An Unlikely Match

by Sarah M. Eden

  Gwen’s expression grew ever more mutinous. “Do you wish me to pose at a stile? Or perhaps the entrance to a footpath would serve better.” The wind kicked up with each tense word Gwen spoke. “You could invite the local children to make a game of trying to spot the fearsome Ladi Wen and provide them with all the salt they could wish for to toss at me and in my path.”

  “Miss Gwenllian,” Mrs. Davis replied, her tone extremely patient and empathetic. Nickolas felt the tension begin to dissipate. It didn’t seem Mrs. Davis had meant the insult Gwen and Dafydd had apparently felt in her suggestion. “I asked you to attend this discussion specifically so that I might assure you I had not intended any such thing. I would not, could not, be so callous as to make a mockery of your existence.”

  Gwen nodded. “I apologize, then, for my baseless conclusion.” The low wind in the room died down in that instant, and Gwen retreated from the group, perching near a window. What was it, Nickolas wondered, that drew Gwen to windows? Every time he came upon her, it seemed, she was gazing out a window.

  “For the sake of our English friends,” Mr. Davis entered the conversation, “perhaps it would be wise, dear, to explain a few of the Welsh customs. This way, they will be better able to decide which would be most enjoyable to include.”

  “In that, I think we may appeal to Mr. Evans.” Mrs. Davis turned to look at the vicar. “He knows his folk traditions well, I daresay, and would know which are observed in this area of the country.”

  “I do, indeed.” Dafydd looked one last time at Gwen before taking up the task handed him. “Nos Galan Gaeaf, celebrated on the last day of October, marks the start of the new year in the ancient Welsh calendar. It also signals the beginning of winter. On Nos Galan Gaeaf, the spirits of the dead are said to walk the earth, and the division between this world and the next is believed to blur. Many traditions emerged as a result of this night when ghosts roam freely. The spreading and carrying of salt and other preserving agents, as Gwen referenced. Special attention is paid to anointing stiles and footpaths with these agents, as that is where the ghosts are apparently most likely to appear.”

  “And what is Ladi Wen?” Nickolas asked.

  “‘Y Ladi Wen,’” Griffith said, managing a tone of mystery. “The White Lady—said to either be the bringer of treasure or a terrifying ghost, depending on where in the country the legend is being told.”

  The White Lady. No wonder Gwen assumed she was meant to play that role. Her ghostly attire was entirely white.

  “And in addition to Y Ladi Wen,” Dafydd continued, “is Yr Hwch ddu gwta.”

  That was certainly a mouthful. “I am not even going to attempt to say that one,” Nickolas said. “I’m still working on Y Castell.”

  Every Welshman in the room winced.

  “It could not have been that bad,” Nickolas insisted.

  Griffith leaned in closer and, in an exaggeratedly loud whisper, said, “You should probably just call it ‘the castle’ and skip the Welsh altogether.”

  Nickolas took the ribbing in stride. “What is this other creature you mentioned?”

  “The tail-less black sow,” Dafydd said.

  “A sow?” Nickolas smiled. “And does the pig bring treasure like the White Lady supposedly does?”

  Griffith shook his head. “The black sow has the disconcerting tendency to eat any individual unfortunate enough to encounter it. And it has a decided preference for the taste of young children.”

  Nickolas laughed in both shock and amusement. “It is a wonder Welsh children ever sleep at night with such tales rolling about in their minds.”

  “The thirty-first of October is a night given to revelry and merriment, despite its darker associations,” Dafydd assured him. “Various games involving apples are common, as are fortune-telling and bonfires.”

  “It sounds a great deal like All Hallows’ Eve.” Mrs. Castleton echoed Nickolas’s thoughts. “Though the fearsome sow was unexpected.”

  Unexpected? Nickolas smiled to himself. One never knew what Mrs. Castleton would say next.

  “I don’t know that I like the idea of horrible ghosts or fortune-telling,” Miss Castleton threw in her impression.

  Nickolas opened his mouth to reassure her but was prevented by Mrs. Davis retaking control of the discussion.

