An Unlikely Match

by Sarah M. Eden

  She seemed to upset easily. He quickly pushed away the uncharitable evaluation.

  “Was it entirely necessary to disturb Miss Castleton’s peace for the sake of a simple wager?” Nickolas asked.

  Dafydd smiled back at him. “You think I am being insistent because of our bet?” Dafydd actually laughed quietly. “I am insistent because what I say is true, Nickolas. Absolutely true.”

  If not for Dafydd’s infectious laugh, Nickolas might have been irrevocably put out with him. He’d taken the joke too far, certainly. But he didn’t seem to mean any harm by it.

  “What of you, Griffith?” Nickolas asked. “Have you decided to begin believing in ghosts? Or are you and Dafydd coconspirators as I guessed yesterday?”

  “He and I spoke earlier this evening,” Griffith said. “He makes a convincing argument.”

  Had everyone in the house lost their minds?

  Nickolas shook his head and made his way to an empty chair. What a wearying twenty-four hours he’d passed. First the uproar of the night before, then Mr. Castleton’s vigorous report of all he’d apparently experienced in her room, as every single guest, even those who did not believe a word of the legend, had come to call it. According to Mr. Castleton, a gusty wind had blown around the room all the remainder of the night, sweeping all of his daughter’s gowns into a pile in one corner and tumbling the bed curtains around the bed posts. He’d insisted it was an invigorating experience.

  The Castletons had waited with bated breath for the arrival of that vicar, as Mrs. Castleton referred to Dafydd, so they might learn more about the specter that seemed so interested in their family. Nickolas found the entire thing exhausting. If he hadn’t been entirely positive that Miss Castleton was precisely the lady for him, he might not have been so patient with her flutterings.

  A rustling of papers accompanied the abrupt stop to the notes Miss Castleton had been expertly producing. Nickolas glanced toward the pianoforte. Sheets of music flew off the instrument in all directions.

  Miss Castleton hopped up and ran directly to Dafydd, something Nickolas did not particularly appreciate. Her hands clutched his arm. “What have I done to upset her? Does Gwen not like Bach?”

  At the instrument the wind continued, growing stronger and swirling more compactly above the keys. Nickolas felt himself tense and his stomach clench. What could have caused such a strange phenomenon? He refused to think of anything supernatural.

  Dafydd passed Miss Castleton to her mother’s embrace, his own eyes glued to the pianoforte, along with every other pair in the room. Then amidst the flying papers and whipping wind, notes began to play, slowly at first but picking up speed until Nickolas realized a tune was being plunked out.

  Mr. Davis recognized it first and quite unexpectedly began to sing. The words were Welsh.

  “That’s an old Welsh battle anthem,” Dafydd whispered. “One which takes great pride in proclaiming war on the English and predicting their painful and inevitable demise.” He gave Nickolas a significant look. “She has declared war.”

  Griffith soon joined his father, singing with gusto. Dafydd took up the tune as well, along with the remaining members of the Davis family. Finally, even the footmen threw in their voices. Nickolas had often heard that the Welsh were excellent singers, and he now believed it, even if he did not particularly appreciate the performance.

  As the notes from the pianoforte died away, the remaining papers floated to the floor, and the wind all but extinguished. Just as Nickolas was racking his brain for a reasonable explanation of what he’d just witnessed, his eyes popped.

  A lady quite suddenly appeared directly in front of him.

  Nickolas stared, unable to speak or move, quite at a loss to reconcile what he was seeing with his own convictions on the supernatural. She was pale and translucent and just as Miss Castleton had said the previous day: shimmery.

  “Oh, lud,” Nickolas whispered. This was not at all what he had anticipated.

  Apparently, Mrs. Castleton had not expected it either. She slumped to the floor in a very ungraceful swoon. Everyone seemed too riveted to the scene playing out to pay her much mind.

  The shimmery woman spoke then. Nickolas had absolutely no idea what she said, since she quite obviously spoke in Welsh.

  Griffith laughed outright, something Nickolas had heard him do only a handful of times in the many years he’d known the generally quiet gentleman. Dafydd simply grinned.

