Page 73 of To Swoon and to Spar
But even as she spoke these words, something Diana had said came back to her:
My brother is not very good at sharing the contents of his heart, Jane.
This—and the memory of the sharp frown Penvale had given her when she’d insisted that she did not know who the ghost was that final night—brought another possibility to mind.
What if Penvale had not believed her and had thought she was trying to be rid of him once and for all? Would he return to town if he thought she truly wished him gone?
She did not need to think longer than a fraction of a second to know the answer.
Jane groaned and dropped her head into her hands, wishing heartily, in that moment, that she’d never come up with the haunting scheme in the first place.
After a minute, she felt the warmth of Mrs. Ash’s hand pressing comfortingly on her shoulder. “There, there, my lady. If he’s not actually frightened of a ghost, then he’ll be back, I daresay.”
Jane looked up helplessly. “I fear he may not be, Mrs. Ash—I think he may have left because he thought it was what I wished.” Because giving her what she wanted was worth sacrificing the only thing thathehad truly wanted. The thought made her throat tighten—it was not at all something she would have expected of the man she’d thought shewas marrying, and yet also exactly what she would expect of the man she’d come to know.
The man she’d come to love.
Mrs. Ash’s eyes widened, and then she let out a happy sigh. “That does sound like something he would do, the dear man. Given that anyone with eyes can see he’s in love with you.”
“Mrs. Ash!”
Mrs. Ash shrugged, unrepentant, bearing no resemblance whatsoever, Jane thought darkly, to the woman who had been on the verge of tears a few minutes earlier. “What do you mean to do about it, then? You’re not going to fix this by sitting here moping in Cornwall, are you?”
Jane went still—because, when it was put like that, now that she’d made the realization, it did seem rather foolish. “Well,” she said a bit uncertainly, “I suppose I could write a letter—”
A hearty snort was Mrs. Ash’s reply.
“Heisall the way in London, in case you haven’t noticed,” Jane said sharply, growing the slightest bit annoyed. It was very easy for Mrs. Ash to stand there, all smug and knowing, whenshewas the one who had caused this problem in the first place.
“And you are here,” Mrs. Ash agreed.
“Precisely.” Jane nodded vigorously. “It’s not as though I’m about to just race off to London, of all pl—” Here, she broke off. And considered.
“It is certainly not something the old Jane would have done,” Mrs. Ash said slyly.
It wasn’t. The old Jane hated London. The old Jane never would have risked looking foolish before a man, before all his friends, to share the deepest confession of her heart.
Because that was, Jane knew, what she wished to tell Penvale—that she loved him. And that she desperately wanted him to love her, too.
The old Jane never could have imagined uttering such words—the old Jane never could have dreamed of feeling this way at all.
But Jane was tired of the old Jane. She wanted to be a new Jane instead.
“You’re perfectly right,” she said, then gave the housekeeper’s hand a quick squeeze. “I suppose I’d better start packing.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“It’s too early to beon a bloody horse.”
It was, in fact, rather early, certainly by town standards—most men in London were still abed—though at Trethwick Abbey, Penvale already would have been finishing his breakfast or saddling his horse for a tour of the estate. Audley, however, had always been a fan of morning rides in the park and had somehow convinced Penvale to join him today.
“You’re cheerful this morning,” Audley observed.
“You’re particularlyannoyingthis morning,” Penvale shot back.
Audley grinned. Penvale’s sense of doom strengthened.
“I can’t help but notice, old chap—”
