In only a few moments, all four bed posts bore knotted curtains, hanging lamely and awkwardly. They would be the devil to untie. Gwen hoped the maids would insist that Mr. Pritchard undertake the task. He deserved the struggle it would entail. Somehow, she doubted he would be required to make the effort. Gwen would see to it herself, but she had not yet perfected the art of untying.
She took a quick assessing look around the bedchamber. Just enough chaos to seize the attention necessary without doing lasting damage. Perfect.
Now, to bring her unlooked-for guest to an awareness of the situation.
Rolling her eyes at the absurdity of it all, Gwen floated high enough to hover just above the foot of the bed. The mattress had, of course, been replaced countless times since she had last slept in it. Considering ghosts aren’t able to do such mundane things as lie down and relax into a feather bed, it had seemed a rather pointless endeavor by the countless masters and mistresses of the house. Still, Gwen found herself sometimes wondering if it was a comfortable bed. She longed to know for herself, to feel the softness of a down-filled mattress, the warmth of a blanket pulled to one’s neck on a chill night. But ghosts didn’t feel things. Not physically. She still felt emotions: frustration, amusement, loneliness. Mostly loneliness. Hers was a rather lopsided situation.
She couldn’t lie down in her own bed, but she could empty her bedchamber. And so what came next was absolutely imperative, even if Gwen disliked the doing of it very much indeed.
* * *
It was a shriek worthy of any gothic heroine from the overactive imaginations of the Minerva Press authors. Nickolas was out of bed and on his feet before the echo of it even began to fade. He quickly grabbed a shirt, pulling it haphazardly over his head. He lifted his dressing gown off the chair near the foot of his bed and slipped his arms through the sleeves. As he made his way from his room, Nickolas grabbed a pair of pantaloons, hastily stuffed his legs in them, and followed the sound of a second, equally dramatic cry.
The Davises were standing outside Miss Castleton’s door when Nickolas arrived. He could hear some sort of incoherent babbling inside. Nickolas pushed past Griffith, who, despite having proven himself very levelheaded and calm over the years, wore an expression bordering on awestruck.
Good heavens, what had happened now?
He didn’t have to wait long to discover the reason for the uproar. Miss Castleton stood on her bed, incomprehensibly swift words falling from her lips as she gestured widely around the room. And the room, Nickolas noted, his own eyes widening, was in such a state of disarray he could not immediately formulate a plausible reason for the chaos.
Gowns lay strewn about, covering nearly every square inch of the floor. Nickolas was obliged to step lightly and deliberately to avoid treading on them. The window curtains were missing, though he could not determine at first glance where amongst the debris they might be. The upheaval changed the very atmosphere of the room. The peace he’d felt the first time he’d stepped inside had disappeared entirely.
“Miss Castleton.” He attempted to interrupt the frenzied monologue but to no avail. She continued as quickly and unceasingly as before. Mrs. Castleton, who had come at the scream, appeared to be listening quite intently, though she looked as confused as Nickolas felt. Mr. Castleton was, at that moment, standing with his head buried deep inside the clothespress.
“Miss Castleton,” Nickolas tried again.
Her words trailed off as her brown eyes turned to him, wet with tears and wide with apprehension.
Now that Nickolas had her attention, he found himself at a loss to begin. He glanced, dumbfounded, around the room once more. He looked back at his rumpled houseguest and blurted rather gracelessly, “What happened in here?”
“She did it.” Miss Castleton wrung her hands. “I woke up, and she was hovering over my bed. Watching me.”
“Good heavens,” Nickolas muttered. Now even the divine Miss Castleton was referring to the mythical Gwen by that absurdly accented pronoun.
“The maids told me . . . told me this was her room.” Miss Castleton visibly paled, swaying a little from her perch atop her bed.
“Do come down, Miss Castleton,” Nickolas implored. He could easily picture her toppling to the floor in some semblance of a dead faint.
“Do, dear.” Mrs. Castleton added her voice to the argument. “There is something so very vulgar about standing up there.”
