An Unlikely Match

by Sarah M. Eden

  She was excruciatingly fond of her bedchamber.

  In the days when her father had been master of Y Castell, as Tŷ Mynydd had been called during its years as a fortified castle, her bedchamber had been decorated in the heavy brocades and dismal tapestries considered fashionable in the early fifteenth century. She, however, had found them depressing. They weighed down the room, leaving it dark and disheartening. Her father had left the room in that state of dreariness after her death.

  When her father died a few short years after her, her uncle had not permitted anything in her bedchamber to be changed, just as her father hadn’t, in continued deference to her memory, or some such rot. If he had truly wished to honor her abysmally short life, he might have consulted her on the proper ways in which to do it. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been available for a discussion. But, alas, the dearly departed are seldom asked for input in the matter of their own commemoration.

  Her uncle’s son, her very maudlin cousin Bedwyn, had inherited his father’s estate and had adhered to the same ridiculous notion that leaving her bedchamber in a perpetual state of dreariness would make her feel more appreciated. Gwen had never told the two men how very much she would have preferred a drastic and all-encompassing change. Uncle Dilwyn had been deeply affected by the losses in his family, and Gwen had judged it best to simply let him be. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the rest of eternity to work out the matter of her oppressive bedchamber. And Cousin Bedwyn grew teary every time she spoke to him.

  It really was something of an embarrassment. Her father had been a warrior, though that had led to its own set of problems. She herself had possessed a legendary degree of calm self-possession in the face of drastic, often dangerous circumstances. But Y Castell, for which she had sacrificed so much, had passed into the hands of a bunch of milksops. It had been rather mortifying, actually.

  Thankfully for the family name, which at the time was still excessively Welsh, Bedwyn’s son had inherited a bit more fortitude than his father. He had grown up at Y Castell and knew Gwen well. So it had been an easy thing to suggest, rather insistently, that her room needed to be redecorated. It had taken nearly a century and an alternating mixture of threats and buttering up, depending on the current master and mistress of her family home, before her room had become what it was then. The soft white had given the room an open, airy feel. It was the only room she was truly at home in.

  Most of the original castle had long since crumbled or been demolished. Bits of it remained, cobbled together with the rest of the house. Only The Tower remained intact. Ghosts, Gwen felt certain, were not supposed to shiver, but the mere thought of The Tower made her do just that. It was the one place in all of Tŷ Mynydd she hated.

  Perhaps it was the ever-present irony of her very existence that dictated that her room, her refuge, should afford such an unimpeded view of The Tower, which was a place of immense horrors for her. It stood as a stark reminder of that awful time four hundred years earlier. The air inside The Tower still felt suffocating.

  Gwen’s thoughts turned to the new Mr. Pritchard. It certainly was an abomination the way his family had altered the name. Prichard was bad enough, being a mangled version of “ap Richard,” the original, proud Welsh surname her loved ones had borne. But to add that superfluous T was tantamount to desecration.

  He would bear watching, Gwen told herself. Very close watching.

  * * *

  A fortnight at Tŷ Mynydd convinced Nickolas he now resided in the most superstitious neighborhood in all the world. His entire staff spoke of “the ghost” with every indication of conviction. Several of the neighboring gentlemen had called on him since his arrival, and he, in turn, had called on their families. It seemed, if the frequency with which the topic arose was any indication, that his neighbors firmly believed in this apparition as well.

  “Have you not seen her, then?” Mr. Dafydd Evans, the vicar, asked as he and Nickolas spent a leisurely evening in the Tŷ Mynydd library precisely seventeen days after Nickolas’s arrival at his new estate.

  Et tu, Dafydd? Nickolas silently paraphrased Julius Caesar. They had struck something of an instant rapport when the young vicar had first called, and they were already on a first-name basis. After much practice and a great deal of amused laughter, Nickolas had finally learned to properly pronounce the poor man’s name: Dav-ith.

