“Protect your father as best we can. He won’t go outdoors in this weather, so we needn’t fear another falling stone. We’ll make sure he’s escorted up and down stairs. Remind me—what other methods has Max supposedly used in the past?”
“He chased the border reiver, who was gored by a bull.”
“Your father can’t run anymore, even if there were a bull close by, so that’s out. And there’s the well, but again, he won’t go outdoors, and even if he did, he couldn’t possibly stumble into it.”
“Maybe Sam will use another method that can be blamed on poor Max.”
“I’ll keep an eye on your father,” James said.
“Thank you. I shall do my best to avoid Sam, which will make it easier for you to avoid me.”
“My dear, sweet girl, I—”
“Please. I simply could not bear it.”
James threw up his hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you’d rather leave straightaway, I understand.”
He shook his head. She scurried down the corridor into her bedchamber and shut the door. Several seconds later, he heard the key turn in the lock.
Had she expected him to try to follow her, and only locked it when she realized he wouldn’t? Or had she merely had to hunt for the key?
Set it aside, James told himself. Once he’d rid the household of the would-be murderer, he would get on with courting…no, befriending Thomasina. He pondered several more agreeable alternatives to hovering in the neighborhood. His preference, he decided, was to abduct her, depositing her with one of her various relatives, who, although they would approve of James, would never dream of coercing her to marry him.
In the meantime, he was obliged to protect her father. And the ghost.
He found Joey stationed at the head of the stairs and took him to one side, where they could carry on a quiet conversation. “I don’t know if you overheard my discussion with Miss Warren just now?”
“No, sir. It ain’t proper to eavesdrop.” He reddened. “And I won’t never listen in on you and Miss Tommie, not even if Mr. Warren were to offer me a guinea to do so.”
“That’s kind of you,” James said. The old curmudgeon had already asked Joey to spy on them! “I fear Mr. Furbelow hopes to bring about Mr. Warren’s death in a manner that can be blamed on the ghost.”
“No!” Joey’s appalled expression testified to his innocence of eavesdropping.
“He pushed Brother Antoine down the stairs,” James said.
Joey frowned. “So why did that there monk say it were the ghost what done it?”
“To make a long story short, he’s afraid of Mr. Furbelow. In any event, it is now up to you and me to make sure Furbelow doesn’t succeed in harming Mr. Warren.”
Joey’s lips thinned with determination. “Right you are, sir.”
Leaving the footman in charge indoors, James put on his greatcoat and went into the garden. He found Max striding along the Wall by the orchard. The ghost glowered down at him. “It’s just like before. They’re all against me.”
“Not everyone. I know you are innocent, and so does Miss Thomasina, and so do Joey and Mick. So does the monk from Gaul.” That was the best description he could manage of Brother Antoine.
“He accused me,” Max said.
“You understood what he said?” James suspected that the ghost caught a great deal of English, even though he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak it.
“I do not need words to understand,” Max said huffily. “He is afraid of the Evil One.”
“Yes, he accused you to save his own skin. Look on the bright side, Max. As you told me yesterday, they can’t execute you again.”
“It is my duty to kill the Evil One.” He groaned. “But I cannot.”
“Precisely. You have no power over him, because he is not afraid. But he has power over you, because you allow him to anger you. Instead, you must save your strength for a true emergency. I am obliged to guard the old man, so—”
“Forget the old man. He will die soon anyway. The maiden is in deadly peril. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I know she’s in danger, but I promised her that I would guard her father.”
“Why do you not heed my warnings?” Max cried.
“I am heeding them. I need you to keep watch over Miss Thomasina.”
“But I am no use!” the ghost wailed.
“Nonsense! You are precisely what is needed. You can remain silent and invisible. The Evil One will not know you are watching. If he seeks to harm her, indeed, if you see anything amiss, do not allow yourself to become enraged, or you will be accused once again. You may even lose your strength just when she needs you most. Remain calm and quiet and find me.”
