An Unlikely Match

by Sarah M. Eden

  “He did not love me. I realized that some time ago. But in the end, he at least felt that I was useful.” She laughed humorlessly. “Every warrior needs a banner to fly, after all. That was my purpose, whether I wished for it or not.”

  “An unwilling war cry,” Nickolas said, watching her closely.

  She immediately recognized the phrase. “You’ve seen the angel statue.”

  “You do not seem to approve of your own monument.”

  “How could I approve?” Gwen all but snapped. “That insulting attempt by the men who destroyed me to beg for redemption? Did they think merely erecting a monument with a long-suffering angel depicted atop it would serve as restitution for doing what they did?”

  Nickolas looked astonished. And well he might be. Gwen had never spoken thus to another person, had never voiced her frustration and anger. Of all the people she’d known, he least deserved her anger.

  “I am sorry for yelling, Nickolas. You certainly did not deserve it.” She sighed, weary and weighed down. “What they did was wrong. No amount of statuary is going to change that. And all the monuments in the world will not allow me to escape paying the recurrent price of their perfidy.”

  “Tell me,” Nickolas said. “Please. What did they do?”

  She could tell he asked not out of morbid curiosity but out of genuine concern. “They saved Y Castell,” was all she could bring herself to say. “And the price paid for that guarantee was steep, indeed.”

  * * *

  Nickolas went looking for Gwen the next day. She’d been playing least in sight, forcing him to search for some time. He found her late in the afternoon walking along the long-gone walls of the ancient castle. A cold wind whipped the grounds of Tŷ Mynydd, but as he approached her, Nickolas hardly felt it. How was it that the very sight of Gwen warmed his heart?

  “You are a remarkably difficult lady to locate,” he called out.

  She turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and a smile spread slowly across her beautiful face. Nickolas watched her appreciatively as she floated down to ground level, stopping directly in front of him.

  “Good afternoon, Nickolas.”

  The slight hesitancy that had touched her words seemed to confirm his suspicions. “Have you been avoiding me?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve simply been . . . not always visible.”

  “Why have you been hiding from me, Gwen?”

  She looked decidedly uncomfortable. How tempted he was to pull her into a reassuring embrace, and how frustrating the realization that he never could.

  “I thought you would rather not see me,” she said, “after I snapped at you yesterday. That was unfair of me.”

  “Well, then, let me assure you I not only wished to see you, I have been searching the grounds and house for some time now, trying to find you.”

  “You have?” A smile suddenly appeared on her face.

  “I have.” He motioned for her to walk with him, which she did, though ’twas more of a hover. “I had a brilliant idea I wished to run past you.”

  “Are you looking for my opinion or my approval?”

  “Both.”

  She looked intrigued. Nickolas bit back a smile. He thoroughly enjoyed talking with her. She always held up her end of any conversation and never failed to follow right along with his teasing. Too many young ladies needed prodding or explanations.

  “What is this brilliant idea of yours?”

  “I want to commission a painting.”

  Confusion showed in the creasing of her brow. “You seek my approval for a painting?”

  Nickolas nodded, entirely serious. “Though you have graciously accepted my ownership, the house really is yours, and I want your opinion and, yes, your approval.”

  She gave every indication of being flattered. “I have said it before but will do so again: you are a good man, Nickolas Pritchard.”

  “Let me tell you about this painting, and then you can decide if I am a good man or a foolish one.”

  “What in heaven’s name have you decided to have painted?” An amused laugh mingled with her tone of curiosity.

  Nickolas could have happily spent every day of his life walking with her just like he was then. The grounds sat peacefully inviting all around them. The cares and concerns of the day faded into the background.

  “I wish to have a painting done of the old castle,” he said.

  “But Y Castell no longer stands, Nickolas. How could any artist accurately paint something that no longer exists?”

  A gust tugged at his coat but had no noticeable impact on her. He hoped that meant she did not feel the biting wind. She was not dressed at all warmly enough for the recent drop in temperature. He would have offered her his coat if the gesture would have done any good.

  “I have found a few sketches of it in the library,” Nickolas said, “though none of them are complete, all apparently having been rendered after it began to crumble.”

  “You wish for a painting of it as it stood when whole?” She gave him a wary look, and he wondered at it.

  “Not if it will upset you,” he quickly replied. “That was not my intention at all.”

  “I never thought it was,” she said. “Of all the people who have ever resided here, you have never once seemed determined to upset me or overlook my feelings or desires.”

  Her assessment touched him. “Your feelings are of paramount importance to me, Gwen. I actually first conceived of the idea of having the castle painted because of you.”

  She once more appeared pleasantly curious. His simple words of reassurance had succeeded in wiping the wariness from her face.

  “I thought you might appreciate being able to see it again,” he said. “You must miss it sometimes.”

  She nodded. “I do have some very happy memories of the old castle.”

  “Perhaps you would be willing to fill in the missing details so the rendering can be complete and true to the original.”

