Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
T he Emerald Falls tradition of a specter soirée during the Christmas festivities had started with James’s great grandparents. Each year, the residents of the village took turns hosting the soirée. This year, it was to be hosted by the Widow Hansen. With the weather cooperating, a light dusting of snow falling from the heavens, James had agreed, against his better judgment, to accompany his mother.
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy ghost stories. He’d prepared a story for the occasion months ago. His immediate concern was spending more time near Eleanor. After the refusal from her father and their nighttime conversation in the snow, he didn’t know how to speak to her anymore. She wasn’t his to court or kiss.
He’d had to fight all his instincts not to pull her into his embrace and kiss her as the snow softly fell upon her nose and cheeks, adding a tint of rose to her perfect features. He wouldn’t have stopped with a kiss. If given the opportunity, he would have whispered sweet nothings as he praised her for the wise advice. Eleanor had always been one to speak her mind when up against his frosty temper. She had been right, as always. He needed to stop punishing himself.
Of course, temptation wouldn’t present itself at a soirée. There wouldn’t be any dancing or flirting, and they would be surrounded by the other guests throughout the night. This would possibly be the safest evening of the entire holiday celebration. That was, unless Eleanor became frightened, forcing her to turn to Montefeltro for comfort. He certainly did not wish to watch her intended offer a comforting embrace.
James assisted his mother out of the sleigh. She’d silently kept a close watch upon him during their trip over to the Widow Hansen’s. He’d expected a word or two from her, but nothing came. When she was firmly settled on her feet in the blistering cold, his mother patted his arm, keeping her silence a bit longer.
“You were full of advice the other day. What has caught your tongue this evening?” James asked. He might not accept her advice with the greatest joy, but that didn’t mean he was averse to hearing it.
His mother quirked an eyebrow at him. “I am still waiting for you to act on the advice I have already given you. You are slower than a tortoise.”
James chuckled. “Then you are silently cheering me on from the sidelines?” As they walked up the stairs, he debated whether to inform his mother of the latest developments. She would surely have something to say about it. “I requested Mr. Dove’s blessing yesterday. He refused.”
“Have you spoken with Lord Montefeltro? He respects you. Perhaps if you told him of your love for Eleanor, he would step aside, which would force Mr. Dove to accept you as an option.”
James whispered so as not to be overheard, but his discontent shined through as his voice was louder than he’d intended. “What a joyous thought, Mama. My offer would be sufficient, but only to quell a scandal and a ruined reputation.”
As they reached the top of the stairs, his mother brushed the snow from her muff and coat. “You misunderstand me, James. It is only that I can see how deeply you love Eleanor, and above all else, I want your happiness. How you achieve a blissful union is less important than standing at the front of the church with the woman you love.”
They lined up in the queue to greet their hostess, handing their outer clothing to the butler as they entered the warmth of the home.
His mother leaned toward him, a whisper reaching his ear just before they had to greet the Widow Hansen. “Must I rely upon Eleanor at this point? If anything happens between the two of you, it may be her efforts alone.”
James held his tongue. He greeted their hostess, receiving a soft pat on his cheek, much like she had done every time he’d seen her for as long as he could remember. “Mrs. Hansen, a pleasure, as always,”
Mrs. Hansen’s eyes lit up with intrigue. “Keep that charm of yours for a special young lady, Mr. Bailey. I am too old to receive a smile as handsome as yours. Moreover, I have hidden a bit of mistletoe in the parlor this evening to keep you young folks spry.”
“Thank you for the warning. I shall find a safe spot and stick to it for the duration.”
Mrs. Hansen wagged her finger at him. “You will do nothing of the sort. I vow to cause a bit of mischief this night.”
“All in the spirit of the season, I suppose.”
“Rest assured, Mr. Bailey, if I cannot trap you under the kissing bough with one of our eligible young ladies, I will have enough frightening tales shared this evening to give you the opportunity to offer comfort to more than one frightened young lady.” She took hold of his arm and pulled his attention toward the parlor. “Tell me, which of these ladies has captured your fancy? I will find a way to seat you next to her…with the utmost discretion of course.”
