Page 24 of To Swoon and to Spar
“I don’t understand it,” he repeated, “but I intend to, at all costs.”
He returned to his inspection of the room then, leaving Jane to trail behind him, making a show of doing the same. All the while, she could not help a slightly uneasy thought from crossing her mind: This man might not be so easy to scare away.
Chapter Nine
A week later, Penvale wasworking in his study after dinner when he heard a fainttap, tap, tapagainst the window.
His desk was situated so that his back was to the set of windows that lined one wall, offering a view of the foggy green hills to the east of the estate. At the noise, Penvale started slightly, the movement sufficient to cause an ink blot to bloom on the letter he was writing, and he sighed in irritation as he turned to look behind him. Given that it was winter, it had been dark for hours, and Penvale had to lean close to the window, his hands cupped around his eyes and pressed against the glass to block the light from his study and offer any view of whatever may lay beyond.
After a moment’s futile squinting into the darkness, he decided perhaps the wind had knocked a pebble into the glass, and he turned back to his desk. He stared down at the letter—one to his solicitor in London, asking him to look into revising the leases of his tenant farmers to offer more favorable terms (his uncle had evidently revised the longstanding leases a few years earlier, when they had come up for renewal, and while this had netted a handsome profit for the estate, Penvale could not in good conscience allow the new leases to continue, though the change would be something of a strain on the estate’sfinances, at least in the short term). He grimaced at the blot of ink, debating whether he could be bothered to start the letter anew, when, once more, there was atap, tap, tap.
He dropped his pen entirely this time, rising from his seat and turning to try to catch a glimpse of anything in the blackness beyond the window. But just as soon as the noise had commenced, it ceased once more, leaving Penvale standing with his face pressed to the cold glass, unable to see much of anything, the only sounds the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the crackling of a fire in the grate.
Tick, tick, tick.
Penvale stared into the blackness for another long moment, suddenly conscious of how he, well lit by the candles and firelight in his study, must be perfectly visible to anyone lurking in the darkness outdoors, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the thought.
Tick, tick, tick.
And then, without warning: a bloodcurdling scream.
One that came not from beyond the windows but within the very walls of the house.
Penvale whirled around, his heart pounding a ragged beat in his chest. An empty room—a crackling fire—a ticking clock—
And nothing else. Nothing he could see that could have produced such a sound; no hidden alcove in which someone could have hidden.
One thing he knew for certain: He could not possibly be the only person who had heard that scream. He crossed the room in a few long strides, then set off down the corridor. He had not made it far before he stumbled across a pair of maids, both looking pale and wide-eyed and terrified.
“My lord—the scream—” one of them gasped, her voice tremulous.
“I heard it,” he assured her. “Have you seen Lady Penvale?”
“I believe she is upstairs in her morning room,” the other maid said, then added, “My lord, do you think there is truly a spirit haunting us?”
Penvale suppressed a sigh. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” he told her, and continued down the hall before she could say anything else. He rounded a corner but could make it no farther, letting out a faint grunt as curved, soft flesh collided with his chest and stomach. The glossy black hair provided quick identification. He reached out and seized her by the shoulders to steady her. “Jane.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “What are you doing?” she asked in tones of deepest suspicion, making Penvale feel like a burglar in his own home.
“Looking for you, actually,” he said, relishing the moment that followed in which she had no satisfactory reply. “Did you hear that scream just now?”
“I did,” she said. “It’s why I was running. Do you know where it came from?”
Penvale resisted the temptation to offer the first explanation that came to mind—the one that, logically, he knew couldn’t be true: that the scream had come from the house itself. Because that was absurd. Houses didn’t scream. Humans did.
“I’m not certain,” he said grimly. “But I intend to find out. Don’t you think it’s time we questioned the staff ourselves?”
Jane bit her lip, looking uncertain. “They all think it’s a ghost, you know.”
“Mostof them think it’s a ghost,” he corrected.
“So you truly don’t think—” Here she broke off with a shake of her head.
“I don’t think…?” he prompted, watching as she searched the corridor around them with an anxious expression, as though certainthat a ghost was going to emerge from one of the walls at any moment and bid them good evening.
“You don’t think there’s even the slightest chance that there mightactuallybe something… well…” She trailed off again, as if searching for the right word. “Unnaturalafoot?” Her gaze flicked up to him then, fleeting. Their eyes locked for a moment, hers seeming to search his for something, asking some question that he did not know how to answer.
“I do not,” he said firmly—more firmly than he would have been able to answer that question five minutes ago, standing in his empty study with his heart racing and the window at his back, acutely conscious of how truly isolated they were out here, on a remote Cornish cliff. In the wake of that shriek, he would have believed all sorts of things about this house.
