What was her position on the reality of their ghost?
“An excellent idea,” Mr. Pryce said. “If you’ve no urgent business, Mr. Kennard, we’d be honored to have you here as our guest on the hope that Dafydd Gam will prove generous and show himself to you.”
“I would like that very much.” Very much, indeed.
Chapter Three
“Mother, I refuse to use my feminine wiles on a man simply because he accepts the reality of ghosts. That is hardly a basis for pursuing a courtship.”
Mother offered Enid a look of dry doubt. “You know perfectly well that if you had any feminine wiles, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
Predicament, of course, meaning Enid’s fast-approaching spinsterhood. An unattached lady did not, after all, reach the horridly old age of nineteen without coming to a very real sense of her impending doom. In quiet moments when no one was looking, Enid indulged in an inordinate amount of eye rolling over the entire thing. She didn’t feel old. But what Society declared to be true, Society believed. And Society had declared her decrepitly aged.
“I wish Trev were here,” Enid sighed. “He would convince you to abandon the schemes I can practically hear swirling about in your mind.”
“This is your opportunity, Enid. I will not allow it to be wasted.”
Enid pulled on her gloves, knowing full well that her objections wouldn’t be heard. “Would you like me to tie Mr. Kennard to the stone bench whilst you fetch the vicar?”
Mother didn’t smile or laugh or swat playfully at the jest. She actually appeared to be pondering the idea.
“‘You mustn’t take what is not yours,’” she reminded her well-intentioned but ill-planning mother. “Mr. Kennard doesn’t belong to us.”
“But he could, Enid. With a bit of effort, he could.”
This was not going well. “What if I don’t want him?”
“Then you will be the next ghost to call our garden home.” Enough of a laugh touched Mother’s tone to take any real threat from the declaration. “At least be willing to consider the possibility, dearest.”
“I will.” For all the good it will do. Any gentleman whom she had found the least bit intriguing had beat a hasty retreat after only the briefest acquaintance. She couldn’t imagine this one would prove any more interested than the others.
Still, he had proven himself a good conversationalist, and he was inarguably handsome. An afternoon in the garden with him wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened to her lately.
Mr. Kennard poked his head into the sitting room. “Your father has declared that the rain will hold off for the next hour. If we are to go speak with your garden ghost, we had best do so now.”
“Ghosts likely aren’t troubled by the rain,” Enid pointed out, not bothering to hide her amusement.
“But I’d wager your slippers are.”
She pointed her foot forward, revealing the tip of her ankle boots.
“Very sensible footwear.” He clearly approved.
“The Welsh are nothing if not sensible.” Her serious expression didn’t remain in place long under the influence of his doubtful gaze. She smiled. So did he. Enid had always had a weakness for a gorgeous smile.
“We’d best go see if Dafydd Gam will grace us with his presence,” she said.
Mr. Kennard offered his arm, which she gladly accepted. She caught sight of her mother’s hopeful expression. Perhaps a hasty retreat was best. Enid did her utmost to speed their departure without actually dragging her companion down the corridor.
She saw the confusion in his face in the instant before he assumed the perfectly contented look that gentlemen were taught to wear in a lady’s company. His manner of dress and address had already convinced her he belonged to the gentry at the very least, but from which of England’s families did he hail? And from which corner of the kingdom? She knew he wasn’t Scottish. He most certainly wasn’t Welsh.
“You have grown very contemplative, Miss Pryce. I hope you are not displeased with our outing.”
“I am not at all displeased. I enjoy searching for Dafydd Gam. In fact, I was undertaking precisely that errand when you arrived this afternoon.”
“Ah.” The noise was one of understanding, but he still appeared confused. “What was it, then, if I may ask, that had you looking so ponderous a moment ago?”
Enid never had mastered the art of feigning sheepishness. Any person who spent more than a few minutes in her company quickly realized she was overly talkative and prone to speak her mind, so there seemed little point pretending to be anything other than herself. “I was pondering you, sir.”
