Page 53 of To Swoon and to Spar
His mind was full of such thoughts as he made his way back to his bedchamber, still half-expecting to turn the corner and find someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and scare the ever-loving hell out of him, but nothing of the sort occurred, and within a short amount of time, Penvale was standing before his own bedroom door once more, reaching out a hand to open it—
And then he paused.
He looked to the right, at Jane’s bedroom door.
He should let her sleep, he told himself. Jane was many things, but he didn’t think she’d taken to vanishing into solid walls, so shereasonably could not be to blame for tonight’s events. It wasn’t her fault she’d had the bad luck to marry a madman.
But still… curiosity beckoned.
And so, not feeling very gentlemanly at all, he reached out and, without so much as a knock announcing his presence, opened her door.
The sitting room was dark, the fire banked, and through the open door, he could see the foot of her bed, barely visible in the gloom. He crept forward on tiptoe, barely daring to breathe, until he stood in the doorway leading into the bedroom, peering toward the bed, and realized—
Jane was asleep. He stood in the doorway, processing the sight before him: Jane, curled up on her side in bed, that heavy fall of dark hair tumbling over one shoulder. Her arm was curled around her pillow, partially obscuring her face, but thisdidgive him a clear view of the nightgown she wore:
Plaid. A particularly hideous green-and-yellow plaid. Nothing remotely ghostly or ethereal about it.
Penvale felt like clutching his head in despair.
And then, as he turned to leave, he saw it:
A white nightgown, balled up and shoved beneath the cushion of an armchair.
He jerked his head around and regarded the sleeping figure in the bed for a long, silent moment before retreating silently from the room, and in the hours before sleep found him, he was unsurprised to note that the ghost did not moan once.
Chapter Eighteen
Being a ghost was exhausting.
Jane had newfound respect for all the spirits that inhabited the Gothic novels she’d read—the lost sleep! The running! The sepulchral wailing! It was, quite frankly, a lot for one person (or spirit) to juggle.
After three nights of leading Penvale on a midnight race through the halls of Trethwick Abbey, she was sorely ready for a bit of rest. The first night had been the most wearying—he’d been particularly relentless in his pursuit, and she’d begun to worry that she’d not be able to put enough distance between them to allow her to slip through the hidden door obscured by some rather clever paneling in a dark corner of the gallery. The next two nights had been a bit less draining. She’d kept the program of events largely the same—put on an old nightgown, waft carefully around the door of his bedroom until he caught sight of it, and then hastily scamper off, offering ghostly wails all the while—but he’d seemed less fervent in his pursuit after the first night.
Perhaps he was growing nervous at last? This was a promising development, if true; their house party was only a little over a fortnight away, and if she wished to make Penvale uneasy enough to call it off—or to perhaps confide in his friends regarding his ghostly troubles, thus discouraging them from visiting—then she had little time left.She wondered how many more evenings she’d need to don her white nightgown before her plan succeeded; Jane was not terribly athletic by nature and would be perfectly happy to never run again. Especially not in the dead of night, when she’d much rather be slumbering peacefully in her bed.
“Something wrong, Jane?”
Jane glanced up, having been so immersed in her thoughts that she hadn’t even heard him come in. She was in the library, sifting through stacks of books, trying to find ones that she thought the villagers might like. It was a beautiful, warm afternoon, and she’d opened the French doors that led out onto the terrace so that the salty sea breeze could blow in.
Penvale stood a few feet away, surveying her with a slight frown. He looked sun-kissed and a bit weary; his jacket had been discarded at some point, and he was clad in a shirt and waistcoat, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He tugged at his cravat to loosen it, and Jane’s eyes caught on this movement.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” she said, his question belatedly registering, even as her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on the skin at his throat that was now visible. “Why do you ask?”
“You were frowning,” he said, and she looked up at him in surprise, waiting for whatever joke was about to come out of his mouth—about how that was nothing out of the ordinary; about how he didn’t know why it should strike him as unusual; et cetera—but instead he looked faintly perplexed as he added, “It… it was different from your usual frowns.” He coughed a bit awkwardly as soon as he uttered this sentence, his eyes roaming around the room rather uncomfortably.
“I was just… thinking, I suppose.” She sat back on her heels,smoothing the skirt of her gown—a new one she’d acquired in town, made of white lawn. Penvale’s eyes followed the motion of her hands, and it only belatedly occurred to her that this gown was ever so slightly similar in appearance to the white nightgowns she’d worn for haunting purposes.
He took a few steps toward her, then lowered himself to the floor as well. This close, she could see a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and she wondered what he had been busy with outdoors.
“Are these for the village library?” he asked, plucking a book from the top of a teetering stack; it was a natural history of Cornwall, and he flipped through it, his brow furrowing faintly as he skimmed its pages. Jane liked that brow furrow, the faint line that was visible even when he wasn’t frowning.
“Yes,” she said. “The other books have been well received, so I thought I’d bring more. I inquired about the lease on one of the empty storefronts in town…” Here she trailed off, and Penvale glanced up inquisitively. “Well,” she said. “Apparently, the building belongs to you.”
Amusement sparked in his gaze. “Doesit? Should I drive a tough bargain in leasing it to you, then? I’m not as flush as I once was, you know—the extra coin could be helpful.”
She crossed her arms. “Penvale.”
His grin widened. “I’ll write to my solicitor in London—he has copies of all the deeds to various buildings that the estate owns. Once we have it in hand and can make certain there’s nothing odd about it, or an outstanding lease that needs to be sorted out, then it’s yours to do with as you wish.”