“None of them, I am afraid to admit.” It was the honest response, for Eleanor had not yet arrived.
Mrs. Hansen released his arm and turned to his mother. A playful frown crossed her face as she pretended to be utterly put out with him. “Mrs. Bailey, what has gotten into this young man of yours? He is eligible, handsome, of good breeding, yet he is terribly uncooperative, which is frustrating for an elderly widow with the heart of a matchmaker.”
His mother pursed her lips as she listened to Mrs. Hansen. The two ladies would lament his bachelorhood for the entire evening if he didn’t stop the conversation. Therefore, James made his apologies and convinced Mrs. Hansen to greet her other guests. Pulling his mother into the parlor, he left her with a group of her friends as he sought out every sprig of mistletoe in the room. The last thing he needed was a kiss under the troublesome plant.
James walked the perimeter of the room, spotting a bit of mistletoe above the punch bowl. He found a second one hanging above the pianoforte, and then a third near a window. He was safe. If he needed punch, he would stand to the side, avoiding the mistletoe completely. He vowed to stay clear of the window and the piano. His evening would consist of ghost stories alone.
As soon as the guests had all arrived, James settled into a comfortable armchair, which unfortunately happened to be situated directly across from Eleanor and Montefeltro. When he realized the situation, he sought a new spot, but everyone had already taken their seats, and there were no other spots available outside of standing on the perimeter.
Vowing to keep his eyes focused upon the storyteller, James settled into his chair. Mrs. Hansen stood before the fire roaring behind her as the maids rushed about the room extinguishing every candle. Shadows danced across the walls as the flames in the fire magnified every little movement.
A thrill of excitement tingled down his spine as he waited with bated breath for Mrs. Hansen to begin. She continued to stand in front of her guests, a single candle in a drip pan held tightly in her hand, not a word escaping her mouth. Then, when he was certain he should jump in and rescue their hostess from whatever nerves had captured her, she suddenly spoke.
“I have no doubt you are all well informed of the old bridge that spans the river marking the boundary between the Duke of Rothes’s estate and our very own Mr. Bailey’s lands.”
James had heard the story many times before this night. In fact, most of the guests had heard it, but there were a few newcomers in attendance, and the tale would be new to them.
The story was an old tale passed down in village lore about the wife of the first Duke of Rothes, who had paced back and forth across the bridge chanting a love spell every morning before sunrise to rid her family of an evil curse. As the story progressed, the duchess employed tactics that involved cutting her hair and spreading it around for birds to gather for their nests along with other useless ploys, none of which had an effect upon the curse.
James’s eyes fell upon Eleanor, her face lit up in laughter as Mrs. Hansen altered her voice and acted out the story. It was an amusing tale, as would be most of the ghostly tales to be shared that evening. Ghost telling was not to frighten the guests, but the tales were meant to entertain and delight.
When Mrs. Hansen finished the story, explaining that the woman who had cursed the duke and duchess admitted it was a simple prank, everyone clapped and cheered for the masterful way in which the story had been conveyed.
Mrs. Hansen then held up a bag. She reached in and withdrew the name of the next person to tell their story. James held his breath, wanting both to be chosen so Eleanor’s eyes would rest upon him as he stood in front of the fire, but also hoping to avoid having to tell his story, as he hadn’t tested it out on an audience, not even his mother.
His was not as cheerful as the story Mrs. Hansen had told. Instead, the story he had prepared was one of mystery and mysticism. He’d heard of spiritualists who claimed they could speak with loved ones who had recently departed this life, and he’d thought it would make a fantastic tale for this evening. Now, as he sat waiting to hear who would be chosen to share their story, he wished he had taken the time to read a few dastardly tales so he could have rehearsed one of them instead.
