An Unlikely Match (5 page)

Then to discover how very English they were, with the pleasant exception of the Davis family, of course. Such a circumstance was not to be taken lightly. Had the English not cost her enough already? Must she now make room for them here? It was all she could do to keep from rattling the walls with her frustration.

Englishmen were positively dripping from the eaves throughout the rest of the house. But she would not have one in her room. Granted, the young lady seemed amiable enough, even if Mr. Pritchard was intent on making a complete and utter cake of himself over her. Oh yes, Gwen had seen him flash that smile of his at her, had seen how his eyes became half hooded when he looked in Miss Castleton’s direction. It was pathetic, really.

Gwen sped through the walls until she reached Mr. Pritchard’s suite. She would talk to him herself, demand that he remove the interloper from her bedchamber. If she kicked up enough of a gale, rattled the windows, shook the furniture, that sort of thing, he would likely acquiesce. The recently departed Mr. Prichard had sniveled and whimpered in corners whenever she’d attempted to speak sensibly with him. So she’d been forced to use a more take-charge approach, simply making decisions for him and then insisting he follow through with them.

Theirs had not been a comfortable coexistence.

The Prichards were a predictable lot when looked at with a perspective of just over four centuries. On the extreme ends of the spectrum, they produced men who were either hard warrior types or crying babies. There had been one Mr. Cafael Prichard in the eighteenth century whom she’d actually had to knock upside the head with a piece of the family armor, he being one of those ridiculously combatant Prichards. It was a very fortunate circumstance, indeed, that she could kick up quite a wind when need be, as that was her sole means of moving anything.

Where would Mr. Nickolas Pritchard fit on the scale? His line had broken off of the main family line during Cafael Prichard’s time, Nickolas’s forebear being Cafael’s younger brother, Padrig. He’d married an English lass, much to everyone’s consternation, and hied himself across the border, where he and his had remained until just a few weeks ago. Gwen remembered Padrig well. He had been far more amiable than his brother, more inclined to smile and laugh, which had annoyed his brother and father to no end. She had missed Padrig but had acknowledged he was probably far happier where he was.

The current Mr. Pritchard had all the family traits mingled in his blood in some combination or another. Gwen had not yet decided where to classify Tŷ Mynydd’s new owner—except to classify him as insensitive, unfeeling, and horrid! Giving her room to a stranger. And an English stranger, at that!

She was fairly fuming again. Gwen rushed through the closed door of the master’s bedchamber, ready to do battle. She stopped in an instant. Mr. Pritchard was in a semishocking state of dishabille. He was in the process of pulling on a crisp, white shirt but had, thankfully, already donned everything else necessary for the most basic degree of modesty.

Gwen muttered a very unladylike word, forgetting in her shock to keep her utterance silent.

Shirt fluttering into place, Mr. Pritchard glanced around the room, brow creased in confusion. Gwen had never been happier to be invisible. Being caught invading a man’s privacy so entirely was not the best way to secure said man’s respect and adherence to one’s suggestions. Not to mention the fact that if ghosts were capable of it, she’d be blushing horribly.

Bother!
No doubt she’d be forced to cosh him upside the head. She so disliked having to be the horribly frightening ghost of Tŷ Mynydd. She had hoped that after enduring the late Mr. Prichard for several decades, the fates would see fit to reward her patience with a master who was far easier to work with at Tŷ Mynydd.

But
this
Mr. Pritchard, with his inordinate fondness for
T
’s and his English friends and his complete lack of respect for the bedchamber she’d worked so hard to make perfect, was a specimen for which she found herself entirely unprepared. He unsettled her in ways no one else had. If her instinct proved right, and it usually did, he was neither combative nor cowardly. But there was something distinctly uncomfortable about being near him.

Mr. Pritchard had turned his attention back to his toilette. His valet reentered the room, hovering nearby with a waistcoat at the ready, while Mr. Pritchard expertly fashioned his neckcloth. Gwen knew she should have left the moment she realized he wasn’t entirely turned out for the evening, but he’d regained his modesty so quickly that the need to step out no longer existed.