His eyes pulled wide, and she swore his mouth even hung the tiniest bit open. Her laughing response was as unavoidable as it was unforgivable.
“Am I such a mystery?”
Was he attempting a jest? She couldn’t be entirely certain. Still, that seemed the most likely interpretation. “A scholar with the speech and bearing of a gentleman, who rides about the countryside searching for ghosts? What could possibly be mysterious in that?”
Oh, that smile of his! Not only was it quite, quite handsome but a far preferable response than the expressions of horrified disapproval her boldness usually elicited.
They stepped out into the still-damp gardens. The heavy sky cast doubt on Father’s prediction of an hour of dryness.
Mr. Kennard’s gaze had turned to the sky as well. “I am not at all confident the heavens are smiling upon our endeavor, Miss Pryce.”
How easy he was to speak with. Too many of the gentlemen she’d known in Bath had been unbearably pompous. She found herself wishing she knew more about him, that she could count him as an acquaintance rather than merely a step above a stranger.
“From which part of the country do you hail?” she asked.
If he was surprised by the abruptness of her inquiry, he didn’t allow it to show. “My family resides in Cheshire, though I currently call Cambridge home.”
“Has your family been in Cheshire long?”
He nodded, something in the gesture almost heavy. “As my father is fond of saying, ‘Since time immemorial.’ Most of the Kennards are convinced Cheshire would simply cease to exist if not for our residency there.”
“And, yet, here you are in Wales. Have you inquired after the continued existence of Cheshire while you’re away? One would hate for its demise to go insufficiently mourned.”
His shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “I am certain my grandfather would have announced on the floor of Lords if something had happened to the family seat.”
The floor of Lords? Does he hail from the aristocracy, then? The possibility set her mind spinning. The Pryces had only the barest claim on the gentry. Was she truly walking about in her garden with the grandson of a lord?
“Mind the puddle, Miss Pryce.” He indicated a few paces ahead where a puddle spread nearly the entire width of the path.
She slipped her hand from his arm and tiptoed around the edge of the water. “What does your family think of your interest in Wales?”
Mr. Kennard managed to navigate the puddle as well. “My father is very much like his sire. He disapproves of anything not considered a common pursuit for a gentleman of leisure. He has no comprehension of the misery I would feel spending my days at cards or billiards. Even a bruising ride can only do so much to break the monotony.”
She could appreciate his struggle but doubted he realized hers. “Imagine how that boredom is compounded when one’s choices are limited to either needlepoint or gazing serenely out of windows.”
“Under such dire circumstances, one would, no doubt, flee to the gardens and threaten to steal things.”
He remembered that part, then.
They reached the innermost circle of the garden where a statue of Hermes stood guard over the expanse.
“I have to steal things,” she said.
“And why is that?”
She turned up the collar of her spencer jacket against the quickl
y stiffening wind. “Because doing so is the one thing that regularly summons Dafydd Gam.”
“Stealing things from the garden?”
Enid nodded. “We aren’t at all certain why he dislikes our pilfering so much. And, admittedly, it doesn’t always bring him around.”
“Oh.” He pulled the single syllable out long. “That is the reason for his rule about taking things that aren’t one’s own.”
“Precisely.” Enid glanced around. “What shall we steal?”
“What is most likely to earn his ire?”
“Daffodils.” She didn’t even have to ponder the answer. “But they aren’t in season just now. I’m afraid anything else is not at all guaranteed to be effective.”
Mr. Kennard took whatever disappointment he felt in stride. He held his arm out to her once more. “I am in no hurry. Let us enjoy the momentary good weather and simply wait to see what happens.”
He didn’t have to issue the invitation twice.
Chapter Four
Burke had spent a great many afternoons in conversation with Welsh men and women, but he couldn’t say he’d truly enjoyed any of those visits as much as he was enjoying this one. Miss Pryce was a delight in every sense. She was witty and energetic. She didn’t shy away at expressing her opinion. She was pretty without allowing that, and that alone, to define her.