Mrs. Hansen looked at the name on the parchment and then held it up, the girlish excitement of her younger years lighting up her features. For a woman of many years, she had more energy than some of the younger people in the room. In a dramatic fashion, she showed the name to those closest before crumpling it and throwing it into the fire. “Mr. James Bailey, I invite you to regale us with a tale of joyous frivolity or ghostly happenings.”
The rules of the evening were simple. No one could decline the invitation to share a story. In essence, walking through the door that evening was a promise that if his name was chosen, he would participate. Therefore, James tugged down his green waistcoat as he stood facing the fire, his back toward the audience. He would employ as much play acting into the story as possible to entertain his neighbors that evening.
When the audience had calmed down, not a sound from anyone in the room reaching his ears, James quickly turned around and began the tale he’d prepared. Whether good or bad, he would discover their opinions once he concluded .
“In the year eighteen hundred and eleven, just three years prior to this very day, in the quaint village of Haworth, stood the imposing, centuries-old Brownstone Manor. The manor had belonged to the Rollings family for five generations, entailed to the rightful male heir. But do not be fooled by the rolling moors and happy gardens, because this was an estate well known for a tragic history. For every male heir within the genealogy, since the thirteenth century, had tragically passed away on his third and twentieth birthdate.”
James held a single candle in his hand, allowing it to light his face and cast a shadow upon the wall and ceiling, as Mrs. Hansen had done before him. He met the gazes of each person near him before continuing with his tale, stopping before he reached Eleanor. If he locked eyes with her, he might possibly lose all concentration, and his story would lose its vigor.
“Mrs. Anne Rollings, the young widow of the latest tragically lost heir, sat in the nursery with her newly born son of three days, regretting the curse she had brought upon her only child. Inevitably, the perfect little boy would one day find out he was set for the slaughter for one reason alone: the entailment.
“Each night as Mrs. Rollings rocked her little one to sleep, a shadow crept across the nursery window, beckoning her to follow it into the woods. Mrs. Rollings was not the most adventurous of souls, and so she stayed within the confines of the large home, expecting the shadow of whatever departed soul haunted her to give up and leave her to her loneliness, yet as time went on, it became apparent the lost soul would not relent.
“As the shadow again entered through the closed window, Mrs. Rollings realized Brownstone Manor was no longer safe for her or her child. But one of the rules of the entailment was that her son could not leave the home, or he would suffer an even earlier death. The spirit that haunted the manor could be heard as his footsteps echoed in the abandoned halls each night. None of it could be easily explained, and yet, Mrs. Rollings and the few servants who had stayed to work in the cursed manor heard the echoes of the haunted house each night as they lay in bed, begging for sleep to drown out their fears.
“Desperate for answers, Mrs. Rollings discovered a Doctor Michael Penrose, renowned for his work in spiritualism and his ability to rid old homes of ghostly apparitions. Upon his arrival, the doctor spoke with the apparition, kindly asking it to take up residence elsewhere.”
James leaned forward as he told of the many tactics the doctor had employed to convince the ghost to leave the manor. A tingling stirred in his chest at the sight of the women nearby placing their hands over their mouths. When the Widow Hansen clasped hands with his mother, James couldn’t stop himself from looking at Eleanor. Was she as frightened as the rest of the group? If so, was she clinging to Montefeltro?
Just as his eyes fell upon her hands, primly clasped in her lap, a loud banging sounded on the front door, causing the women to scream. James startled but not enough for anyone to notice. He had wanted to finish his tale but was stopped as Mrs. Hansen burst into laughter, her hand over her heart as the butler announced the late arrival of the Duke of Rothes and Miss Hartwell.
Mrs. Hansen called out, her voice shaking as she wagged a playful finger at him, saying, “Mr. Bailey, I was near to wagering you had planned the banging on the front door for that very moment.”
James held up his hands, innocently disagreeing. “I could not have done so if I had tried. It truly was a remarkable diversion.” It had been perfect timing, as the story had come to the point where he was to reveal the culprit behind the deaths, but it was better to have left off where he had. No one would know the end of his story, unless he was compelled to finish.