  Nickolas knew instinctively that they would be lifelong friends. Already, he’d spent several afternoons at the vicarage, and Dafydd had passed several evenings at Tŷ Mynydd. It was good to have a friend in the neighborhood. Even if that friend apparently had absurd ideas about ghosts.

  “I cannot say that I have seen her,” Nickolas replied with a smile. “I hear very contradictory accounts of her. I am not at all certain what to think of the ghost I seem to have inherited.”

  “You do not believe she is real.” Dafydd smiled, a look of near pity on his face.

  Dafydd was within a year or two of Nickolas’s own age. His smile made him appear even more youthful and even less like the starchy curate he remembered from the eighteen months he’d spent with a cousin of his late mother. That man had spent an hour each and every Sabbath warning the congregation of their inevitable arrival in the depths of perdition. The entire parish, it had seemed, was beyond redemption. Nickolas had spent most of those sermons imagining himself off on some adventure or another. He was one of the few congregants who escaped Sunday services without indigestion.

  “I admit, Dafydd,” Nickolas answered, his own smile growing to a grin, “I don’t believe Tŷ Mynydd is haunted.” The vicar raised his eyebrow as if amused by Nickolas’s lack of belief. “Perhaps it is simply a matter of inexperience,” Nickolas conceded. “As you pointed out, I have not actually seen the infamous she.”

  “My understanding of the house’s history makes that hard to believe, Nickolas. Gwen doesn’t usually wait so long to make an appearance.” Nickolas had learned during the last two weeks that Gwen, the ghost, and she were not, in fact, three separate individuals but one. “Perhaps she keeps her distance because you are English.”

  Dafydd was decidedly not English. At times his Welsh inflection was so heavy his words became difficult to discern. His declaration did not, however, sound like a condemnation but merely a guess.

  Nickolas chuckled. “Perhaps she has not appeared because she does not exist.”

  Dafydd smiled back. “I hope I am here when she proves you wrong, my friend. I daresay the look on your face will be priceless.”

  They each raised their glass to the other in amused acknowledgment of the implied challenge Dafydd had issued. Nickolas had declared the ghost nothing more than the overactive imagination of an underentertained neighborhood. Dafydd had declared that Nickolas would eventually have to eat his words.

  “I have issued a handful of invitations to a house party I am hosting in a week’s time,” Nickolas said. “I hope you will join us for dinner and other entertainments while my guests are in residence.”

  The young vicar’s grin turned into something of a smug smile. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he answered as if privy to some joke Nickolas had not been told about.

  “And what is that tone supposed to indicate?”

  “You’ve planned a party without her approval,” Dafydd said. “Of the party or of you,” he added. “You are either very brave or remarkably unconcerned about your own welfare.”

  “The ghost will object?” Nickolas laughed.

  “I imagine you will be made to retract your disbelieving evaluations before the end of your party. In fact, I guarantee it.”

  “If you weren’t an eminently respectable vicar, I would think you were proposing a wager.”

  Dafydd’s mouth twisted in a look of deepest pondering. “A wager?” He even went so far as to rub his chin. “But what should I force you to forfeit when you are proven wrong?”

  “That is an awfully cocky statement for a humble servant of the church.”

  “If I were as eminentl
y respectable as you said, I would no doubt ask for a new roof for the church.” Dafydd didn’t acknowledge Nickolas’s last statement with anything more than a twinkle in his eyes. “But I happen to know your estate is already paying to replace the church roof, so it would rather be a waste of a wager.”

  “True.” Nickolas chuckled. Dafydd was enough like him in humor and personality that at times, Nickolas thought him his long-lost, heretofore unknown brother. Of course, one had to overlook the fact that they looked nothing alike. Dafydd’s hair and eyes were dark, while Nickolas’s were fair.

  “And my eminent respectability prevents me from wagering actual money,” Dafydd continued.

  “Naturally,” Nickolas replied with feigned gravity.

  “I’ve got it.” Dafydd snapped his fingers. “When I win our little wager, you will be required to wear a lady’s ball gown to dinner.”

