.
Miss Castleton still stood in the corridor with her hand clasping her mother’s arm, watching Nickolas as he emerged.
“Did you find anything, Mr. Pritchard?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“I believe so. I think the right combination of light and shadows, coupled with a breeze coming through the open window, may have given a very convincing impression of a person floating near the window.”
“Then, perhaps there was not a ghost in my room at all?” The hopefulness in her tone was unmistakable.
“That is precisely what I think.”
She breathed a sigh of relief and gazed at him with what Nickolas smugly interpreted as something akin to hero worship or admiration. He silently thanked the imaginary ghost and the ease with which its lack of existence was explained.
“Thank you, Mr. Pritchard,” Miss Castleton said.
He smiled at her. “It was my pleasure. I will leave you to settle in.”
Mrs. Castleton accompanied her daughter inside the room the moment Nickolas left it.
“Well done, Nickolas,” Mrs. Davis whispered. “You smoothed over that potential difficulty and managed to offer at least a half dozen of the famous Nickolas Pritchard smiles. No doubt you have made a conquest there.”
“Let us hope so.”
“The wind blows that way, does it?”
“The wind blows in one direction only, I fear,” Nickolas answered. “Mr. and Mrs. Castleton seldom gave me a second glance before my inheritance. I hadn’t the means to support a wife, you see.”
“As I well know,” Mrs. Davis reminded him. “And you are not offended at being accepted now only because of your sudden inheritance?”
Nickolas shrugged, not overly concerned. “I cannot blame her parents for worrying over her future.”
Mrs. Davis gave him a searching look, as if she didn’t quite believe his declaration.
Nickolas laughed in spite of himself. “If you wish to be offended for me,” he said, “then I will not discourage you. But I assure you, I am not in the least upset over their shift of opinion. After all, I doubt they disapproved of me
personally
, only what my circumstances were at the time. And as I disapproved of my poverty as well, I certainly cannot fault them for feeling the same way.”
Mrs. Davis laughed too. “What an absurd thing to say.”
“One of my talents, as you know well.”
They continued companionably toward the sitting room. Nickolas could not imagine being more at ease with his own mother if she had lived beyond his childhood. It was a nice feeling. He hoped his own children would feel the same way with their mother. The thought made him smile all the more.
“I assume you will receive a jaw-me-dead from your housekeeper over this debacle,” Mrs. Davis said just before they joined their other guests. “She does seem rather unconcerned over your position as her employer and the risk she takes by offending you.”
“She has learned that I am not easily offended. And, yes, she will ring a very smug peal over my head. You see, I was warned not to house any of my guests in that particular bedchamber.”
“Were you?” Mrs. Davis looked intrigued.
“It has, apparently, been previously claimed by our ghost,” Nickolas explained, feeling a laugh emerging again.
“What a waste of a remarkably beautiful room.” Mrs. Davis appeared appropriately outraged and amused. “I am personally pleased you have chosen to place Miss Castleton there. She will be suitably impressed with your home.”
Nickolas grinned. “My hope exactly.”
“Let us further hope, then, that she does not fancy herself in the presence of a ghost in the future. While her father seemed quite excited at the prospect of a specter, I do not think Miss Castleton shared his enthusiasm.”
“I am not worried,” Nickolas answered. “As there is not actually a ghost, I doubt we shall have any further problems on that score.”
He smiled anew at the thought of Dafydd sleeping in The Tower. That victory Nickolas would happily and loudly crow over. He felt absolutely certain his house party would be an unmitigated success.
* * *
How dare he!
For perhaps the millionth time during her interminable tenure haunting the remains of her childhood home, Gwen rued the fact that she did not have the ability to inflict painful curses on unfeeling people. Else Nickolas Pritchard—whom she had discovered was as
un
-Welsh as possible for someone who was a direct descendant of her own very Welsh grandfather—would have found himself suffering all manner of afflictions for
that
little trick.
No long-suffering haunt should be expected to float through her own bedroom window and find a stranger there. Unpacking. Settling in as if she had every intention of remaining. It was not to be borne!
Gwen had not intended to show herself to the poor creature. She’d come into the room fully visible only because she hadn’t been expecting company.
“A pox on Nickolas Pritchard!” she declared with all the fury she could muster.
Had he not acted badly enough, inviting so many strangers to her home—without so much as a word to her, mind you! She quickly cast aside the realization that they had not as yet met, and therefore, securing her blessing would indeed have been difficult. Someone blasted well should have said something to her. She was well known to nearly everyone else in and around Tŷ Mynydd. But no one had bothered.