It was, of course, a great deal to decide about a person based on a single thirty-minute discussion, but she made no attempts at artifice. He would wager he knew her better than some people he’d spoken with dozens of times.
“What is this, Enid?” A decidedly Welsh, inarguably male voice floated across the otherwise deserted garden. “Have you finally found someone as daft as you are, who’ll sit here under threatening skies on the thin promise of an appearance by a man dead these four centuries?”
Far from offended, Miss Pryce grinned broadly and hopped up from the bench they were occupying. “Trev!” She rushed toward this newcomer, a gentleman likely very near to Burke’s age, and was greeted with an enthusiastic embrace.
Burke felt a surprising stab of jealousy at having lost her companionship so easily and so completely to “Trev.” I am becoming a nonsensical gudgeon.
“Is this another of your strays, Enid?”
Burke eagerly hoped to hear about Miss Pryce’s strays. He would wager it was a diverting tale.
“I do hope this family means to eventually allow me to live that down.” Miss Pryce was all offense and wounded pride, though it was clearly nothing more than an act.
Burke stood.
“Trevor Pryce.” Miss Pryce’s brother, it seemed. He made the expected, small bow of greeting.
Burke returned it. “Burke Kennard.”
He had once contemplated giving a false surname whilst going about his studies. Seeing recognition dawn in the young Mr. Pryce’s eyes made him wonder once again if he’d been wrong to abandon the idea.
“Mouldsworth’s Kennards?”
That brought Enid’s surprised gaze to her brother once more. “The Marquess of Mouldsworth?”
And thus it would begin. All of the pretense and posturing. Why must he forever be Mouldsworth’s grandson and never simply Burke?
Mr. Pryce grinned at his sister. “Did you not realize you were sitting on a grimy bench with the grandson of a marquess?”
“I can’t say I did.”
“Would it have made a difference?” Burke asked quietly.
Miss Pryce seemed to genuinely contemplate the question. “I would imagine the grandson of a marquess is in the habit of carrying an extra square of linen on his person. If I’d known your full identity, I might have asked you to wipe the bench off a bit. My maid will be furious when she sees the state of my spencer.”
Quick as that, the weight that had settled in his stomach disappeared. Miss Pryce was like a fresh breeze on a stifling summer day.
Mr. Pryce brushed something from his nose. Miss Pryce wiped at her forehead. Burke had only a moment to ponder the action before he, himself, was hit squarely on the cheek with a drop of rain.
“Do grandsons of marquesses melt in the rain?” Miss Pryce asked.
Her brother answered. “We’re about to find out. Unless Mr. Kennard can outrun a cloudburst.”
As it turned out, none of them could. They were all three soaked to the skin by the time they rushed through the terrace doors at the back of the Pryces’ home.
“Were you simply passing through, Mr. Kennard, or were you to stay for a time?” young Mr. Pryce asked.
“Your parents offered me their hospitality. I believe my belongings were taken to a spare bedchamber.”
“Come along, then.” Mr. Pryce slapped him on the shoulder. “You have dry clothing awaiting you somewhere in this old pile of rocks.”
“Let us hope there is also an accommodating fire somewhere as well.” He walked up the stairs beside his new friend. “If I weren’t entirely enamored of Wales, your tendency toward drowning rainfall might put me off the place entirely.”
Mr. Pryce sent him a sidelong look. “I suppose it never rains in Cheshire.”
Burke puffed out his chest. “I, sir, reside in Cambridge.”
He received a look of feigned horror in return. “A Cambridge man? This is an Oxford family, I will have you know.”
Only as they reached the first floor landing did he take note of the sound of soggy footfall behind them. He’d forgotten Miss Pryce entirely. There she stood, only a few paces behind them, clutching the collar of her spencer, wet hair plastered to her face, shivering. What sort of gentleman was he to have so quickly turned his thoughts away from a lady in distress?