  “We would not be including fortune-telling in our celebration,” she told the younger lady. “And other than our own Gwen, who is most certainly not horrible, ours will not be a ghostly entertainment.”

  Nickolas looked to Gwen, wondering how she would respond to the compliment she had just been paid. She still gazed with apparent interest at the completely darkened view out the window.

  “There wouldn’t be any other ghosts?” Mr. Castleton asked, obvious disappointment in his tone.

  “No, sir,” Mrs. Davis said.

  “Don’t you have any friends you could bring along?” Mr. Castleton’s question was directed at Gwen.

  Her head snapped in his direction, the fire in her eyes again, and Nickolas knew instinctively it was time to intervene, lest Mr. Castleton not be around to enjoy the festivities they were planning.

  “Tŷ Mynydd has a vast apple orchard,” Nickolas said to the room. “We should have plenty of apples for any and all games of which your imaginations can conceive. And I do not think dancing would be amiss either. Indeed, there must be a few families in the area who could be prevailed upon to attend.” He glanced at Dafydd during the final sentence, knowing the vicar would know more of the area than he himself did.

  “Indeed,” was Dafydd’s response. Where was the man’s usual enthusiasm? Why did he continually gaze at Gwen? Was there more about the proposition likely to be upsetting to that lady than the original worry that she herself was to serve as a form of entertainment?

  “Wonderful,” Mrs. Davis said. “If you will compose a list of appropriate families, I am certain the Castleton ladies would assist Alys and me in writing out the invitations. Though I have one more suggestion.”

  “And what is that?” Nickolas asked on behalf of the group, forcing himself to reenter the conversation and not think too hard about what was eating at Dafydd and Gwen.

  “I believe our small ball would be wondrous as a masquerade,” Mrs. Davis said. “A true masquerade in which each participant wears a mask along with his or her formal attire. There would be no questionable costumes nor concealing dominos.”

  Echoes of agreement and growing excitement filled the room. Only a few moments passed before the entire assembly was lost in planning the event, ten days hence. Dafydd had been commandeered by the ladies to help assemble a guest list and offer insight into local customs and opinions on the appropriate decorations.

  Mr. Castleton had crossed the room to where Gwen stood, still at the window. Even from a distance, it was obvious he was staring at her again. Feeling the weight of his promise earlier in the week, Nickolas started across the room to pull the man away.

  He was, however, waylaid before he reached his destination.

  “A Nos Galan Gaeaf ball,” Mr. Davis said. “You will be the Welshest of Welsh landowners before long if this keeps up.”

  Nickolas smiled at the irony. “I think your wife is attempting to help me save face with my neighbors by hiding my Englishness as much as possible. I really ought to thank her.”

  “But not until you are certain she hasn’t offended Gwen,” Griffith said. “I thought for sure the furniture would topple before Mother had a chance to defend herself. Or at the very least, we’d once again find ourselves an impromptu choir cheerily declaring war on the Saxon invaders.”

  Mr. Davis laughed heartily. “That was something of an experience, was it not? Being called to arms by a lady who lived at the time of Owain Glyndŵr. Stirs the blood in any Welshman’s veins.”

  Griffith smiled at his father but, turning in Nickolas’s direction, rolled his eyes. His father’s overabundance of national pride had often been a source of amusement to Griffith, though he had his mome
nts as well.

  “If you will excuse me, I’d best go extricate Mr. Castleton before Gwen spills the blood in that Englishman’s veins.”

  Chuckles echoed behind him as Nickolas continued his trek across the room.

  “There must be someone else you could call on,” Mr. Castleton implored, his tone indicating he’d made this request unsuccessfully before. “Someone who might be prevailed upon to make a brief appearance. It is to be a celebration of your kind, after all.”

  It was the “your kind” that had been the proverbial straw on the camel’s back, Nickolas realized later, after Mr. Castleton had been helped back to his feet and the nearby furniture put back to rights. Gwen had disappeared without a sound beyond the gust of wind that had knocked Mr. Castleton onto his exceedingly ample backside. But the look on her face hadn’t left Nickolas’s mind. She’d been hurt by Mr. Castleton’s words. Deeply hurt. And Nickolas felt shaken by it, as if he were to blame for her suffering.