  She did not answer immediately. Nickolas watched her as they continued their slow amble across the grounds. Her expression was decidedly contemplative. He hoped her recollections were pleasant ones. He knew all too well that she had many unhappy memories—he’d seen evidence of that fact on her face many times.

  “Could it be painted as it looked in the spring?” she asked. “It was always so beautiful in the spring.”

  He stepped in front of her, grateful when she stopped before passing through him. “This painting, Gwen, is for you. The castle will be painted however you wish to remember it.”

  “I get to choose the memories I keep?”

  He hadn’t considered it in quite that way. “I suppose that’s the idea,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. He’d never seen anyone stand so perfectly still. “I would wish to remember the castle as it was while my mother was alive.” Unmistakable longing filled her words.

  “Then do remember it that way.”

  Gwen looked at him once more, resignation and sadness in her eyes. “It’s not that simple, Nickolas. Some things aren’t easy to forget.”

  What things? he wondered. Asking her outright would be unforgivably presumptuous. “What can I do?” he asked instead.

  She smiled a little. “Have I told you how much I appreciate that you treat me as though I actually matter?”

  “You do actually matter.”

  Her smile grew a bit. “How fearsome you look just now.”

  “Fearsome?” He stepped closer, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes, fearsome.” A mischievous expression lit her face. “And I confess I enjoy it immensely. No one has ever stood up for me before.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question. What can I do about these memories you can’t manage to forget?”

  “Tell me a story.”

  He studied her a moment, wanting to see if she was indeed serious. Sincerity radiated from her. “Another story?”

  “Yes, please. I enjoyed the last one.”

  They took up
their walk once more, while Nickolas searched his mind for something that might amuse her. He knew she asked him in order to distract her, not because a tale would actually solve any of her problems. Still, a lighthearted story wasn’t much to ask. He would do anything for her, anything at all.

  “I lived with a cousin of my mother when I was eleven.”

  “The same cousin as when you were seven?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I was passed from relative to relative. I’d live with one for a few months, sometimes as long as a year, and they’d tire of me and send me to someone else.”

  “Which must be the reason for the loneliness you spoke of before.”

  It was, indeed. “After my parents died, I never truly had a family again. I wanted one more than anything else in my whole life.”

  “It is a hard thing to be alone in this world.”

  Others had expressed similar sentiments. From Gwen, however, it held greater significance. “You and I have known a great deal of loneliness, haven’t we?”

  She nodded and sighed. “Far too much.” Some of her sadness lifted. “But less now. I am not so lonely with you here.”

  “The feeling is mutual.” Nickolas reached for her hand, but his fingers met only empty air. He clasped his hands behind his back, knowing the temptation to touch her would not dissipate, despite the illogical nature of that inclination. The more time he spent in her company, the more he longed for her.

  “When you were eleven . . .” Gwen prodded, reminding Nickolas that he had been telling a story.

  “When I was eleven”—he gave her a grin—“I decided I would make my fortune as an inventor.”

  Gwen appeared appropriately amused. “What did you invent?”

  “I attempted to invent a great many things. My first failure involved a combined knife and fork, which, it turns out, is impossible to actually use.”

  Her little giggle made his heart jump in his chest.

  “I next tried my hand at designing a clothes horn.”

  “What is a clothes horn?”

  Nickolas could not have asked for a more gratifyingly curious response. “I imagined a stick of some kind that a gentleman could use to get his own jacket on, no matter how ridiculously tight fashions became.”

  “And did every valet in the county rise up in fear for their positions?”

  He shook his head. “Trust me, they had nothing to worry about. I could not manage to perfect the idea.”

  “How many other ideas did you work on?”

  “Scores.”

  Gwen grinned at him. “And never made your fortune.”

  Nickolas chuckled. “Obviously not.”

  “I should have liked to have known you as a boy.”

  He clasped his hands more tightly behind his back, the urge to wrap his arm around her misty shoulders almost overwhelming. “But I have told you only the amusing moments of my younger years. You likely would have found my troublemaking and moments of self-pity quite trying.”

  “I would have loved every part of you,” she whispered.

  That declaration left him utterly speechless. How perfectly she’d expressed the very feelings surging through his heart. He couldn’t imagine not loving everything about her.

  He opened his mouth to tell her as much but found the words caught. What could be gained by confessing how deeply he’d come to love her? Nothing could come of his feelings. There could be no future. He would only burden her by admitting the state of his heart when the situation was, when it came down to it, utterly hopeless.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “The masquerade should be quite lovely,” Miss Castleton said to Nickolas as they walked through the gardens behind the house.

  Mr. and Mrs. Castleton had insisted on the excursion. They had, in fact, arranged several such private moments between the two over the course of the house party, ranging from morning rides to leisurely walks to afternoon picnics. More than once, Dafydd had been obliged to give up his conversational partner so that Nickolas could indulge the Castletons.

  “I think it will be,” Nickolas answered. “There will be quite a large number of guests, though not so many as to make the hall too crowded.”