Except she didn’t appear to be in distress. She didn’t seem overly bothered by her misery. Her eyes danced above a perfectly contented smile. “I am creating something of a pond here on the landing. Perhaps we could retake our journey toward dry clothing and accommodating fires.”
“Is your sister always this practical?” Burke asked.
Mr. Pryce laughed. “Practical? Enid is as daft as St. Abner’s Day.”
Miss Pryce shook her head. “There is no such day.”
“Which makes it particularly daft, does it not?”
She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Brothers are, without argument, the very worst sort of siblings.”
“You said ‘brothers,’ though I believe the correct word is ‘sisters’.”
The Pryce siblings were proving enormously diverting.
“I have two sisters and two brothers,” Burke said, “and I have to agree with—”
His companions watched him with matching grins and eager anticipation. Heavens, if his own family was this enjoyable to spend an afternoon with, he might make the trip to Cheshire more often.
“—neither of you,” he finally finished. “It is, in fact, older siblings who are the worst sort.”
Miss Pryce turned a triumphant gaze on her brother. “I still win.”
Mr. Pryce made a bow of acceptance. “In deference to your victory, I will allow you to slip past us so you can rush to your bedchamber before you catch your death of cold.”
“You would mourn me, would you?” Miss Pryce stepped past them both.
“I suppose.” It was a very brotherly response.
She was soon a great many paces ahead, and Burke and Mr. Pryce were once again making their walk toward warmth. “Your sister is quite unlike most young ladies in society, Mr. Pryce.”
“Call me Trevor, please.”
He nodded his agreement and made an offer of his own. “Burke.”
“Yes, Enid is unique.” Though he’d teased his sister mercilessly, Trevor’s fondness in that moment could not be mistaken. “She has only just returned from a Season in Bath, and I am beyond relieved to see that it did not fundamentally change her. Society has a way of convincing young ladies to conform to the same bland mold.”
“In my experience, a London Season is most likely to create conformity in a young lady. A Bath Season i
s most likely to create uncertainty.”
Trevor stopped once more. “Uncertainty?”
Not wishing to overly alarm Trevor, Burke kept his response quick and unconcerned. “Too many of the gentlemen who spend the Season in Bath do so because there is little to recommend them. That leaves the young ladies who flock there, often for reasons of economy, with very few desirable choices and a higher likelihood of what their families, Society, and, too often, they themselves deem ‘failure.’ I have seen it plant seeds of doubt in even the most confident of ladies.”
Trevor’s brow drew as his gaze turned toward a closed bedchamber door just a step beyond where they stood. “You don’t suppose Enid thinks ill of herself for having returned unattached. Though she’s my sister and I enjoy ruffling her feathers a bit, I’d hate to think she was unhappy or, worse still, that she’d feel she needed to change herself.”
“I have only known Miss Pryce for a few hours,” Burke reminded him, “so I am no authority. I have, however, seen Bath twist too many hearts to not feel I needed to warn you of the possibility.”
Trevor nodded. “Thank you. I will be vigilant.”
Did Miss Pryce realize how very fortunate she was to have a family who cared so very much? Burke had only ever dreamed of that.
“If Trev does not stop looking at me as though he fears my untimely demise is imminent, I will have no choice but to brain him with his own walking stick, if he has one, that is.”
Burke didn’t even try to hide his amusement. “If he has one what? A brain to have bashed or a walking stick to bash it with?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I have my doubts about both.”
The rains had still not let up, though the family had long since finished dinner. Miss Pryce stood near the tall windows in the drawing room, looking out over the dark expanse as though she was contemplating dashing out into the night to escape her brother. Burke felt a little guilty about that, but only a very little.
“Perhaps he fears you took a chill this afternoon,” he suggested.
She dismissed that immediately. “We are Welsh. We have spent our entire lives wet, and we’ve not died of it yet.”
All Hallows' Eve Collection Page 2