James backed away from the front of the room as a few candles were lit to allow for the guests to settle themselves once more. He placed his hand upon the back of the chair where he’d previously sat and waited as Rothes and Miss Hartwell joined their little gathering.
“Please tell me your story has a cheerful ending.” Eleanor stood slightly to his left, close enough for him to smell the peppermint oil in her hair and upon her neck.
James shook his head, teasing her just enough to be friendly and not flirtatious. “I will not divulge the ending. Not without a proper audience to beg for the details.”
“Then we must settle the crowd once more. I eagerly await the end.” Eleanor turned to leave as though she would be the one to get everyone back in their proper spots to resume the ghost stories but was stopped by Mrs. Hansen.
Their hostess’s face was bright, cheeks rosy as though she’d been out in the cold night air. “Mr. Bailey and Miss Dove are under the mistletoe.” She instantly started clapping, which caused the other guests to do the same.
His legs wouldn’t move, even as his head told him to run for the exit. How had he missed the sprig of the troublesome plant? It was more poisonous than anyone knew—the little white berries could kill a person if ingested—but the aftermath of a mistletoe kiss would forever taint the lives of those involved. At least, it had for him.
Tilting his head slightly upward, he found three white berries attached to the leaves within the holly and ivy strung from the ceiling of the parlor. Hiding. Waiting. And he was the unsuspecting fool who’d found his way underneath the treacherous plant.
A light tinkling of glass sounded around the room as each of the guests tapped the sides of their glasses waiting in anticipation for a mistletoe kiss. James met Eleanor’s eyes, her hazel irises large, ready to fall out of her head if he took the opportunity to lean forward and claim a kiss. Could her thoughts possibly be settled upon the same moment he was now unable to lock away?
Two years previously at Granville House, Eleanor had found herself under the mistletoe with another man. That kiss, although chaste and appropriate for a Christmastide gathering, had been the catalyst to ending his courtship with her. He’d decided, that very night, that the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe was foolish. A game for someone other than himself.
Although he had courted her and offered marriage, out of greatest respect for her, James had never kissed Eleanor Dove. Nor did he plan to do so that night, mistletoe or not. He’d wanted to hold her in the perfect embrace, but it was not his to have. If love were in his future, it would have to be with a woman who was not already engaged. Taking her hand in his, James lifted it to his lips as he placed a kiss upon her knuckles.
A few groans sounded around the room, disappointment expressed by more than one person at not having witnessed a real kiss. He would not be the man to steal anything from Eleanor Dove. When James allowed himself to look at Eleanor once more, he found her charming features marred by a deep purple blush that had consumed the whole of her face. She stood frozen in time and as unable to move from the wretched spot as he had been seconds before.
“Pardon me, Miss Dove.” James released her hand, stepping away and placing as much distance as he could between himself and the mistletoe.
That blasted mistletoe. It had ruined everything. Even though he knew his temper was partially to blame for the events of that dreadful night, he couldn’t help lamenting the entire situation as he replayed every moment from Eleanor’s first kiss with an absolute stranger to the argument that ensued and their final farewell as a couple.
“James. James, stop.” Eleanor’s cry followed him out of the parlor and down the hallway, where he gathered his coat, hat, and gloves before pushing off into the night. He would have to apologize to Mrs. Hansen and his mother—likely Eleanor and Montefeltro as well—if not the rest of the party, but he didn’t care. Escape was the only solution for the explosion building within his chest.
His legs were long, carrying him with haste from the house as his temper bubbled to the surface. It wouldn’t be long before he allowed the all-consuming rage to take hold. In fact, he might as well allow it to take over. He would spend the rest of his life brooding about Granville House in his misery, if he so wished.
“James.” Eleanor’s voice met his ears once more, causing him to halt in his retreat.
As he turned to meet her, they collided. James reached out and took hold of her arms, steading her while she caught her balance. “Eleanor, are you mad? Where are your pelisse and bonnet?”