Vulgar? Mrs. Castleton did say the oddest things at times. She had commented to him some months earlier at a dinner party that one particular young matron’s preference for dresses in varying shades of green was “quite unaccountably low class.” It often took all of Nickolas’s willpower to avoid laughing out loud when Mrs. Castleton was in earnest over some absurd notion or another. Perhaps it would prove beneficial that his estate was in Wales and the Castletons’ was across the country in Norfolk. While Miss Castleton was as close to perfection as he could imagine any young lady being, her parents left much to be desired.
As if hoping to prove Nickolas’s silent evaluation, Mr. Castleton joined the conversation. “Her room, you say?” Mr. Castleton pressed. “The ghost?”
He smiled, seemingly quite pleased with the confirmation.
His wife remained occupied in coaxing their daughter to the ground.
Nickolas refrained from rolling his eyes and tiptoed over the scattered clothing back to the open door. “There seems to be no immediate cause for alarm,” he informed the Davises. “I believe you may return to your rooms with no further concerns.”
Alys and her parents left, though obviously with reluctance. Griffith remained behind, surveying the scene with furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. A mystery remained unsolved, after all. Griffith could be counted on to help sort it out. Nickolas turned back to what looked like the aftermath of a whirlwind and let out a sigh of confused frustration.
“The bed curtains are knotted,” he heard Miss Castleton tell her mother with obvious anguish.
Nickolas’s eyes swung to the curtains in question and found them, as she’d described, tied in dozens of knots. The room was, by all accounts, a thorough mess. And Miss Castleton was obviously distressed.
He chided himself for being unsympathetic before. Someone had played her a most underhanded trick. She’d awakened to a state of utter chaos, having no doubt seen the culprit for the briefest of instants during that mind-addling moment before one has completely awoken. Being unduly influenced by Dafydd’s tale earlier that evening, Miss Castleton could be excused for being convinced she’d seen something unearthly.
Indeed, the divine Miss Castleton was, even at that moment, dropping dainty tears on her mother’s shoulder, having clasped herself to that woman after climbing off her bed. Her distress was moving and guilt-inflicting. She was in his house and had been treated infamously.
“I cannot stay here if this room belongs to a ghost.” Miss Castleton sniffed, still leaning against her mother’s shoulder. “She is angry with me.”
“Nonsense, Miss Castleton. Though I hate to even suggest such a thing, I believe you have rather been the victim of someone bent on causing mischief in the name of this fabled ghost.”
“That is not any more comforting, Mr. Pritchard,” Miss Castleton replied, though she sounded a little less overwrought. “Either way, someone was in my room, doing this.” She motioned around the chaotic bedchamber.
“I have every intention of discovering who has done this,” Nickolas reassured her. “In the meantime, I do not think there is anything to fear. Indeed, I do not truly believe it necessary for you to abandon your room.”
A surge of cold air suddenly burst through the room, rustling the knotted bed curtains and swishing the gowns scattered across the floor. Miss Castleton yelped. Her mother gasped. In a flurry of dressing gowns, both fled the room without a backward glance.
Nickolas actually did roll his eyes at that, unable to prevent his impatience from showing. Griffith crossed to the window—the open window—and pul
led it shut. The wind died the instant he closed it. He gave Nickolas a significant look.
Blast that Dafydd. Surely he knew that his guests would now, like the staff, blame every single unforeseen thing on this ghost he’d so articulately brought to the front of their imaginations.
“I’ll stay here,” Mr. Castleton declared from behind Nickolas. Turning, Nickolas saw the man look around the room with unmasked excitement. “Do a little research. Keep my eyes open.”
“And your daughter?” Nickolas thought Mr. Castleton seemed rather unconcerned that Miss Castleton had just fled the room in a state of near hysteria.
“She’s easily startled.” Mr. Castleton nodded. “Not so flighty myself.”
Nickolas rubbed wearily at his face. A night’s uninterrupted sleep would have been nice. He looked over at Griffith, meeting his friend’s eye, and motioned him out into the corridor.
