An Unlikely Match (17 page)

How she hated even thinking of Nickolas and Miss Castleton in those terms. Gwen thought she’d seen in his face, heard in his voice, that he cared for
her
. He sought her out. He smiled when their eyes met from across the room. He treated her with a tenderness she didn’t think she’d misinterpreted.

A small voice in her thoughts insisted she was the reason Nickolas no longer paid such pointed attention to his beautiful houseguest. He did still walk around the gardens with Miss Castleton, and they were often thrown together in the evenings after dinner. But Gwen hadn’t seen the same fondness in his eyes that had once been there when he looked at Miss Castleton.

Rather, she thought she saw it when he looked at
her.

She held back a small smile. Perhaps, with him there, she would no longer be so entirely alone.

Chapter Fifteen

“And how are we to be entertained tonight?” Nickolas pulled Mrs. Davis aside upon entering the drawing room after dinner several nights after his sojourn in The Tower. “You have been very tight-lipped about your plans, I will have you know.”

She smiled mischievously. He’d seen that exact expression on Griffith’s face more times than he could even remember when they were lads—and always before they’d undertaken some ill-formed scheme or another. “As soon as we are all assembled,” Mrs. Davis said.

Nickolas glanced around the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Castleton sat near the pianoforte. Alys and her father were in conversation beside the fireplace. Griffith had taken up a book. Dafydd and Miss Castleton appeared to be enjoying a lighthearted conversation.

“Are you waiting on Gwen, then?” Nickolas asked.

“Indeed.”

A moment later, Gwen floated into the room looking decidedly uncomfortable but determined just the same.

“Miss Gwenllian.” Mrs. Davis greeted her first. Nickolas couldn’t say Gwen’s proper given name, no matter how hard he tried. Mrs. Davis had no difficulty, despite not being a native speaker of that difficult tongue.

Gwen smiled at their hostess, and Nickolas was struck by the beauty of that gesture. He had always considered Gwen beautiful, despite her pallor—she could not help that, after all—but her smile stole his breath.

“I received your note,” Gwen said to Mrs. Davis.

“I hope I was not too presumptuous,” Mrs. Davis answered.

“Not at all.”

Nickolas very nearly laughed out loud when he considered the absurdity of the situation when viewed from an outside perspective. They were all conversing quite naturally with a ghost. He’d never have believed it possible only a few short days earlier.

“I have had an absolutely wonderful idea for the final days of this gathering and wish all of your input,” Mrs. Davis announced to the room.

She had everyone’s attention.

“The last day of October is
Nos Galan Gaeaf
, and I believe we ought to hold a gathering of sorts. A small festival, if you will.”

“
Nos Galan Gaeaf
?” Nickolas asked, the words as unfamiliar as nearly every other Welsh phrase.

“The last day of the year, according to the ancient calendar,” Dafydd explained. “The celebration is a very old folk tradition.”

Nickolas knew Dafydd was fond of tradition and proud of his Welsh heritage, so why did the suggestion seem to make him uneasy? Indeed, his eyes kept darting to Gwen, a look of nervous anticipation on his face.

Gwen’s look proved far more worrisome. Nickolas recognized the spark in her eyes even before he noted the breeze ruffling his guests’ hair. He held his breath, ready to intervene.

“I am to be your
Ladi Wen
, then?” Gwen asked, her voice tight with an emotive mixture of anger and offense.

What, Nickolas asked himself, was a “
Ladi Wen
”? He looked between Dafydd, who appeared a little offended as well, and Griffith, who seemed as confused as Nickolas.

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 moments as well.

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