  “And I suppose when I win our ‘little wager,’ you shall be required to wear said ball gown whilst delivering your sermon the following Sunday.”

  Both men burst out laughing. Nickolas could just see the very staid citizens of the parish staring in openmouthed shock at their vicar dressed in the very latest in ladies’ fashions.

  “I think, for the sake of our neighbors’ faith and eternal welfare, we’d best choose another means of settling this wager,” Nickolas said.

  “Not to mention the appetites of your houseguests,” Dafydd replied. “Seeing you in a silk ball gown would put even the hardiest of men off his feed.”

  “Something else, then.”

  A look of speculation suddenly entered Dafydd’s eyes, even as they shifted to the tall windows of the library. “The Tower,” he said.

  “The Tower?” Nickolas allowed his gaze to follow Dafydd’s out the windows and directly to the only remaining piece of what had once been Y Castell. The single stone tower, some two hundred yards from the house, stood as a stark reminder of what, he’d been told, was a rather violent history.

  “As you know, I am entirely convinced that the ghost, Gwen, walks the corridors of Tŷ Mynydd,” Dafydd prefaced. Nickolas acknowledged the confession with a look of patronizing understanding that was far too theatrical to be taken as anything other than continued lighthearted banter. Dafydd simply shook his head pityingly. “But there are those who believe The Tower is haunted as well. I propose that if you concede my correctness on this matter, which you will inevitably be forced to do, then you shall be required to spend an entire night in The Tower.”

  “And if not, you shall do so?” Nickolas countered.

  “Precisely.”

  “Is there a time limit on this wager of ours?” Nickolas asked. “I certainly cannot make good on my claim if we must wait until either I concede or you stick your spoon in the wall. Unless I have you entombed in The Tower.”

  Dafydd laughed as Nickolas expected him to. “You believe, then, that you will never be forced to acknowledge Gwen’s existence.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I declare that you will find yourself unable to further deny her existence in this very house before your party reaches its conclusion. That is my wager with one night spent in The Tower as forfeit.”

  “Done.” Nickolas grinned and held his hand out to his friend.

  Dafydd shook it enthusiastically. “I look forward to seeing you eat your words, Nickolas.”

  Chapter Three

  As a child, Nickolas had known few constants in life. Not one of his relatives had been willing to keep him longer than a few months. He’d found some stability in returning to Eton at the end of each school holiday. And in Griffith Davis, a student his own age whom he met his first year there, he’d found a friend for life. Thus, when he decided to host a house party as master of his own home, Nickolas hadn’t hesitated to invite Griffith.

  The rest of the Davis family was every bit as welcome. They had offered him a place to live in London every Season until Griffith’s sister, Alys, had her come out. Housing an unmarried man who was of no relation to any of them simply couldn’t be done with a marriageable daughter under their roof. No matter that Nickolas and Alys were as romantically indifferent to one another as brother and sister, society’s thoughts on the situation could not be ignored. Still, Mrs. Davis invited Nickolas to every event hosted at their home and saw that he received regular invitations to take his dinner with the family. She, he often felt, had single-handedly kept him from starving over the years.

  Nickolas personally knew Mrs. Davis’s abilities as a hostess. Asking her to serve in that capacity for his house party seemed the natural choice. He had to have a hostess. She would manage the thing with grace and capability.

  The Davises arrived but a few hours ahead of the Castletons. As the two families constituted the entire guest list, preparations were minimal.

  “Welcome to Tŷ Mynydd,” Nickolas greeted the Castletons upon their arrival from Norfolk.

  “Mr. Pritchard,” Mr. Castleton greeted him gruffly in response. Mr. Castleton was not the most social gentleman of Nickolas’s acquaintance. He might very well have been the least social gentleman of Nickolas’s acquaintance.

  The party was extremely small by ton standards. And to Mrs. Davis’s dismay, the numbers would be uneven with Dafydd joining them for dinner each night.

