Chapter 6
Arabella
The door of Inkwell Books Etc. closed behind me with a thud of finality.
A cool summer breeze encircled my drooping shoulders, and yet part of me felt alive from my stimulating conversation with Mr. Prologue.
If anyone should write literary reviews for the papers and magazines, it should be a man like Mr. Prologue, with principles.
Admittedly, I had only read a few of Mr. Ashworth’s reviews, but only because they were not to my taste at all, and I refused to sully my thoughts with his perpetual rudeness.
His inflated ego had marred his view of what made literature worth reading.
Mr. Prologue’s intellectual insights, however, had made me reconsider a text that I had been quite certain about.
If only I had been promised as an infant to a man as wonderful as him, I would not be in this ridiculous situation chasing Mr. Clodwick.
A regretful sigh sang from my lungs, and I pushed away from the door.
I would always remember my fleeting acquaintance with Mr. Prologue fondly.
“Who were you speaking to just now?” Tabitha asked, latching on to my arm and pulling me down the walk toward her carriage. “I tried to give you privacy as long as I could, but my nose would not allow me to be patient a moment longer.”
“Just Mr. Prologue.” I glanced behind me, half wishing he would leave the shop at that precise moment so I could see him one last time. He had a face a woman could dream about.
“Mr. Who?”
I gave a soft laugh. “It isn’t his real name, but then again, I don’t know his real name. Though I feel as though I ought to. Perhaps I have passed by him dozens of times, but we have only now noticed each other.”
Tabitha’s head drew back. “You were conversing so comfortably with a stranger? And I, as your chaperone, allowed it? Mother would have my head if she knew.”
“There was nothing untoward,” I clarified. “We met briefly in a bookshop. That is all. And Mr. Prologue is a gentleman if he is anything.”
Tabitha twisted her mouth to the side. “You wish me to believe that you gave a nickname to a man you met in passing?”
“We might have passed each other a few times.” Any more run-ins and I would insist on calling him by something more substantial than Prologue.
Mr. Smoldering Stare with the heart-pounding smile and a passion for the words had a certain ring to it.
Or should I say, Mr. I’m going to be in trouble if I continue to think about him this way.
I tried to shrug the whole thing off, but Tabitha was watching me with her keen eyes.
“Good heavens, Arabella. You are about to be engaged to another man. You cannot be flirting with a stranger.”
I balked. “Flirting? Who said anything about flirting? We were discussing books in a bookshop. It was a perfectly harmless conversation.”
Maybe not perfectly. Mostly harmless was more accurate. But I dared not admit as much to Tabitha. I daresay, no one who had met the man could blame me.
“Harmless, indeed.” Tabitha steered me around a barrel outside of a shop. “I am quite sure I heard you giggle. I had hoped you were speaking to a known acquaintance—one that might be a better match for you than Mr. Clodwick.”
Clodwick, right. I should be thinking of him and only him. “Mr. Clodwick is a good match, Tabitha. You told me that yourself.” I would spend the rest of the day reminding myself.
Tabitha stopped outside the carriage. “He is a good match for some young lady, but I never thought he was good enough for you, except that his house is so very near mine.” She paused. “Never mind. I still think he is a good match. Having you close is a convenience we cannot ignore.”
I absently smoothed my dress. “Regardless, it’s too late to find a better candidate. It’s Clodwick or Ashworth, and I refuse to marry that vexing idiot from my childhood.”
“What about Mr. Prologue? We could find someone to introduce us, and we can invite him to dinner.”
My feet slowed to a stop in front of her carriage, my imagination running wild with possibilities.
It only ever did this when I was writing fiction, which was precisely what this daydream was.
I was still me, and he was still perfectly him.
“He is leaving town straightaway,” I admitted, barely able to hide my disappointment. “It has to be Clodwick.”
A footmen assisted us inside the carriage and as soon as I was seated, I repeated the words in my head I had spoken to my sister.
It has to be Clodwick. It has to be Clodwick.
The mantra kept rhythm with the carriage ride back to Tabitha’s and again that night all the way to Mr. Clodwick’s house for dinner.
Upon arriving, Mr. Mason hopped out first, helping Tabitha out of the carriage and leaving a kiss on his wife’s hand before reaching for mine.
The tender moment between the couple pulled at my heartstrings, but I whispered under my breath one last time, “It has to be Clodwick.”
My sister and her husband led the way up the gravel walk. Behind them, I tipped back my head to admire the large front portico of Gravehurst Manor. Even in the evening light, I could tell the house was massive, with two wings featuring a colonnade and three floors worth of windows.
Think of what masterpieces I might write in a house such as this!
A butler let us in and guided us to an oversized drawing room with more Baroque architecture. Old manor homes such as these were full of history and untold stories.
Mr. Clodwick entered the room and dipped his head in a perfunctory bow. “Welcome, friends. Please, make yourselves at home.”
“Thank you.” I took a step toward him. “Your house is beautiful.”