  Nickolas walked out with Dafydd when that gentleman was ready to depart for the night. “Do you have a minute tomorrow when you could come to the vicarage?” Dafydd asked as they approached Nickolas’s carriage, which was waiting to take him back to that exact location.

  “Certainly. I’ll head in that direction in the morning.”

  “Excellent.” Dafydd sounded distracted, his expression far off.

  “Are you excessively lonely, or is there a reason for my visit?” Nickolas inquired, trying to recapture the lighthearted feel of their earlier association.

  Dafydd did smile at that. “There is something I think you need to see. Especially in light of tonight and the upcoming ball.”

  “In regard to Gwen?”

  Dafydd nodded. “Our discussion at the crossroads has stuck with me, has made me think more on what little I know of her.”

  Nickolas understood that. He had thought a lot about her as well. And wondered about The Tower. About her father. About the fallen priest.

  “Shall I extend the invitation to Griffith? He’s been puzzling this over as well.”

  Dafydd nodded and stepped inside the carriage. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow,” Nickolas acknowledged.

  He stood there in the courtyard for a moment after the carriage rolled out of view, his mind full. There were too many possibilities to guess at what Dafydd wanted to show him. Nickolas hoped it would shed light on his very mysterious, very permanent houseguest. He’d had his first hint at her inner sadness while climbing the stairs of The Tower. Their conversation the next day had only solidified that impression—she seemed unhappy and lonely, and she’d been playing least in sight since then.

  The pain in her eyes that night had been almost palpable. Nickolas desperately wanted to ease that suffering. How he’d wanted to hold her hand only a few days earlier! But there was nothing of flesh and blood about her, thus no way to offer comfort through touch. He could not dry her tears, though thinking back, he wasn’t sure she’d shed any. Was that a lack of emotion? Or was she simply unable to?

  Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Nickolas’s attention. Upward his eyes moved, settling on something white and billowy, floating high above the ground. It was Gwen, walking perfectly level, as if on an invisible wall. Her hair and skirts fluttered furiously in a breeze that did not affect a single nearby tree.

  It is said that at night she can be seen walking high above the ground, where the castle walls once stood, standing guard over her home. Dafydd’s retelling of Gwen’s legend came back to Nickolas’s mind. She was walking those walls. Alone.

  He watched her a moment longer, his heart growing heavy at the sight of her. More and more, his suspicion that she was lonely took seed in his mind. What must it be like, he wondered, to remain behind when one’s loved ones were long since passed away?

  He shook his head, feeling helpless and frustrated, and turned to go back inside. If only he could hold her hand in his, offer her the comfort of that simple gesture and words of reassurance. But anything he said would be hollow and pointless.

  Nickolas glanced over his shoulder one last time. She continued to walk, though the temperature dropped. Could she feel the cold? he wondered. He hoped not. He hoped that if she did, Gwen would return inside. If only Mr. Castleton would stay out of her room and leave her that single source of comfort.

  It might, in fact, be a very good idea to check to make certain no one was invading the sanctuary of Gwen’s room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Mr. Castleton.” Nickolas ought not to have been surprised to see the man standing eagerly in the middle of Gwen’s room. But he’d let himself hope that Mr. Castleton’s earlier run-in with Gwen would have sated his appetite for ghostly encounters.

  “She enters through the wall,” Mr. Castleton informed Nickolas without bothering with any of the civilities that usually accompanied a greeting. “It is amazing to watch. I never tire of it.”

  “I think, Mr. Castleton, she may tire of having an audience,” Nickolas countered as gently as he could manage through his growing frustration. He did not wish to offend the man, simply to send him on his way for the night.

  “Nonsense, m’ boy.” Mr. Castleton turned back toward the room’s exterior wall, no doubt anticipating Gwen’s return.

