Page 33 of To Swoon and to Spar
“It’s… it’s inconvenient,” he said, sounding so indignant that Janewas tempted to laugh. “What if one had plans and then one was stuck at home? What if there was somewhere you badly needed to be? It’s a bloody headache.”
Jane glanced at him, and then her gaze lingered for a moment. He was so terribly practical, utterly unsentimental. What did the loveliness of softly falling snow matter if it got in the way of whatever he had planned for the day? How could such a man, she wondered, ever truly appreciate the wild beauty of this place?
Despite the chill, Jane remained in the ballroom for several long minutes after Penvale murmured an excuse and departed, contemplating the realization she had made. If they were likely to be trapped at Trethwick Abbey for a few days, with no one able to reach them, this was a perfect opportunity—the best she was likely to receive, in fact.
She turned on her heel and set off with brisk steps in search of Mrs. Ash. It was time for their ghost to become a bit more active.
Penvale had retired early, in a dark mood. It had snowed all afternoon and well into the evening, though the rate of snowfall appeared to be slackening once he returned to his chamber and drew his curtains tight against the night. He’d dismissed Snood, his valet, after changing into a shirt and breeches, and stood moodily before a roaring fire, a glass of claret in hand.
The wind gave a particularly fierce howl outside, and the fire emitted a loud crack. Penvale took a sip of wine, staring unseeingly into the flames. There was another howl, louder this time, sounding almost human in its mournful wail. Penvale felt the hairs on the back of hisarms stand up. He lifted his wineglass to his mouth again, then froze as another howl began, even louder and closer.
And he realized after a moment that this noise was not coming from the direction of the window, as might be expected, given the storm outside.
No, this howl came from behind him—as if from deep within the house’s walls.
Penvale turned slowly, not moving from his spot by the fire, and surveyed the room before him. It was quiet and still, a few candles flickering in sconces on the walls.
And then, with no warning, that same eerie wail.
Penvale frowned and took a few steps in the direction he thought it had come from before the connecting door burst open and Jane tumbled through.
“What was that?” she gasped. Penvale couldn’t be certain in the dim light, but he thought she looked paler than usual. She was already dressed for bed in one of her damned high-necked nightgowns, though this one, at least, wasn’t flannel, and she had a violet dressing gown thrown over it that brought out the startling shade of her eyes. “Did you hear that noise?”
“Last I checked, my ears were still attached to my head,” he said dryly, “so yes.”
She gave him a dark look, but he felt pleased that, for once, he was not the only one wandering the house in pursuit of odd noises, half certain he was losing his mind. This noise, just now, he had assuredly not imagined; Jane’s appearance merely confirmed that fact.
“Where did it come from?” she asked, walking farther into the room and turning in a slow circle to take in her surroundings.
“I’m not certain—that direction, I think,” he said, nodding at thewall on the far side of the room, beyond which lay the hallway. Jane inclined her head to one side as if to catch the sound of some sort of supernatural presence. “You needn’t strain yourself,” he said. “If it happens again, I promise you’ll be able to hear it.” He hoped his tone masked the slight unease that lingered, despite the fact that he currently had a steady mental monologue informing him that there had to be a rational explanation, one that most likely involved a bored servant. He crossed to the door, opening it and poking his head out into the hallway, which was, predictably, dark and still.
He turned back to Jane. “I’m going to take a walk—care to join me?”
This time she was the one who seized the candelabra.
They had proceeded only a few feet down the hall when they heard it again, more clearly this time: a long eerie wail, louder than the storm howling outdoors. Penvale tilted his head, then turned on his heel, making for the doors to the library at the end of the hall. “Don’t you think it came from this direction?” he asked over his shoulder as Jane trailed him at a slower pace.
“I… I believe so,” she said, sounding a bit uncertain. Penvale flung open the doors to the library and entered the room, dark and full of shadows cast by the looming shelves and various pieces of furniture. On clear nights, the moonlight spilling through the windows lining one wall offered a fair degree of light, but in tonight’s storm it was difficult to see much beyond the pool of light cast by the candles in Jane’s hand. Penvale stood in the center of the room, turning in a slow circle, and then—
“Aaaaaaaoooooooooooo.”
Jane jumped, making the candlelight flicker; this was gratifying, given that Penvale had started quite violently himself. The noise had come from the interior eastern wall.
“What could possibly have caused that?” Jane asked, sounding a bit unnerved.
“I don’t know,” Penvale admitted. He slowly approached the wall he’d focused his attention on, which was papered in a rich shade of green, featuring a faint pattern of leaves in a lighter green that repeated in intricate detail every few feet. Feeling somewhat foolish, he leaned forward and pressed his ear against the wall.
“Do you hear anything?”
Jane’s voice was in his ear, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck. Penvale—being a skeptical, dignified sort of man—jumped approximately a foot in the air and said,“Jesus Christ.”
“Sorry!” Jane said, holding up her hands defensively as he turned to glare at her. “How could you possibly not have heard me behind you?”
“I waslistening,” he informed her, his heart thudding unpleasantly in his chest.
“For what?” she asked.
“For…” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t have a good answer. For ghosts? For mice? What, precisely, did he expect to hear as he stood here with his head pressed against awall,of all things? “For suspicious noises,” he finished, a bit pathetically.