“What do you think of our latest otherworldly encounter?” he asked.
Griffith’s mouth turned up in amusement. At least he hadn’t taken Dafydd’s tale quite as seriously as the Castletons had.
“Not a ghost?” Nickolas said it as a statement every bit as much as a question.
“More likely someone intent on making you and your guests believe it was.” Griffith glanced back at the scene of destruction.
“Dafydd?” Nickolas guessed.
Griffith’s brow creased in thought. “Based on my impression of him, likely not.”
“One of the servants, then?” He didn’t like the idea of his staff playing such a mean trick on one of his guests simply to add weight to a local legend.
Griffith shook his head the smallest bit and made a miniscule shrug.
Nickolas rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. He was too tired to work through the puzzle. In the morning, the culprit could be rooted out and dealt with. And everyone would finally be brought around to the entirely logical conclusion that Tŷ Mynydd was not haunted.
* * *
Blast that Nickolas Pritchard! Having Miss Castleton in her room was bad enough. But Mr. Castleton was the outside of enough. How could any self-respecting female, even one less than alive, be expected to share her room with a man? Especially one who spent the better part of the night nosing into every corner of the room.
And, Gwen noticed, he didn’t make any effort to clean up. Indeed, he quite often stepped all over the expensive gowns spread beneath his feet. The oaf!
Obviously, more drastic measures were called for.
Chapter Seven
Nickolas took a turn about the grounds with Miss Castleton. He regretted that she’d been so badly treated the night before and offered his most sincere apologies as they walked.
She was as gracious in that moment as she’d ever been during the Season. Though he’d been penniless and perhaps the least sought-after gentleman of her acquaintance, she had never shunned him as so many others had. Her parents were quite certain to ignore his existence, but she was always kind. He liked that she hadn’t changed.
“I hope the rest of your stay here in Wales will be more pleasant than your experiences last night,” he said.
She smiled sweetly. “I am certain it will, though I am anxious to hear what your vicar has to say on the matter. He seems to be the local expert.”
“In that same light, one might say Napoleon is the local expert on the crowning of an emperor.”
Her brow furrowed. “You are comparing Mr. Evans to Napoleon?”
He shook his head. “It was a poorly executed attempt at humor, Miss Castleton.” They continued along the gravel path winding along the back of the house. “Mr. Evans is by far the most knowledgeable person hereabout in terms of local history and legends.”
“We must make certain to ask him what he thinks of last night’s events,” Miss Castleton said.
For his part, Nickolas knew full well what Dafydd would “think” of all that had happened. Though he felt certain his friend had no part in orchestrating the chaos, he was equally sure Dafydd would not hesitate to present the situation as proof of the ghost he insisted walked the corridors.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Pritchard.” Miss Castleton looked about her appreciatively.
“Yes, I have grown quite fond of it myself.”
The garden path wound back on itself, keeping their leisurely stroll within full view of the drawing room windows. Nickolas glanced up at the windows to see Mrs. Castleton watching them with what appeared to be satisfaction. A few short months earlier, he would not have dreamed such a thing possible. In his poverty, he’d been granted nothing beyond a dance or two over the entire Season. Now he was allowed—encouraged even—to pursue her. How quickly the situation had changed.
They walked on for a quarter of an hour longer, speaking of inconsequential things. Miss Castleton’s conversation was enjoyable, her disposition tranquil. More than once she spoke of the beauty around them. Nickolas could not have been more pleased, both that he enjoyed her company as much as he’d expected to and that she seemed to genuinely appreciate his home.
By the time they parted company to change for dinner, Nickolas was entirely satisfied with the progress he’d made. If only he could think of a means of convincing Dafydd to quit filling his guest’s mind with ghosts and legends.
* * *
“Nickolas, tell me you did not place one of your guests in the white bedchamber.” To Nickolas’s confusion, Dafydd actually looked concerned, almost alarmed. “I am certain, certain, Mrs. Baines would not have failed to inform you that the white bedchamber is Gwen’s.”