  Miss Castleton smiled in her sweet way, and Nickolas found himself smiling in return. He had a certain fondness for her, though he could not, in any honesty, describe his feelings as surpassing, rivaling, or even coming close to those he felt for Gwen. But Gwen, as he had to continually remind himself, was an unobtainable wish. She was dead, a ghost wandering the corridors of his home. There was no future between a man yet living and a lady dead for nearly four hundred years. It was a frustrating and impossible situation, but one he would have to learn to live with. Nothing else could be done.

  “This is a beautiful area of the country.” Miss Castleton looked around her in obvious admiration of the countryside. “Mr. Evans says that the Tŷ Mynydd valley is a very good representation of the beauties of Wales.”

  “I understand that is true,” Nickolas said. “It would be enjoyable, I think, to see more of Wales.”

  “I agree.” She smiled in a friendly manner. “My parents hope to return here again and again over the years.”

  “Do they?” Nickolas forced a swallow.

  Mr. Castleton had hinted at those very intentions only the day before. He had more than hinted at a great many other things, including the expectations Nickolas’s invitation had given rise to in all of their hearts and minds. He had not, he knew, kept his interest in Miss Castleton a secret before his inheritance, and his pointed attentions since would simply have reaffirmed his intentions.

  He might, if he tried, be able to extricate himself from making the offer that was obviously expected of him. It would not precisely be gentlemanly of him, but if he’d had any hope of making a future with the woman he loved, he would have managed it.

  What would be the point, he’d asked himself repeatedly the night before. He’d be going through life essentially as a widower, a man who’d lost the woman he loved. Except that he’d never actually had her—she’d died long before he was born. He’d find growing frustration in her companionship and, he knew, would regret the loss of children and a family.

  What hope did he have? Gwen was lost to him. He did not wish to live out his life alone.

  The Castletons expected an offer to be forthcoming. A gentleman did not knowingly, and he had to admit he’d known he was doing so, raise expectations in a gently bred young lady without fulfilling those expectations. And when said gentleman had no hope of a life with the woman he loved, making a life with a woman he at least liked and who seemed to like him in return was about as promising a future as he could hope for.

  “Are you fond of me, Miss Castleton?” The question did not seem to catch her off guard.

  “Of course I am, Mr. Pritchard.”

  “And you do realize why your parents have been throwing us together so determinedly, do you not?”

  She smiled a little shyly and nodded.

  “And you do not object to their reasons?”

  “I do not, Mr. Pritchard.” Why did that answer feel like a lead weight instead of the reassurance it ought to have been?

  A man ought not to make a proposal in a spirit of resignation. There seemed little choice and even less hope.

  “Would you do me the honor, then, Miss Castleton, of becoming my wife?”

  She nodded once more and smiled a little.

  As simply as that, their futures were decided. Nickolas couldn’t help but notice that neither of them appeared overly happy about it.

  * * *

  For once, Mr. Castleton held every eye in the room for a reason other than that he was making a spectacle of himself. He stood in the midst of the assembled guests in the drawing room after dinner and made it known that he had an announcement to make.

  The butler had been forewarned and stood, Nickolas knew, just outside the door with champagne at the ready. Mr. Castleton looked ready to burst and, for the f
irst time, seemed to have forgotten all about Gwen. Mrs. Castleton was already dabbing at her eyes. Miss Castleton, Nickolas noted with some dissatisfaction, looked rather more pale than usual.

  Mr. Castleton finally spoke. “It is my pleasure to announce that my daughter, Charlotte, has received an offer of marriage from our host, Mr. Nickolas Pritchard, and that she has accepted him.”

  Exclamations of happiness, if not surprise, could be heard around the room as the butler entered with champagne ready to be distributed. Miss Castleton received hugs from the female guests. Nickolas received a few hearty slaps on the back.

  “Are you sure about this?” Griffith asked in low tones.

  Nickolas nodded, though he couldn’t be certain the gesture was convincing.

  Griffith hesitated a moment, studying him. “Then I am happy for you.” He smiled his congratulations.

  One expression of happiness was notably absent, and Nickolas found himself unable to account for it.

  Still seated and seemingly in a state of shock, Dafydd looked almost ashen. The smile that always seemed to lurk just under the surface was entirely missing. Even as Nickolas watched, the ever-amiable vicar seemed to pull himself together once more. He rose slowly and crossed to Nickolas.

  “Congratulations,” he said, his tone a bit halfhearted. “Miss Castleton is a fine lady.”

  “She is.”

  Dafydd offered nothing more than that. He bowed quite correctly to Miss Castleton but said nothing. She avoided his gaze, much as she had the first time they’d met, though Nickolas realized she hadn’t done so in the weeks that had followed. In fact, they had seemed on friendly terms, often seen sitting near one another or engaged in light conversation.

  Nickolas did not attend very closely to the toasts being made in his and his affianced bride’s honor. His eyes followed Dafydd, who was making a somewhat hasty retreat. A moment before Nickolas’s friend reached the door, Gwen came through it. Nickolas could barely make out their words over the voices around him.

  “A celebration?” Gwen asked, looking confused.