She moved closer, debating whether or not she should speak to him, whether or not she should make herself visible. She’d never waited so long before. Somehow, it didn’t seem like the right moment. The idea, in fact, made her inarguably nervous.

Mr. Pritchard stopped halfway through the creation of his
trone d’amour
, a look of confusion on his face. “Did you hear something, Gramble?” Mr. Pritchard asked his valet.

“Hear something, sir?”

“Like . . . movement.”

“No, sir.” The valet glanced around the room anxiously, the way new arrivals often did after learning a ghost haunted the house.

Mr. Pritchard made a dismissive noise but still appeared unconvinced. He turned his attention back to his cravat. Gwen slowly slipped back out of the room. She wouldn’t approach him yet. But she would have Miss Castleton out of her room by fair means or foul.

That room was all she had left.

Chapter Five

“You are the vicar?” It was as close to a greeting as Mr. Castleton was likely to give.

Dafydd managed to wipe all traces of amusement from his face, though Nickolas knew him well enough to see the twinkle in his eyes. “I am, sir,” he replied, even as Nickolas arrived at his side to make the appropriate introductions. The moment names had been exchanged, Mr. Castleton resumed his previous line of conversation with his usual abruptness.

“Tell me what you know of this ghost, Mr. Evans.”

Dafydd gave Nickolas a look he interpreted without any difficulty: he was wondering if Nickolas had already admitted defeat in their friendly wager.

“Not a chance,” Nickolas whispered.

His good friend, Griffith Davis, stood near enough to hear. He looked between Nickolas and Dafydd a moment. “It seems you’ve discussed this ghost with the vicar before.”

Nickolas smiled. “Yes, and Dafydd wrongly assumes he can make me believe in all that stuff and nonsense.”

Griffith had never been the overly talkative sort, but his thoughts showed plainly on his face. His mouth turned in amusement, even as one eyebrow arched with interest. He was obviously looking forward to the battle of wills Nickolas and Dafydd had thrown themselves into.

Nickolas leaned against the mantel to listen to Dafydd’s tale. He’d heard very little of the story behind the “ghost” that had caused him so many headaches over the past fortnight.

“There is an entire legend attached to the lady ghost at Tŷ Mynydd.” Dafydd spoke with his usual affability. He spared Nickolas a fleeting look of mischief then added, “Perhaps we would be well advised to reserve the telling until the ladies have joined us. After dinner, perhaps?”

“Excellent notion,” Mr. Davis said. “A good Welsh tale would be just the thing.”

Dafydd nodded. “And it is, I assure you, a
very
Welsh tale. Owain Glyndŵr himself even plays a part.”

Mr. Davis’s eyes, as well as Griffith’s, spread wide at the name of the legendary Welshman. Other than Shakespeare’s rather eccentric portrayal of the man, Nickolas knew very little about Glyndŵr. But if he knew Dafydd, which, by now, he felt he did, it would be a diverting tale.

Mr. Castleton looked on the verge of protesting the delay when the arrival of the ladies put paid to his objections. Mrs. Davis and her daughter, Alys, came in first. Mrs. Castleton entered next, her delightful daughter beside her. Nickolas smiled when he saw her, as he always did.

He quickly did his duty as host, introducing Dafydd to the new arrivals. As Mr. Davis had been, Mrs. Davis seemed pleased by the vicar’s obvious Welsh-ness, his name and accent making his heritage indisputable. Mrs. Castleton was civil and very nearly friendly but seemed to have dismissed the young vicar almost the moment they’d been made known to one another, precisely the same manner of disregard to which Nickolas himself had been subjected before his inheritance. Despite not feeling offended for himself when he’d been on the receiving end, Nickolas found himself a bit affronted on his friend’s behalf.