Mr. Castleton listened raptly, no doubt catching every ridiculous word.
“This nonsense has to stop, Dafydd,” Nickolas answered. “You have very nearly frightened Miss Castleton out of her wits.”
Dafydd’s gaze slipped in the young lady’s direction. She listened rather closely but appeared far less excited than her father.
“Last night’s mischief upset her quite profoundly,” Nickolas said, knowing he ought to make more of an effort to make amends to his houseguest beyond his earlier apologies, though he still found himself occasionally wishing she’d approached the problem with a little more fortitude.
“Forgive me, Miss Castleton, if I unduly alarmed you,” Dafydd said, crossing to where she stood. “Gwen can be forceful at times, but I do not wish you to be overset.”
“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Nickolas muttered. Why would not Dafydd give up this ridiculous game of his?
“I do not wish to upset her,” Miss Castleton answered, not quite looking at Dafydd.
“She is rather insistent about her room,” Dafydd said. “That wing is part of the original castle. And that room was hers during her lifetime. She does not like it to be disturbed.”
“I do believe you have taken this too far,” Nickolas interrupted. “As a story and a legend, it is diverting, I admit. But you push too much.”
“You still do not believe me?” Dafydd raised an eyebrow.
Nickolas gave him a look of exasperation. Of course he did not believe such a taradiddle.
“Tell me this: was anything in the room tied in knots?” Dafydd asked.
“The bed curtains.” A slight tremor shook Miss Castleton’s voice.
“That is one of Gwen’s signature tricks,” Dafydd said. “And unaccounted-for gusts of wind.”
“Precisely what we felt.” Mr. Castleton nodded emphatically.
Nickolas shook his head. He refused to believe anything so ridiculous. Griffith, however, looked intrigued. Surely a gentleman of Griffith’s intelligent and logical nature could see how ridiculous the idea was.
“Don’t tell me you are beginning to believe this nonsense?”
Griffith didn’t look convinced one way or the other. He simply watched them all.
Miss Castleton, to Nickolas’s disappointment, was entirely taken in. Did she not question the strange story even a little? Was he the only sane person left in the room?
“Has M
r. Pritchard provided you with an alternate bedchamber, Miss Castleton?” Dafydd asked.
A slight flush spread across the young lady’s cheeks. Nickolas very nearly smiled at his friend’s faux pas. Sleeping arrangements were not generally discussed in the drawing room over postsupper tea.
“He has, Mr. Evans.”
“Then I believe you need not worry over Gwen causing further mischief for you,” Dafydd said, explaining the reason for the unconventional turn of his conversation. “Your host, however, may not be entirely in the clear. I believe he has made an enemy.” Dafydd shot Nickolas a look of warning.
Griffith seemed to find that declaration significant. “Ghosts are always rather fearsome in Welsh legends.” A note of caution hung in his words.
“An enemy?” Miss Castleton spoke in an anguished whisper.
“Miss Castleton.” Nickolas stood beside her, Dafydd on her other side, Griffith watching all three of them. “I am not concerned, and therefore, I beg you not to be either.”
“But I do not wish for anything unpleasant to happen to you.” She turned her enormous brown eyes on him.
And Nickolas found himself quite suddenly in accord with his friends. “I assure you nothing untoward will befall me at the hands of this Gwen.” Nickolas offered her a smile, which she returned, much to his delight. “I will, however, fall most decidedly into a decline if you do not agree to treat us to a performance on the pianoforte.”
Miss Castleton laughed lightly, the same twinkling laugh Nickolas remembered from London, one that had inspired many an ode from her bevy of admirers. He had never written one, not being a poet himself.
Her color a little high, but smiling as Nickolas intended, Miss Castleton made her way to the very fine instrument he’d been pleased to discover upon taking up residence at Tŷ Mynydd. Soon the melodious sounds of some composer or another floated around the drawing room, leaving Nickolas free to berate his friend without fear of further upsetting Miss Castleton.
An Unlikely Match Page 5
