Page 54 of To Swoon and to Spar
“I—” She broke off awkwardly. “Thank you,” she said a bit feebly, because what else did one say to a man who had just given one an entire building? Her childhood dreams had been sufficiently modestto match her upbringing: She supposed she would marry and raise a family, though she had little familiarity with what a happy, close-knit family life would look like. If she did not wed, she might become a governess—it was one of the few respectable professions open to a woman of gentle breeding but limited funds. Never had she imagined the grandeur of her life at Trethwick Abbey; even after she had come to live there, it had not seemed possible that it could one day be her home in truth. She had thought that prospect too marvelous to contemplate, until she had determined to make it so—and to now be granted this additional gift, one she had not even thought to dream for herself…
She didn’t quite know what to say.
He regarded her for a long moment. “You are my wife, Jane,” he said simply. “If there is something you wish of me, you need merely ask.”
There was something about his tone that set her on edge—some wary, watchful quality to his voice, or his demeanor, or both. She got the impression that he was saying one thing but intending to convey a whole host of other things at the same time.
She opened her mouth to reply, to perhaps ask him what, precisely, he meant—
When there was a sudden bloodcurdling scream.
Jane and Penvale both jumped; for a moment, there was no sound beyond their breathing, coming considerably quicker as they sat frozen in place, staring at each other, wide-eyed.
“What was that?” she breathed, her heart still pounding fiercely in her chest.
“You don’t know?” he asked her, and she lifted a brow at him in reply, daring him to outright accuse her of something.
With that single question, she understood one thing with complete clarity:
Heknew.
Of course she should have realized it. What sort of fool was she to think she could convince a man that his house was haunted, of all things? Husbands—or at leastherhusband—were not nearly as easily spooked as they were in the pages of Gothic novels, and it was not as though a woman in a white nightgown looked precisely like a ghost, anyway. (She assumed; she had never been personally acquainted with a ghost and could not say for certain.)
Before she could reply—or wait to see if he’d say something further—there came a loudthump,remarkably similar to the sound from the wardrobe overturning above Penvale’s bedroom a couple of months earlier.
They both glanced at the ceiling, then sprang to their feet.
“How strange,” Penvale murmured, and itwasstrange, since Jane had not arranged it.
This had happened before, when they’d heard the baby’s wails; at the time, her inquiries among the staff had led nowhere, and she’d put the matter out of her mind, but this was taking things too far. She was—obviously—not opposed to staging a haunting, but she did like to beawareof when the ghost was going to put in an appearance.
Without a word, she brushed past Penvale to the doorway, then up the side staircase next to the library. She emerged on the third floor, which was largely unused; the portrait gallery occupied one wing, and a number of well-appointed guest rooms made up much of the rest of the floor, the furniture covered by sheets, waiting to be aired out in advance of their house party.
Jane paused as Penvale ascended the steps, coming to a halt next to her. They stood in silence in the hallway, listening for any sound of the mysterious noises that had summoned them, and then—
Thump.
Penvale jerked his head to the left. “That way,” he murmured, striking off down the hall, and Jane trailed behind him. He came to a halt before a door, but before he could open it, another loudthumpsounded; evidently, that was enough to spur him to action, for he reached out to seize the doorknob and yanked the door open.
Within, the room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn, the furniture appearing as strange lumps concealed under fabric, the overall impression one of a space that was somewhat forgotten.
Anotherthump—not as loud this time.
“Did you hear that?” Jane asked.
“I did,” he said, turning to scan the furniture, the shadows—nothing that, on the surface, looked out of the ordinary.
“I think it came from the wardrobe,” Jane said, nodding in the direction of the wardrobe in question, pushed into a corner.
“The wardrobe,” Penvale repeated, regarding it skeptically. “I suppose I should check inside.” He did not sound terribly enthused about the prospect, and Jane could not blame him; even for the least superstitious of men, there was something decidedly unpleasant about the thought of peering into a dark wardrobe with no notion of what he might find inside.
By the time Penvale made it a few feet in the direction of said wardrobe, however, there was another ominousthump—one that had come from the opposite wall. Penvale paused. “That did not come from the wardrobe.” He turned to Jane, and all at once, Jane didn’t know what to say. Because he was right; ithadn’tcome from the wardrobe. It had come from the portion of wall that she knew hid a staircase, and where, she assumed, a member of staff was hiding at this very moment, intent on causing some sort of mischief.
“No?” she said weakly.
“No,” he said, walking slowly toward her. Their gazes caught and held in the dim light, the silence between them full of the questions and accusations that Jane knew must be simmering within him, ready to burst out—
And then, suddenly, another earsplitting scream.