  “There are ladies present, Gwen,” Dafydd said. “Ladies who understand Welsh. Perhaps you might consider modulating your speech.”

  Gwen? Dafydd had called her that. Quite calmly. Quite unaffectedly. Nickolas shook his head to dislodge the sudden suspicion that appeared there. He’d never been one to believe in apparitions but could not discount what he was seeing, what they all were seeing.

  “You are Gwen?” Nickolas heard himself ask and recognized the stunned disbelief in his tone.

  “You are English,” she snapped back as though it were a dire insult to point out as much.

  Nickolas opened his mouth to reply, but the words died unspoken. She stalked toward him, a whipping wind kicking up in her wake. Something in her countenance made him excruciatingly nervous.

  “No one goes into my room.” She spoke in a harsh and nerve-rattling whisper. “It will be empty tonight, or you will bear the consequences.”

  So chilling was her tone that Nickolas could do naught but nod mutely.

  “Mark my words, Englishman. None of your countrymen have yet driven a Welshman from this stronghold, and you will not be the first.” With a fierce gust, she disappeared. Vanished.

  “Dafydd.” Nickolas still stared at the spot she had only just vacated.

  “Yes, my friend?” He sounded disturbingly like he was laughing.

  “How many blankets do you suppose I need?”

  “Blankets?”

  “I have a feeling it is deucedly cold in The Tower.”

  Dafydd laughed harder after that. Once their wager had been explained, the rest of the room laughed as well. The unexpected but undeniable appearance of a woman with no need to actually stand upon the floor—she spent their entire conversation hovering at least six inches above the Turkish carpet—who was not entirely opaque, seemed to have convinced all the skeptics in the room.

  “Famous!” Mr. Castleton exclaimed. “Capital!”

  Miss Castleton finally managed to rouse her mother. The Davises were excitedly discussing the events of the evening. Dafydd smiled quite smugly.

  “You seemed less surprised than the rest of us.” Nickolas raised an eyebrow.

  “I told you she would make an appearance. It was only a matter of time.”

  “You’ve seen her before.” Nickolas suddenly realized it was true.

  “I grew up in the area.” Dafydd clearly thought Nickolas should have made the connection on his own. “I have known Gwen all my life.”

  “And has she always been so fierce?” Nickolas had not liked the encounter.

  Dafydd pondered a moment. “Gwen is a rather complicated ghost.”

  What an odd statement that would seem taken out of context.

  “I have known her to gently sing a baby to sleep, but I have also seen her reduce a grown man to tears of sheer terror.” Dafydd spoke in utter sincerity, not a hint of exaggeration in his tone. “If she likes a person, Gwen can be a staunch ally. However, should one displease her, she can make that person’s life a nightmare.”

  “Perfect. She already hates me.”

  Dafydd actually laughed, and despite his discomfort, Nickolas couldn’t hold back a smile of his own. “I suggest you think of a way to win her over.”

  Nickolas rubbed his chin as if in thought. “Do ghosts like chocolates? Flowers, perhaps?”

  “This ghost values only one thing—her bedchamber.”

  “I should put it to rights, then? And see that she is not disturbed there?” Nickolas already knew the answer to his question.

  Dafydd nodded. �
��Without delay.”

  “Do you plan to make me fulfill my debt this very night?” He felt a little of his good humor returning. Embracing the existence of the Tŷ Mynydd ghost wasn’t coming easily, but Dafydd’s infectious laugh was easing the knot in Nickolas’s stomach.

  “’Tis raining,” Dafydd said. “And I cannot guarantee The Tower doesn’t leak. Perhaps another night. You can spend this one undoing some of the trouble you have caused.”

  By the time the party broke up for the evening, Nickolas was less convinced of what he’d seen. His more logical side waged war with the report of his senses. Never mind that eight other people had witnessed the phenomenon as well. Never mind that he could not yet get the rousing, menacing tune they’d sung out of his mind. Nickolas attempted to convince himself that he’d somehow imagined the entire thing or that it had been a joke of some sort, no doubt orchestrated by Dafydd.