He cast his gaze about the room. “If you don’t mind a few ghosts haunting the corners.”
I blinked a few times and furrowed my brow. Did he just say ghosts?
Mr. Mason, the most relaxed man I knew, gave a soft chuckle and leaned against the wall in front of the fireplace. “Well done, Clodwick. I do believe that is your first joke.
Mr. Clodwick’s mouth did not so much as reveal a hint of mirth. “It was no jest, I assure you.”
Mason straightened his tall, lean form. “You do not mean to scare away your first guests, do you? We came hungry and plan to stay through all the courses.” Mason’s friendly jests did not seem to be getting through to Mr. Clodwick.
“Now you know the reason I do not entertain,” he said, coming slowly to my side. “I had hoped that your passion for the arts would help you to overlook the angry spirits who lord over this manor.”
I tried not to draw back in disbelief. Why did it feel like I had walked right into the pages of a Gothic novel? Was this house really haunted? “Can you tell us why the spirits, er, ghosts are angry?”
He kept his face stoic and voice without inflection. “If only they could talk, they would surely tell me. I speak to them, of course, but a one-sided conversation is not the most effective.”
Tabitha burst out laughing beside me, desperately covering her mouth to smother the noise. “Forgive me,” she choked.
“Maybe a ghost tickled you with a feather,” I whispered, not intending for her giggles to overwhelm her again.
Mr. Clodwick must have heard me. “Stranger things have happened at Gravehurst.”
Now I knew why the manor had such an unusual name. Even with Tabitha’s laughter to break the tension, a strange feeling permeated the room. It was obvious Clodwick believed in ghosts, but did I? When dinner was announced, I took Clodwick’s arm and smiled sweetly at him.
He did not frown in return, which had to mean progress. “I expected to see more art on your walls,” I said, noting the bare corridor.
“I keep most of it locked in the gallery. One cannot be too careful with one’s valuables.”
Did he expect to be robbed, or was this because things had turned up missing? Because of the angry spirits . . .
A footman pulled open the door to the dining room, and I half expected to find a dead body seated at the table.
I sighed with relief when the room looked blessedly normal.
Clodwick pulled my chair out for me like a proper non-ghost-believing gentleman, and I took the seat beside him at the head of the table.
Sitting beside each other was another good sign.
My gaze drew upward to the gold chandelier drooping with crystals.
My appreciation of the extravagant picture nearly made me miss Mr. Clodwick pinch salt from the bowl and throw it over his shoulder. He caught my wide-eyed stare.
“To ward off the evil spirits,” he explained.
“I . . . see.” He was both superstitious and paranoid. Panic seized the air in my lungs. Shifting uncomfortably, I attempted to change the subject before I ruined a perfectly good opportunity with Mr. Clodwick because of a silly case of nerves. “Your chandelier is exquisite.”
“Like a work of art,” Clodwick answered, his lips barely moving. “I am quite passionate about art, if you remember.”
“Yes, you have said as much.” While there were no fine paintings on the wall in this room either, the house itself boasted of artistic interest, with exquisite molding and elegant olive wainscotting.
While my sister and brother-in-law occupied themselves in their own private conversation, and a footman set the soup on the table, I seized the opportunity of brief privacy to push my cause. “I had hoped to persuade you to come to Writcombe to see my aunt’s collection.”
Mr. Clodwick cast his gaze about the room as if searching for something, his eyes settling on an empty chair farther down the table. “Just so you know, even if you whisper, they can still hear you.”
I chill ran down my back. “Oh . . . I did not think about that.” Was it too late to find someone else to marry? I swallowed hastily. It was much, much too late. I forced myself to think of dear Harriet and the cruel man she had married. Surely, a few ghosts were nothing in comparison.
Mr. Clodwick cleared his throat. “I should like to see your aunt’s collection, but I am not sure if the spirits who reside here will like me leaving for overlong.”
“I wouldn’t want you to upset them, but uh, you did hope to receive an invitation to Mr. Hope’s home, did you not?”
His eyes brightened in the candlelight. “Yes, but—”
I did not let him finish. My mantra returned to my mind with vengeance: It had to be Clodwick! “But of course, you would have to marry me first. But isn’t that worth seeing the art you have so longed to see?”
I had resorted to bribery once more. Mr. Prologue had truly inspired me. I wondered if I would ever get the chance to thank him once I was happily married.
“Marriage?” Mr. Clodwick said the word as if it was a bland, undercooked vegetable.
I nodded. “For art’s sake.” My heart pounded. He had to say yes. He had to!
“Very well,” he said. “It seems a worthy endeavor.”
Cool air whipped around me, and the lights were suddenly doused, leaving us in total blackness. Tabitha screamed and a platter hit the floor somewhere behind me.
Oh, dear. While it was very likely the effects of an old, drafty house, I couldn’t help but wonder if the spirits of Gravehurst disapproved of my methods of securing a husband.