Page 21 of To Swoon and to Spar
Candelabra in hand, he walked to the door and turned to her, repeating her words: “Shall we?”
A couple of minutes later, they were side by side in the doorway of a spare room on the third floor, staring at a wardrobe which had been upended onto its side.
“That’s… odd,” Jane said. She had to play this carefully—she didn’t want to give the impression that she was trying to lead him to any particular conclusion, but instead merely hoped that he was intelligent (or at least observant) enough to notice a couple of carefully considered details.
“Wardrobes of that size don’t spontaneously tip over,” Penvale said, frowning as he entered the room. He glanced down at his feet, about to take another step, and then paused. “And look—there aren’t any footprints.”
He pointed down at the floor where, sure enough, the dust at his feet lay undisturbed. Jane felt quite pleased with herself—this had been her idea. She’d pointed out that ghosts couldn’t very well leave footprints, as she and Mrs. Ash had been going over the specifics of the plan. When Mrs. Ash had suggested they clean the entire room beforehand to eliminate any dust, Jane instead struck upon the idea of enlisting the help of McGinty, one of the stable hands who had often mentioned his eagerness to play a role in the scheme—and who was, crucially, famous across the county for his height. He’d been able to take a long enough step into the room so that his footprint would be in the section of dust on the floor that would be disturbed by the impact from the wardrobe. Then all he had to do was hop back out without brushing away any of the remaining dust. It had been rather clever, Jane thought, and she was pleased that Penvale had noticed.
He shook his head after a moment. “Someone must have been in here,” he pronounced.
“But if there aren’t any—”
“Wardrobes do not simply topple over of their own accord,” he informed her a bit shortly, and she was happy to detect a faint note of frustration in his voice.
“No,” she agreed slowly.
“So, logically, someone on staff must have pushed it.” He said this with the air of a man who believed that if he spoke calmly and logically enough, everything around him would fall in line with his reasoning.
“Unless…” Jane trailed off, biting her lip.
Penvale fixed her with an impatient look. “Unless?”
“Well.” Jane folded her hands neatly before her. “It’s just… there have been so many odd things. Lately.”
“Jane.” Penvale shook his head. “You cannot possibly think—what, that there’s truly some sort ofghostlurking in the halls of Trethwick Abbey?” There was an edge of laughter to his voice, and Jane was suddenly very, very determined to see this man unsettled.
“You haven’t been here,” she retorted. “You don’t know what it’s like—the long nights, the wailing winds. The moon obscured by clouds. Shadows everywhere. It’s downright eerie.”
“You’ve just described a series of weather patterns,” he said dryly. “Hardly evidence of a supernatural presence.”
“If you can find a member of the household staff who mysteriously doesn’t leave any footprints when they walk, I’d be delighted to hear all about it,” Jane shot back.
Penvale crossed his arms over his chest, watching her for a moment. Jane darted a glance at his face and saw that his expression was a cross between amused and… pensive, somehow. He was regarding her as though uncertain whether to take her seriously. She scowled back at him.
After a long moment, he sighed. “All right. I won’t jump to any conclusions about any of the servants—”
Jane breathed a soft sigh of relief.
“—if,”he added, and she froze, instantly on guard once more, “you will agree to conduct a thorough search of the house with me tomorrow.”
She regarded him suspiciously, then offered a stiff nod. “All right, then.”
“Excellent.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his expression suddenly weary. “Then for now, let’s see our way back to bed.” He gestured in the direction of the door, allowing Jane to pass through it ahead of him, but she did not miss the long, considering glance he gave the wardrobe and the thick layer of dust on the floor before he followed her.
Chapter Eight
It was with an extraspring in her step the next morning that Jane asked Hastey to dress her in one of the new gowns she’d acquired in town—this one made of a fetching red wool, with a cape to match. She had slept well the night before, the evening’s excitement sufficiently wearying to ensure a deep, dreamless slumber, and she was eager to continue with her plans. She hastened downstairs to breakfast only to find that Penvale had already dined and vanished; she was just lingering over a final cup of tea after eating when he appeared with ruddy cheeks and the smell of cold sea air clinging to his coat.
“Where have you been?” she asked as he dropped into the seat next to her, leaning forward to fill a cup with coffee from the fresh pot that had just been placed before him on the table.
“Walking,” he said. “The cliff path needs some attention—some of the gravel is eroding, and it’s a bit dangerous in spots. I’ll speak to Cresswick about it.”
“That’s very industrious of you,” she said slowly, taking a sip of tea.
Penvale gave her an inscrutable look. “It’s my estate,” he said. “It’s my responsibility to keep it in good condition.”
Jane took another sip of tea to hide whatever expression was on herface. She had not expected, upon meeting him in town, that he would care so much for all the small details that running Trethwick Abbey would entail, and for the people who worked on its land. She’d thought he wanted the house simply because it was his birthright; she had not considered the possibility that he might care for it beyond the status it conferred. This thought made her decidedly uneasy.