  Intent on proving the accuracy of his skepticism, Nickolas sent away his valet halfway through his nightly ritual and, pulling his dressing gown over his shirt and breeches, made his way toward the now-empty white bedchamber with a candle in hand. Miss Castleton had been moved to another room, one far less pleasingly appointed but where she vowed she would be more comfortable.

  Entering the still, white room, Nickolas felt the need to hold his breath. The peaceful feeling he’d enjoyed on his first visit to the room had been missing during the short interval during which Miss Castleton had occupied it. The realization bothered him. He felt almost as though he’d desecrated it somehow by allowing someone to stay there. Mrs. Baines had implied just that beforehand.

  Nickolas shook his head. ’Twas a rather absurd notion.

  He glanced around the room. Brand-new candles sat in the wall sconces and table candelabras. The maids had reported that all the candles had gone missing, something Mrs. Baines seemed to think was to be expected. Nickolas lit a few candles, enough to better see his surroundings.

  The curtains had been rehung. The floor was free of clutter. The bed curtains, however, remained knotted. That seemed odd. Why hadn’t that been seen to? Such a sight felt almost blasphemous.

  Nickolas set his candlestick on the bedside table and set to work undoing the damage that everyone credited to the ghost, Gwen. The knots weren’t tight, simply plentiful. Nickolas worked for some time at untying the curtains, moving to each corner, finding unexpected satisfaction in putting the room completely to rights.

  “Why are you here?”

  Nickolas spun around. He hadn’t heard anyone enter. The voice was deeply accented but did not sound like any of the maids, the housekeeper, or Mrs. or Miss Davis, though the cadence was unmistakably Welsh. His heart seemed to screech to a halt when his eyes settled on the speaker.

  Gwen.

  She stood in the middle of the room, no menacing wind, no threatening demeanor. She looked genuinely confused. And shockingly beautiful, considering she was nearly transparent. Her face was pale, made even more so by the bright white of her gown. Her long, flowing hair was decidedly red. He could not recall ever seeing a more striking face, her features symmetrical and classical. He had not noticed that the last time he’d seen her. The fact that she was a ghost had rather distracted him.

  “I told you my room was supposed to be empty.” A tiny breeze picked up in the room. Somehow, Nickolas knew that meant she was upset.

  “I was merely checking to see if the room had been restored.” That was patently untrue. He’d come to prove to himself that she didn’t exist.

  “I specifically asked that it be restored and emptied.” Her look could not have been more pointed.

  “You do not approve of me being here, I see.”

  “I am not certain I approve of you at all.”

  “And what can I do to rectify that?” He did not like the way the curtains rustled in the growing wind.

  “You can do nothing,” she answered matter-of-factly. “My approval is my own to bestow.”

  “I have, somehow, in the space of three weeks, having never actually spoken to you, proven unworthy of your esteem?” Nickolas smiled at the irony, willing her to share his humor.

  She spoke at length in Welsh as she had earlier that evening. When she finished, Gwen looked at him expectantly.

  “I am afraid I understood not a single word of that,” Nickolas reminded her.

  “You”—she skewered him with a look that sent shivers down his spine—“are not Welsh.”

  It was a statement of condemnation, Nickolas could tell—the same gripe she’d cited before. His shortcomings had been summed up in four words. It was his parentage and his monolingualism that were responsible for her disapproval of him. That seemed a little harsh.

  “My ancestors must have been Welsh, mustn’t they?” Nickolas asked. “Else I would not be here.”

  “The English have been here before,” was the reply. “They are not to be trusted.”

  “That is a rather all-encompassing evaluation. Are you sure it is warranted?”

  “Are you sure it is not?”

  An unexpected reply, to be sure. Any retort that might have risen to Nickolas’s lips died unspoken. A mirror hung not far from where he stood, and in it, he could clearly make out his reflection and a great deal of the room. Staring, Nickolas moved closer. According to the mirror, which he couldn’t imagine would lie to him, he stood alone in the white bedchamber.

  Nickolas snapped his head back. Gwen still floated in the midst of the room, watching him with narrowed eyes.