  Obviously, he needed a new tactic. “With the upcoming ball,” Nickolas said, trying to sound convincing, “I think Gwen might be inspecting the ballroom.”

  Mr. Castleton’s eyes grew wide in anticipation.

  “Perhaps if you hurry, you can see her slide through a wall or two.” The temptation was likely more than the poor gentleman could resist. A moment later, in fact, he scurried from the room.

  Nickolas shook his head at the retreating back of their resident ghost chaser. How Mr. Castleton must drive his family mad a great deal of the time. For just a moment, Nickolas actually felt grateful to have no family of his own. If nothing else, that saved him the difficulty of troublesome relations.

  Nickolas pulled his set of keys from his jacket pocket, fumbling for a minute before coming across the skeleton key to all the bedchambers. It did not take a great deal of imagination to picture Mr. Castleton hurrying back once he failed to locate Gwen in the ballroom. Nickolas stepped into the doorway, intending to close it behind him and lock Mr. Castleton out, but he stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

  He ought to go. He ought to leave Gwen’s room empty and quiet, but he wanted to see her, to know that she was well, that whatever had bothered her during the evening’s discussion no longer upset her.

  Though many found her fearsome and frightening, Nickolas had seen compassion in her that he’d seldom found in others. Hadn’t she remained in The Tower with him during his sojourn there despite her own suffering? Hadn’t she offered compliments to Miss Castleton despite that young lady’s initial, though unintentional, invasion of Gwen’s own refuge?

  Gwen was the kind of lady any gentleman would admire. Or had been. Nickolas wasn’t sure precisely how to refer to her, whether the present or the past was the accurate approach. She had lived long ago but was there in his house still.

  Whatever the syntax, he did admire her. He came to the sudden but irrefutable realization that he admired Gwen more than any other lady of his acquaintance. They’d spoken at some length in The Tower before exhaustion had overtaken him. It was that conversation, coupled with many others, and his own observations of her and what he’d learned of her from others that had solidified his good opinion of her. But not until that moment, standing alone in her safe harbor, did he realize how much he’d come to care for her.

  It was something of a jolt. Although he acknowledged Miss Castleton’s good heart and fine looks and recognized that his favored houseguest was a good person at heart, Nickolas could not remember ever thinking as highly of her as he already did of Gwen.

  But what good can come of that admiration? Nickolas asked himself. There was no future to be had with a ghost. There could be no hap
py ending to an attachment with a lady who was already dead.

  When Gwen floated into the room by way of an outer wall in the next moment, Nickolas could barely summon a smile, so suddenly depressed were his spirits.

  “Nickolas!” she blurted in obvious astonishment at his presence.

  “I have sent Mr. Castleton on a mad dash about the house,” he managed to say.

  “You are very good, Nickolas.”

  He shrugged. “I cannot help myself.”

  Another of her brilliant smiles crossed her face. She did not produce them often, but when she did, Nickolas was irresistibly drawn to her. He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him, locking it so Mr. Castleton could not return.

  “Your household seems on the verge of utter disruption,” Gwen said.

  “The festivities, you mean?” He did not attempt to pronounce the name of the Welsh holiday, knowing his accent was atrocious.

  “Balls and gatherings have never failed to turn Tŷ Mynydd upside down.”

  Nickolas leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window by which she stood. “You’ve been around for a great many of them, I imagine.”

  “Four hundred years’ worth.” Her lips turned up in amusement.

  “I’ve been to a few balls that seemed to last four hundred years.”

  She laughed. He’d come to truly enjoy that laugh. “I should warn you now: I never make an appearance at balls. I rather despise being put on display, and it always seems such a shame to wreak havoc on an event that requires so much effort and planning.”

  He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Yet you made quite an appearance at this house party.”

  “You deserved that, and you know it—you and your skepticism.”

  He chuckled. “I certainly saw the error of my ways.”

  She moved closer, skewering him with a theatrical look of scrutiny. “And you cannot honestly say you aren’t secretly pleased that I disrupted your party.”

  Nickolas shook his head. “You are the best part of this very welcome inheritance of mine.”