The ghost flung up his arms in a gesture of hopelessness, and then he was gone.
* * *
The moment she turned the key in the lock, Thomasina regretted it. She’d just shut out the one person who stood up for her. Who cared about what happened to her.
And why had she done this? Out of fear.
Fear that her father would force James to marry her—when he could do no such thing. All she had to do was refuse. And refuse. And refuse. She’d stood up for herself once today, and it had felt so wonderful. Not for long, admittedly, but she’d managed to get what she wanted without harming Papa.
And fear of suffering—for she couldn’t imagine anything more painful than steadfastly refusing to marry the man she loved. How childish of her to say she couldn’t bear it—for bear it she could. And would.
To start, she had best stop thinking of herself. Worse than her fears was the horrid fact that she’d hurt James’s feelings. He’d looked so downcast, and it was all her fault. He was doing his level best to help her, and even to help her difficult father, who didn’t deserve it.
No, James was the deserving one here, and she mustn’t let fear drive her to unkindness. She would apologize for her rudeness, and afterwards remain cordial with him but continue to refuse marriage.
That decision made, she chose a festive gown and rang for Martha to help her dress for dinner. The only guests were the vicar, Mr. Willis, his wife, and their daughter Pauline. Later, the whole village would stop by for lamb’s wool and Christmas pie.
She arrived in the drawing room to find James already in conversation with the vicar—in Latin! He seemed to be enjoying himself, so maybe she hadn’t hurt him quite as much as she’d feared.
He gave her a kind smile of acknowledgement, but after that he returned his attention to Mr. Willis, and Thomasina was perforce obliged to converse with Mrs. and Miss Willis. At dinner, Papa made sure she sat next to James, which was horridly uncomfortable. She couldn’t apologize in front of all these people! James addressed a polite remark to her from time to time, but spent most of the meal drawing out Pauline Willis, on his other side, and receiving grateful looks from her mother across the table.
Heavens, she was actually a little jealous of shy Pauline! Meanwhile, Papa scowled every time he caught Thomasina’s eye, but as long as he didn’t bring up Mr. Tilson’s defection, she didn’t care.
Worst of all was Sam Furbelow. Whenever she chanced to look his way, she found him appraising her with what she assumed must be lust. But it wasn’t the friendly sort of lust she’d experienced with James, nor even the odious kind Sam had shown in the past. Now, his expression frightened her.
Mrs. Willis maundered on and on about the parishioners, their families, their illnesses, their scandals, weddings, and so on. At last, the meal almost over, she broached the one topic Thomasina had hoped to avoid.
“Speaking of weddings, we had expected to see Mr. Tilson here,” she said.
“He found, at the last moment, that he couldn’t come.” Thomasina changed the subject in a hurry, hoping Papa hadn’t noticed. “By the way, Mrs. Willis, I meant to ask for the recipe for your asparagus pudding, which we enjoyed so very much.”
“I’d be happy to give it to you, dear, but it’s hardly the
right season.” Comprehension lit her eyes. “Ah! You are thinking ahead, aren’t you, my dear? Mr. Tilson is particularly fond of asparagus pudding.”
“I had no idea,” Thomasina said stonily, “but that’s not why I want it. Mr. Tilson and I have decided we shall not suit.”
“Dear me!” Mrs. Willis clapped her hands to her mouth. “When all was in train for a wedding! Only yesterday, your papa told us he meant to announce your engagement this evening, and ask the vicar to post the banns!”
She shot a glare at her father. “If you must know, I never accepted Mr. Tilson’s offer, and I would have told Mr. Willis that it was no such thing.” Mrs. Willis would spread the story far and wide, and people could believe it or not—Thomasina didn’t care.
“What a dreadful pity,” Mrs. Willis said. “Surely you don’t wish to be left a spinster!”
