Page 72 of To Swoon and to Spar
“What is it to you, then?” Jane asked, crossing her arms defensively. “You’ve not come here to tell me that you’re actually desperately fond of me and the thought of a London Season without my presence is too much for you to bear.”
Diana let out a hoot of laughter. “You may not believe me, but I find myself growing fonder of you by the day,” she said, giving Jane an approving sort of look. “But more important is the fact that I’ve been watching you, and I’ve been watching my brother, and much as it pains me to admit, I’m quite convinced you two are in love with each other and too stupid to work it out on your own.”
Unsurprisingly, Jane thought, Diana could not manage even a single sentence concerning a matter of great import and emotional weight without sliding in an insult to accompany it.
Diana rose to her feet abruptly, evidently weary of the entire conversation, then gazed at Jane for a long moment. “My brother is not very good at sharing the contents of his heart, Jane—it is a trait common to the Bourne family, I suspect. But I should hate if that failing were to make both of you unhappy.”
She departed without another word, leaving Jane alone with her thoughts—a state that was not nearly as restful as it had been even a couple of months before.
At one point, a maid poked a timid head into the room, saying that the viscount was making ready to depart and requested her presence downstairs; Jane, still feeling entirely unsettled—by the events of the night before, and Penvale’s announcement at the breakfast table, and her conversation with Diana—pleaded a headache and was left in peace.
And by the time she emerged from the library, they had gone, a note from Penvale promising to write from London all that remained in their wake.
In the days that followed, Jane did her best to fling herself into matters that had gone neglected during the past fortnight—she made a few trips into the village, delivering baskets of books, making arrangements to have the shutters painted on the little storefront she had decided to turn into the village library.
She tried to enjoy her present situation, which was, after all, the one she had often longed for: She was mistress of Trethwick Abbey in truth, not merely as a matter of convenience; the master of the house was nowhere to be found, nor did she have any reason to expect his presence any time soon; it was a warm, glorious spring, and there was no lovelier place on earth to be than the Cornish coast in such mild weather; she had all the uninterrupted reading time she could possibly wish for, even. It should have been bliss.
Jane was miserable.
At first she told herself she was merely weary from the excitement of the preceding weeks; then that she was overwhelmed by the tasks she’d left unattended during the house party. Even once she was forced to unhappily concede that it was Penvale’s absence causing her misery, she concocted all sorts of stories to explain the sensation: She’d grown used to his presence, and she disliked change; he was helpful to have around in case she encountered a spider; she very much wanted to kiss him again. All these things were true (except the bit about the spider; he had not proved very helpful with that), and yet within aweek she had to admit that none of them was therealreason she missed Penvale.
She missed him for himself.
It was dreadful.
It was as she was contemplating this matter, about a week after Penvale had left, that Mrs. Ash found her in the morning room. Jane had continued her habit of retreating here after breakfast with a book in hand, but she found herself curiously listless of late, the book more often than not lying unopened on her lap as she gazed out the window at the distant hills. It was a beautiful day, mild enough that Jane was pondering making her way to the library so that she might open the French doors that led onto the terrace, but before she could make any moves in that direction, Mrs. Ash appeared at the doorway.
“Mrs. Ash,” Jane said, mustering a smile; she thought that the housekeeper had been watching her more intently than usual of late, though every time she glanced in the woman’s direction, she found her looking elsewhere. Still, she felt the weight of a motherly worry whenever she was in Mrs. Ash’s presence, which was both oddly comforting and had the effect of making her feel vaguely guilty for being its cause.
“My lady.” Mrs. Ash bobbed a curtsey, which still felt strange to Jane, despite it having been nearly four months since her marriage. “I wondered if I might have a word?”
“Certainly.” Jane frowned; now that she looked more closely, Mrs. Ash appeared decidedly unhappy, almost distraught. What on earth could be the matter? Now that she no longer had frequent nightly bits of theater to arrange, Jane would have expected her housekeeper to appear well rested and cheerful, but that certainly was not the case this morning. Dark shadows were visible under the other woman’seyes; she was no longer in her prime, but she’d never looked old to Jane. Not until now.
“Mrs. Ash, please sit down,” Jane said, rising to take her housekeeper by the elbow and guide her into the seat next to hers. “Something is clearly troubling you—please, tell me what it is and how I may help.”
Mrs. Ash stared down at her hands before bursting out, “It’s my fault the viscount left!”
Jane blinked. “Mrs. Ash—”
“And now you’re upset, and it’s all my doing, even though I was only trying to help!” Mrs. Ash was not the hysterical sort—she radiated steady English common sense, even at the most trying of moments—but with these words, her voice took on a pitch that Jane had never heard from her.
“What do you mean?” Jane asked quietly, deciding that at least one of them needed to remain somewhat calm. “You can hardly be blamed for Lord Penvale’s departure, not unless—” She broke off abruptly. “Oh.”
Oh. Of course. She should have realized it instantly, the moment there was a single visit from their ghost that she had not orchestrated. She’d been too distracted by other matters to give it much thought—she supposed she’d thought it was one of the young errand boys or footmen having a laugh—but the answer should have been obvious.
“You are the reason for the scream during the house party,” she said. A statement, not a question; the misery on Mrs. Ash’s face was its own confirmation even before she nodded her assent.
“All right,” Jane said, taking a deep breath. “Would you care to explain why?”
“I thought I was helping,” Mrs. Ash whispered. “We all becamerather fond of the new viscount, don’t you see? He’s nothing at all like his uncle—Crowe says he’s just like his father, honorable through and through. He treats the staff well. He takes care of his tenants. He’s kind, even if he doesn’t look like it at first. We all began to have second thoughts about trying to frighten him away—it just didn’t seem quite right, after a while. And I thought sometimes, when he looked at you—well, no matter. I thought that the two of you were growing closer, spending so much time together. So I arranged for a few more appearances from our mysterious ghost, just to force you into each other’s company even more. And I daresay it was working,” she added, a touch of her old spirit back, and the knowing look she gave Jane had her fighting off a blush.
“But,” Mrs. Ash added, her smile fading, “with his friends arriving, I was worried he’d feel the lure of town and want to return with them. Once they were here and I saw how easy he was in their company, I grew even more concerned. So I thought to arrange for one last showing from our ghost, at night, when he’d likely be near you—I thought it would force the two of you back together, remind him why he couldn’t simply leave to go back to town with all those friends of his.” Here, she heaved a heavy sigh. “And instead, it had the opposite effect. It frightened him away, and he’s left you here, all alone and miserable.”
Jane sighed, reaching out to pat the housekeeper’s arm. “Mrs. Ash, I promise you, Lord Penvale is not remotely frightened of ghosts—and he’s known that we were behind the hauntings for a while now. So you did not frighten him away.”
Mrs. Ash went very still. “Why did he leave, then, if he knew there wasn’t a ghost?”
“I… I cannot say with any certainty,” Jane said carefully. She hesitated; unburdening herself did not come naturally to her. But if shecould not speak honestly with Mrs. Ash, then whom else did she have? “I think he may have realized, with his friends surrounding us once more, that I am not…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “I am not the viscountess he might have wished for. And I think that he may have used the final haunting as an excuse rather than admit that he was dissatisfied with his life here.” She paused, then added more softly, “With me.”