  Nickolas made the appropriate introductions between the Castletons and his hostess. All were “delighted,” as they were expected to be, and Nickolas began to breathe more easily.

  “What a lovely home you have here, Mr. Pritchard.” Mrs. Castleton glanced around with what appeared to be appreciation.

  Nickolas smiled broadly. It was a lovely home. “Thank you, Mrs. Castleton.”

  She took her husband’s arm as they ascended the front steps and entered the house, with Mrs. Davis walking alongside them. Nickolas was left, much to his delight, with the obligation of offering his arm to the divine Miss Castleton.

  “We have never been to Wales,” she said, her voice as light and angelic as he remembered. “It is truly beautiful.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree.” Nickolas turned Miss Castleton over to Mrs. Baines to be shown, along with her parents, to their rooms.

  The housekeeper shot him a very quick look of disapproval, mingled with worry—the same look she’d given him daily since he’d discussed the room assignments with her. Nickolas insisted Miss Castleton be given the white bedchamber he’d stumbled upon on his first day at Tŷ Mynydd. Mrs. Baines had predicted all sorts of dire consequences, most of them muttered under her breath in Welsh, though the tone was unmistakable.

  “That is her room, Mr. Pritchard,” she’d said once more just that morning. “And she doesn’t approve of anyone being in her room.”

  “Then she will simply have to learn to share,” had been Nickolas’s response.

  Mrs. Baines had been grumbling ever since.

  The Castletons began their ascent of the front staircase, and Nickolas watched Miss Castleton with a silent sigh. She truly was lovely. And she seemed to genuinely like Tŷ Mynydd. Wales, at any rate.

  Mrs. Baines and the family had nearly reached the first-floor landing when a sudden wind blew down the narrow stairs. The ladies’ hair disarranged and blew about them, their skirts billowing in the stiff breeze. Mrs. Castleton gripped her husband’s arm. Miss Castleton gripped her mother. All three pasted themselves rather hastily against the wall that made one side of the stairwell.

  The wind died as suddenly as it had begun. No more than a moment’s gust, really. But it had not gone unnoticed. Mrs. Baines, at the front of the group, turned accusing eyes on Nickolas, who was watching from the entryway below. It was an I told you so look if he’d ever seen one. Each of the Castletons turned to regard him as well.

  “Bit of a draft, it would seem,” Mr. Castleton grumbled, obviously unconvinced, and shrugged.

  “Yes, precisely.” Nickolas managed to sound less confused than he felt. “A draft.”

  A ridiculously strong draft. And a strange, sudden one.
Nickolas would have to have his steward take a look at the . . . At the what? he wondered. That stairwell was in the middle of the house, no walls abutting the outdoors. The attics, perhaps? But it seemed strange that a draft would enter the house with so much strength from an attic as tall as any room.

  “That was odd,” Mrs. Davis said to Nickolas, her forehead creased in obvious confusion as she stood next to him. “I have never in all my life seen such a strong, sudden draft.”

  “Neither have I.” Nickolas’s eyes followed Miss Castleton’s progress from the stairs to the corridor leading toward her room.

  “And Mrs. Baines seemed to think you had something to do with it, Nickolas. I know a look of accusation when I see one.”

  Nickolas tore his gaze away from the upper floor. Miss Castleton had long since disappeared from view. He smiled at his hostess and offered his arm. “Yes, the entire household, you will soon find, intends to blame any little thing that goes awry during this house party on me.”

  “And why is that, pray tell?”

  They slowly walked toward the sitting room, where the others were likely gathered. “I made the grand miscalculation of not informing Tŷ Mynydd’s resident specter of my plans to host this gathering. The staff, most especially my indomitable housekeeper, are sure of consequences too dire to contemplate. It seems nothing in this house is done without her approval.”

  “The ghost is female, then?” Mrs. Davis looked appropriately amused. “Perhaps you should flash one of the famous Nickolas Pritchard smiles in her direction,” she suggested with a feminine chuckle. “I have not known a female yet, be she eight or eighty, who could resist that.”