Until two days ago, she’d longed for exactly that. “Definitely, if the alternative is Mr. Tilson.” That was the closest she could get to suggesting that she might be willing to consider someone else.
Pauline giggled, but her mother couldn’t leave it at that. “What a kind gentleman Mr. Blakely is.”
Drat! She wanted James to take the hint, not Mrs. Willis. For the first time, a hint about a gentleman she actually liked very much—and she had to fend it off right in front of him.
She muffled a huff of fury and stood. “Shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?”
Even if James did care for her—and that was a big if—she had already destroyed any chance of an offer from him. He was good and kind, and truly noble, and he had already promised not to ask her to marry him.
Which was her own stupid fault, but how could she have known that one day she would meet the right man and fall in love?
It couldn’t be too late. Surely there was something she could do.
* * *
After tea, everyone assembled in the Great Hall except the monk, who took a dose of laudanum and went to bed. A trestle table was set up to hold the cauldrons of lamb’s wool and dishes of Christmas pie. The villagers filed in for the holiday treat. Thomasina doled out cups of the hot, aromatic beverage, while Mrs. Day and Martha served the pie. Soon everyone was very merry indeed.
Except James, who was too busy being alert, and Thomasina, whose tired and worried expression he longed to kiss into a smile.
And Sam Furbelow, who prowled around the room, his eyes shifting from side to side, except when they settled on Thomasina with an expression so intent that it was all James could do to stop himself from punching the dastard in the face. Meanwhile, he had to keep an eye on Mr. Warren, who sat by the fire and accepted the good wishes of his tenants and neighbors.
Under these circumstances, what could Furbelow do to harm the old man? Nothing, as far as James could see.
Max appeared beside him, pointing at Thomasina’s elegant figure. He mimed pulling her into his arms and kissing her.
James muttered, “When the time is right.”
“Now is the time,” growled Max. “With all these people here to see, make her yours.”
James sighed. He couldn’t expect Max to understand proper behavior. “Later tonight, I shall.”
“That will be too late!” With a bloodcurdling wail that turned every head in the room, Max vanished.
Chapter Nine
Thomasina drank only one cup of lamb’s wool; she needed to think.
The obvious solution came to her suddenly, but it was so absurd that she…couldn’t stop thinking about it.
No. Impossible. A lady…simply didn’t. It was bad enough to ask a gentleman to bed her—and look where that had got her!
And yet…it was the only way.
No. She didn’t have the courage, and that was that. So much for being a wanton Warren woman. She was destined for spinsterhood, and she’d been perfectly happy with that fate only a few days ago. She would be perfectly happy once again.
She dashed away bitter tears at her cowardice. She had to do something to redeem herself. Very well, she would find out where her horrid cousin had hidden the rope. She would prove to Papa that he was wrong about James. She couldn’t marry him, but she could certainly defend him.
Mentally, she circled the house; perhaps Sam had gone farther than James and Joey had sought. Perhaps he’d run to the rear, secreted the rope in one of the cold frames in the kitchen garden, then run back in time to make an uproar near the front door.
No, it simply wasn’t possible. Even if Sam had sprinted—which seemed unlikely—the snow would have slowed him down. He couldn’t have gone more than a little way around the side of the house and returned in time…
All at once, she knew! But she had to be sure.
For the moment, the queue for lamb’s wool was empty. Everyone milled about, enjoying the Christmas pudding. No one would miss her if she left for a minute or two.
She beckoned to Martha to take her place if necessary. “I’ll be back directly.” In the kitchen, she donned the old pair of boots and coat, lit a lantern, and headed out into the snow.
* * *
The ghost’s warning ate at James. What if Max was right, even if his method of remedying the problems was wrong? Judging by the way Sam Furbelow prowled, by the furtive looks he cast, he was far more interested in Thomasina than in his uncle.
And yet…surely he must know that he would get nowhere with Thomasina, even if the old man was dead and gone—particularly now that James was here to protect her.
