Page 41 of To Swoon and to Spar
He nodded at her, just once, and he could tell she understood.
“Good night, Jane,” he said, softer still, and he turned onto his other side and tried very hard not to listen to her breathing, not to wonder how long it took her to fall asleep.
Try as he might, he could not exertthatmuch control over his ears, and so he knew that, despite his exhaustion, he lay awake long after her breathing had slowed to an even, steady pace, his mind full of questions.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite Penvale’s dire mutterings aboutsuffocating in a snowbank or being concussed by a falling icicle, the snow did eventually melt in the face of the relentless damp of a Cornish late winter, and March progressed slowly, wet and blustery.
Jane had been somewhat rattled by the mysterious baby in the night and had wasted no time in making inquiries with Mrs. Ash.
“A crying baby,” Mrs. Ash repeated, frowning. “Are you certain?”
“Entirely,” Jane said, crossing her arms.
“Perhaps it was a fox?” Mrs. Ash suggested.
“A foxinsideTrethwick Abbey?” Jane repeated incredulously. “Mrs. Ash, you cannot be serious.”
“No, I suppose not,” the housekeeper agreed slowly. “But I must confess, my lady, I heard nothing, and none of the other members of staff have mentioned it, either.” She paused, a canny gleam in her eye. “Perhaps you and his lordship were imagining things? I do understand your sleep has been disrupted of late.”
Jane fought the urge to blush, though nothing in Mrs. Ash’s tone indicated that she intended a double entendre. “Perhaps,” she said, flustered, and left the butler’s pantry convinced that Mrs. Ash thought she was losing her mind.
In any case, Jane called a brief pause to their activities, fearing that Penvale was beginning to suspect something of her, which was not untrue—she had not missed several lengthy, thoughtful looks he had given her the week of the snowstorm—but which was also, undoubtedly, a convenient excuse.
Because Jane was feeling rather muddled. Her inquiries among other members of the staff regarding the baby noises had been fruitless; every servant she spoke to professed innocence, just as Mrs. Ash had, all with such seeming frankness that Jane was torn between feeling unnerved—wasthere actually a ghostly baby crawling about the halls at night?—and questioning her own sanity. Had she imagined it? If Penvale hadn’t been with her that night, she would have begun to think so.
She had been glad that he’d been with her, and she didn’t know what to do with this feeling, nor did she dare examine it too carefully.
She had expected that he’d wish to return to their investigation with renewed fervor in the days following the storm, but a series of small crises involving the estate’s tenants occupied much of his attention over the next week. A few cottages had sustained damage from the wet, heavy snow and gusting winds the storm had brought to shore, requiring temporarily housing an entire large, rather boisterous family in one of the spare rooms of Trethwick Abbey while their roof was mended. Then there was a bridge that his steward thought was in need of repair, which resulted in several rides out to inspect it, from which Penvale returned damp, muddy, and in decidedly ill humor. Once the roads cleared, too, a sizable backlog of correspondence from town arrived, almost all for Penvale, the contents of which kept him confined to his study, but to Jane’s surprise, there was a letter for her as well.
When Crowe had presented it to her at the breakfast table, herheart had sunk, fearing it was some attempt on the part of Penvale’s uncle to make contact with her, though she couldn’t imagine why he would possibly wish to do so. The handwriting, however, was neat and feminine, and when she’d opened the letter and glanced down at the signature, she was astonished to realize it was from her sister-in-law.
Jane cast a furtive glance across the table, where Penvale was absorbed in his own stack of letters, which he was regarding at a worryingly close distance with a furrowed brow and a faint squint. Suppressing a sigh, Jane returned her attention to her own letter and read:
Willingham House, Fitzroy Square, 4 March
Dear Jane,
I’ve decided it would be absurd for me to address you as Lady Penvale, in part because I’m still not accustomed to there being such a person, and in part because if we are to manage some semblance of sisterly affection, starting in writing seems as good a place as any, so I hope you won’t be bothered by my informality of address. And if you are bothered, you’re hundreds of miles away in a drafty old house no doubt having your complexion slowly ruined by the sea breeze, meaning there’s nothing you can do about it, anyway.
This has been a fairly dull winter here in town; I am already looking ahead to spring, and Lord Willingham and I were discussing our desire to pay you and Penvale a visit as soon as the weather warms a bit and the roads dry out. If you would please write back with the dates that would be amenable to you, we can begin planning our journey.
I’ve sent a letter to my brother with a similar query, but he’snever been a terribly reliable correspondent—please remind me to show you a sample of some of the abysmal excuses for letters he sent me whilst he was at school and university, in which he considered, for example, “Hello sis, hope you haven’t got too many new freckles in this hot weather we’ve been having” to be a perfectly acceptable opening. I must confess it is a relief to have a woman to correspond with now.
I will await your reply and look forward to seeing you both in the spring. In the meantime, I am sending along some of my favorite cream for my complexion, as no doubt yours will need it after the ravages of a windy winter on the coast, and I do not expect the village shops will have much to offer in this regard.
Yours, etc.
Diana
Jane set down the letter, unsure whether she wanted to crumple it up and roll her eyes in irritation or burst into an unseemly fit of laughter. Diana certainly did not stand on formalities in her correspondence, which Jane supposed should not come as a surprise. She was not entirely looking forward to having her sister-in-law under her roof for a few weeks this spring, but she supposed it couldn’t be avoided.
“I’ve had a letter from your sister,” she said, and Penvale, who was still squinting—Jane made a mental note to inquire as to whether there was anyone capable of crafting spectacles in the village—at the letter before him, glanced up at her, faint surprise registering on his face.
“Have you?”
“She wants to know when she and the marquess can come visit.”