  Again, he studied the image in the mirror. Though he could clearly see the exact spot in the room where she stood, his mysterious companion made no reflection in the mirror.

  Good heavens! He really was talking to a ghost.

  “Why are you in my house?” Nickolas asked. Suddenly, her presence was unnerving. He could feel his heart rate increase.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Pritchard,” she answered, “you are in my home.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I suppose yours is the prior claim,” Nickolas admitted with a shrug. I really am talking to a ghost, he thought, no less amazed than he’d been during their previous encounter.

  She actually seemed to smile the slightest bit at his rejoinder. “I have been here four hundred nineteen years. Can you top that?”

  “I didn’t want to bring it up, but I do look young for my age.” He actually smiled a little.

  Gwen looked doubtful.

  “Do you think I could pass for four hundred years old?” he asked.

  “Do you think I could?”

  He immediately shook his head. “No.” She appeared young—quite young, actually.

  She seemed to like his answer. The tension in her face appeared to lessen, and her eyes softened. ’Twas strange how even translucent features could be readable.

  “You are very much like Padrig,” Gwen said quite unexpectedly.

  “And who is Padrig?”

  “He was a son of this house,” Gwen answered, “and your several-greats grandfather—the one who hied himself to England. If he’d stayed put we all would have been spared the degradation of seeing Tŷ Mynydd fall into the hands of an Englishman.”

  He arranged his features in a look of theatrical disapproval. “Those blasted English.”

  “Words I have uttered many times,” Gwen said.

  Nickolas actually chuckled. Something about her affronted attitude was no longer menacing but almost petulant, not unlike a child stamping her foot in frustration.

  “So is my similarity to this ancestor of mine a positive thing or a negative thing?”

  “Both,” she answered sharply. “He too was fond of turning anything and everything into a joke, as if there was something to laugh about in every situation. It could be excessively frustrating.”

  “Strange. I have often been told it is excessively charming.”

  She did not bother to hide her disbelief. “Is everything a joke to you?”

  “I assure you, it is not. Though I have
adopted as my life philosophy that ’tis better to laugh than to cry.”

  She actually smiled, though only slightly. “Padrig once said he’d rather shed tears of laughter than tears of sorrow.”

  “A wise man, obviously. No doubt he gave rise to extremely wise offspring.”

  “If he did, I have yet to meet any of them.”

  Somehow, Nickolas knew a laugh hid under her sharp words. “You disliked him so much, then?”

  “I did not dislike him.”

  “Why is that?” Perhaps he could discover the key to changing her opinion of him if he knew how his ancestor had won her over.

  “He was intelligent and well behaved.”

  There had to be more to it than that. “And . . .” Nickolas prodded.

  “And”—she tossed her head of ghostly red hair—“he was far more enjoyable a companion than most of his contemporaries.” It sounded as if the words were being ripped from her involuntarily.

  “Because he tended to laugh rather than rant and rave.”

  “That might have had something to do with it.” She noticeably fought the admission.

  “Am I an enjoyable companion?” Nickolas asked, one of his famous smiles slipping across his face. “What with my tendency to laugh and all?”

  She seemed even more put out with him than before. Why he enjoyed ruffling her feathers, Nickolas couldn’t say. The breeze in the room picked up again, and Nickolas thought it time to change topics.

  “You’ll notice that Miss Castleton has been relocated,” he said. “You have your room back again.”

  “Except you are still in it,” she snapped back.

  Nickolas chuckled, though he probably ought to have been worried. He’d been warned not to earn her ire. Everyone else seemed to think such a thing inexcusably foolhardy. He had a suspicion, though he couldn’t say where the conviction came from, that Gwen was more inclined to be quiet and unobtrusive than the legend would suggest. He couldn’t help thinking that she became fearsome more out of necessity than character.

  Something about his unplanned laughter brought a change in Gwen’s countenance. Her eyes lost their snapping pride and became infinitesimally pleading. “Your claim to the rest of the house, despite my longer residence, supersedes my own. You have ownership of everything else. But this room is mine. It is mine. And I want it back.”