For a second, James considered whether Furbelow planned on killing him—and dismissed that notion immediately. Furbelow hadn’t expected to see James here, and Thomasina was not without other protectors. If her father died, she could take refuge with the vicar, or have Mick and Joey escort her to Colin’s estate.
Then who…?
The answer came to him in one horrific rush. If Thomasina died, Sam would be the old man’s next of kin. Heir to his entire fortune, unless the old man altered his will—but it would be easy to prevent that. If the old man didn’t die of grief, he might have one of his attacks in bed at night and be found dead the next morning. Would anyone be surprised?
Terror for his Thomasina shivered over James. He glanced about the Great Hall. She no longer stood at the trestle table, doling out lamb’s wool.
“Where is Miss Thomasina?” he asked Martha.
“I dunno, sir.” The maid blushed. “She said she’d not be long.”
The privy, perhaps. He made his way through the crowd, seeking her, seeking Furbelow. Neither was anywhere to be seen. Where was Max?
He returned to Martha. “Which direction did she go?”
Martha pondered. “I dunno, sir. I were looking this way, and Miss Tommie went that.”
Behind her, which could mean up the stairs, down either wing, or to the kitchen. He headed for the stairs, as she would most likely use her own chamber pot. He took the stairs two at a time, ran down the corridor, and opened her bedchamber door, heedless of propriety.
She wasn’t there.
Max appeared before him, his ghostly form rippling, his eyes black holes of fear. “To the well, come now!”
The well? Nobody could fall down the well. It was securely covered, as safe as a well could be. But if a strong man pried up the cover, he might tip a helpless woman over the edge. His heart in his throat, heedless of everyone, James thudded down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, then headed toward the well, slipping and sliding on the frozen crust of snow.
“Not that way,” Max said.
He kept going. “The well is right over there!” But he didn’t see Thomasina anywhere.
The other well,” Max said. “The old one.”
* * *
The old well—so ancient no one knew how old—was in the midst of a tangle of bushes thirty yards or so across the front garden. Long before Thomasina was born, the Warren of the day had dug a new one in a more convenient spot. After the low, stone walls of the old well were removed for other purpo
ses, the hole in the ground was covered with planks, with box and hollies planted around it until it was inaccessible.
But not to determined children. Thomasina’s male cousins had pried up the old boards with a crowbar and peered down the horrid, dark hole in the ground. She’d tiptoed close enough for a look and then run away again, promising to tell on them if they didn’t close it up straightaway. They’d laughed at her but closed it all the same.
She crept around the bushes, which seemed completely intact, so perhaps she’d guessed wrong… Surely Joey would have noticed if there’d been footprints in the snow, headed this way… On the other hand, judging by his prowess at cricket, Sam had a powerful throwing arm. She raised her lantern, peering closely. Several holly twigs had been broken on the side away from the house, making a bit of a gap. Thankful for the heavy greatcoat, she ducked her head into its heavy collar and pushed her way through. She raised the lantern and muffled a shriek.
The boards were rotten through! She teetered at the edge of a gaping hole, almost dropped the lantern, and grabbed a stout branch of holly.
“My, my, what have we here? My lovely Thomasina—how convenient.”
Sam was coming through the bushes behind her! She edged around the well, her heart thundering.
“How clever of you to guess,” he said.
She got hold of herself. “The rope is down there.”
He laughed.
“You coiled it and threw it over the shrubbery. That’s why there were no footprints.”
“What a pity your paramour isn’t as clever as you, darling. Not that it matters. No one will ever find the rope. They won’t even look for it, because no one will care.”
“I care about it, and so does Mr. Blakely.” She didn’t bother to deny the assumption that she loved James.
“But you’ll be a ghost, my love, like your dear friend Max, who will get the blame for killing you. Shall you haunt me?” He cackled, slithering around the lip of the well toward her.
The Right to Remain Single: A Ghostly Mystery Romance Novella Page 11