Miss Castleton, he knew, could be counted on to be charming and not high in the instep as her parents could be at times. He was surprised, therefore, when she allowed Dafydd to bow over her hand but spared him only a passing glance before moving away. She didn’t say a word.

Dafydd, Nickolas noted, raised an eyebrow at this pointed dismissal but did not seem offended. If his friend could take this treatment in stride, Nickolas assured himself he could as well. It was, however, a complication he hadn’t foreseen. Dafydd would be joining them each evening, the vicarage being a very easy distance from the house. Nickolas sincerely hoped the Castletons would improve in civility.

The group sat to dinner formally, that being Mrs. Davis’s preference, which placed Miss Castleton halfway down the table, much to Nickolas’s dissatisfaction. It was a small gathering, but she sat far enough away to make conversation between them difficult, if not entirely impossible. Dafydd sat directly to Miss Castleton’s right but didn’t seem to be faring any better conversationally. She responded to his queries and comments with as few words as seemingly possible. Nickolas felt bad for them both. Obviously each would be more comfortable in the company of someone else. Nickolas fancied himself the
someone else
Miss Castleton would prefer.

Perhaps Alys would make a pleasant companion for Dafydd. Nickolas thought better of it almost immediately. Alys was painfully quiet. He didn’t think she’d spoken to him more than a few dozen times in all the years he’d known her. She was more likely to keep to herself.

There was no opportunity for further pondering. Sooner than Nickolas would have expected, the group assembled in the drawing room. The gentlemen had declined to remain behind over port in light of the legend Dafydd had promised the group. Nickolas very nearly laughed out loud. How many anticipated believing the tale, and how many were simply looking forward to an enjoyable interlude?

Griffith sat next to Nickolas and shot him a look of exaggerated solemnity. “The vicar said Owain Glyndŵr is part of this tale. Yours is a very well-connected ghost.”

“There is no ghost.” He felt certain Griffith knew that perfectly well but still wasn’t going to let it drop without needling him as much as possible.

“You also said there was no menagerie at the Tower of London.”

Nickolas shook his head at the memory. “That was a very long time ago. And I had never been to London. Surely you can excuse that mistake on the grounds of ignorance.”

Griffith shrugged. “Perhaps ignorance is the issue here as well.”

“I have a feeling, Griffith, that you and Dafydd will be firmly allied against me in this by the end of the evening.”

A sly smile slid over his friend’s face. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

The small party had all settled in. Dafydd obligingly stood before the fireplace, looking not at all like a vicar. He more closely resembled a mischievous schoolboy preparing to deliver a round tale to his schoolmaster. He looked far too pleased with his position when he glanced briefly at Nickolas.
Drat the man
. Nickolas silently chuckled. Dafydd was gloating at the upper hand he had gained in their wager.

“In the days of Henry IV,” Dafydd began almost theatrically, “Owain Glyndŵr, proclaimed Prince of Wales by his countrymen, rose up in rebellion against the English rule of his homeland. Battles were won and lost, castles and fortifications were sieged—sometimes conquered, sometimes forfeited. But one Glyndŵr stronghold was never ceded to the English. The Welsh uprising found invincibility within its walls. In the mighty battle waged for control of the fortress, only one life was lost: Gwenllian ferch Cadoc ap Richard of Y Castell.”

“It was a castle, then?” Mr. Davis asked. “
Y Castell
is ‘the castle’ in Welsh,” he added for the benefit of his more ignorant fellow guests and his extremely ignorant host.

Nickolas nodded. He had surmised as much from several conversations he’d had with Mrs. Baines.

“A well-fortified and strategically placed castle,” Dafydd confirmed. “Owain Glyndŵr knew this and knew that Henry would realize it as well. Having a devoted ally in Cadoc ap Richard, master of Y Castell, Glyndŵr sent word that Y Castell was under no circumstances to fall to the English. Cadoc vowed he and his people would burn the castle to the ground before handing it over to the enemies of the cause to which he’d sworn his allegiance.”