Page 31 of To Swoon and to Spar
“There was that, yes, and the fact that they were somewhat convinced you actively despised me.” He paused, his mouth twitching. “I can’t imagine what could possibly have given them that impression.”
Jane rolled her eyes as she poured a steaming cup of tea. “Yes, well, you’ve found me out, so they needn’t fret.”
“I’d already convinced myself that you didn’t hate me,” he assured her. “I’d simply come to the conclusion that you are like my sister and express affection primarily through antagonism. Indeed, under that assumption, I instead began to fear that you were desperately in love with me.”
Jane regarded him coolly before giving up and allowing him a small smile. “You’re funnier than you seem, you know,” she informed him.
“Am I?”
“When I met you, you seemed a bit… detached, I suppose. Not the type of man to joke. You just seemed so desperately focused on Trethwick Abbey… almost as if that drowned out everything else.”
He stared down into his drink. When he glanced back up at her, there was something raw and vulnerable in his expression that made Jane, in that moment, terribly grateful that she had grown comfortable enough around him not to avoid his eyes. It felt like a privilege, some sort of precious secret, to see his face like this.
“I suppose it did,” he said quietly. “Drown out everything else, I mean. It’s all I’ve wanted since my parents died. Diana was only five when it happened, so I don’t think she remembers much about them or Trethwick Abbey, but I do. I remember my mother and father—I wanted to be just like my father. And then he was gone, and we were sent away from here to live with relations who didn’t really want us, and I spent all my time just wishing—”
He broke off, and Jane offered hesitantly, “Wishing to come back?”
He shrugged helplessly. “What I really wanted was my old life back, but since that was impossible, I wanted the next best thing, and that was the estate. So as soon as I left Eton and went to Oxford, I started playing cards—it’s one of the few acceptable ways for a gentleman of my standing to earn an income, and a bunch of foxed university lads were easy enough marks. By the time I left Oxford, I was good enough that it began to feel like a real possibility, that I really could win enough money to, if I was careful with it, amass enough of a fortune to buy Trethwick Abbey. And for years, I didn’t think about much else.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now…?”
“Now what do you think about?”
He was silent for a moment. “The house. Our mysterious ghost. How to ensure the estate remains profitable.” Another pause, even longer. “How to avoid ruining the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.”
But what, Jane wondered suddenly, was he going to do now that he had it? Because his answer—all the thoughts that weighed on his mind—were not, she thought, enough to sustain a man for the rest of his life. He’d spent years with a single goal, but what did he want now?
She pondered this question as the innkeeper reappeared and presented them each with bowls of a hearty beef stew, along with a loaf ofcrusty bread. And she continued to ponder it as Penvale dove into his food like a man who’d been starved, rather than one she’d witnessed eat an entire rasher of bacon that very morning.
She was so lost in thought that it took her much longer to finish eating than it did him, and she looked up at one point to find that steady hazel gaze of his regarding her thoughtfully.
“What is it?” she asked, a bit self-conscious; she wondered how long he’d been watching her.
He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Would you like to go home?” he asked, ignoring her question entirely.
Her brow crinkled. “Don’t you want to linger in the village? Meet more people?”
He shrugged, a lazy, effortless gesture that somehow encapsulated the comfort he felt in his own body that she had never felt in hers. “The village will still be here next week,” he replied. “I’ve had enough for today.”
Jane couldn’t help but think that if she had not been with him, he would not have returned home so early.
Which meant he’d done it for her—because of whatever he’d observed of her that morning, whatever greater understanding he had gained.
And she wasn’t at all certain how she felt about this fact.
Chapter Eleven
In light of recent events, Jane decided it was time to go on the offensive.
She had felt unsettled for a couple of days after their trip into St. Anne’s and their lunchtime conversation, and she was certain that spending too much time in Penvale’s company was not wise, so she began making excuses to avoid him—having her breakfast sent to her bedchamber rather than dining in the breakfast room with him, spending long hours on walks around the estate when she knew he was at home. She wasn’t sure whether he noticed—he hadn’t said anything, and some small, easily denied part of her gave a pang at the thought that her absence hadn’t even been noted—but the important thing was that all this time alone gave her the opportunity to think.
It was time to escalate the haunting.
She was pleased that her scream in his study that day had seemed to rattle him, and it had been useful, in a sense: It had illuminated the fact that Penvale’s suspicions lay firmly on the staff rather than on her. Wasn’t this always the way of aristocrats? Blaming their underpaid workers for something when they couldn’t pin the blame on anyone else?
(Jane had noted reluctantly that Penvale had increased the salaries of every member of staff by a considerable degree as soon as he’d taken a look at the account books, but she chose to ignore that in favor of righteous indignation. This was her prerogative, after all. As a lady.)