Eleanor’s breath puffed in the air, a mist rising from her mouth as she leaned toward him shivering. He removed his greatcoat and wrapped it around her, drowning her slender frame as he waited for her to answer at least one of his questions.
“I most certainly have lost my mind, Mr. Bailey.”
Taken aback by her response, his anger of moments before instantly evaporated. His lips twitched as he met her earnest gaze. “Well, I had not expected you to admit it. Mayhap we should send for a physician. ”
Eleanor pointed to the house. The serene winter scene, with snow softly falling around them, was something to capture upon a canvas. He’d never considered himself an artist, but his hands twitched to pick up a brush and make a watercolor of the moment. It may well calm the erratic beating of his heart.
“A perfectly handsome Italian man requested my hand in marriage, and I accepted.”
James ran a hand through his hair as he considered what she was saying. Women had a way of saying much more with their facial expressions and their hands than what came out of their mouths. He’d found himself in trouble more than once for not fully understanding the unspoken words.
“Allow me to wish you joy.” The words tasted like sand on his tongue.
“You do not see the problem?”
He shook his head as flurries of snowflakes fell upon her coiffure. He wasn’t about to make a cake out of himself, so he decided to forego the first thought that had entered his mind. It was too much for him to hope she would reconsider the engagement. “Unless it is that both of us will catch our deaths in this weather, then I certainly do not see the problem.”
Eleanor grabbed hold of his cravat and pulled him toward her placing her other hand upon his chest. A warmth spread through him making him forget he was standing in the dark on a cold snowy night without his greatcoat for protection. “James Bailey, if you can honestly admit that you desire for me to marry Lord Montefeltro and leave Emerald Falls forever, I shall comply without uttering another word upon the matter. Yet, if there is a part of you that yearns to undo the dreadful words we spoke two years previously, then I implore you, declare yourself without delay.”
That was more of a declaration than he should have expected from a woman. Eleanor Dove had ignited a spark within herself, and it had spread into his chest by way of her hand. His voice sounded odd, but he pressed forward, attempting to match her word for word.
“I most certainly do not wish for you to marry Lord Montefeltro. I love you, Eleanor. I do not deserve you, but I can no longer pretend to find your engagement a suitable choice.”
He bent closer to her, his hand beneath her chin as he lifted her face so he could claim her lips, as he should have done under the mistletoe. Right before he closed the distance, Eleanor pushed him away. She wiped the snow off the sleeves of the coat she wore—his coat—and then placed her hands upon her hips.
“Then what, pray tell, do you plan to do about it?”
His lips spread in a smile, light filling his every thought with joy. Her wit was unmatched by any other woman of his acquaintance, and he loved her for it. “I will speak with Lord Montefeltro, and then I shall beg your father to reconsider my request for your hand. He has already denied me once.”
“When did he refuse you?”
“Last evening,” James closed the distance once more, noticing this time she didn’t pushed him away. “Do not be angry with him. He desires the best for you, and he currently believes Montefeltro can offer you a better life.”
Eleanor seemed to fight with herself. She closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths before speaking once more. “I ended my engagement with Montefeltro on the day of the ice-skating activity.”
James ran a hand through his hair as he shook his head in utter amazement. It hardly seemed possible he had heard correctly, but he couldn’t help the way his heart rate increased as he confirmed her words. “Then, you are not engaged?”
“It was unfair of me to believe I could marry a man I did not love.” She looked down at the ground, avoiding his reaction—for what purpose, he didn’t know. If ever there were a time to demur, it was not after declaring you had ended an engagement.
“What of Montefeltro? He must be undone over the entire situation,” James asked, a shred of disbelief and shock tainting his every word.
“Lord Montefeltro has happily garnered the admiration of Miss Hartwell. He says it is love, and I certainly do not want to stand in the way of love. Do you?” Eleanor finally looked up at him, her rose-hued lips tempting him to lean toward her.
Utterly bemused and stuck in a moment of disbelief, James considered how best to respond. He knew a bit about that little word—love. It had caused him loss of both sleep and peace of mind over the last two years. He rocked backward on one foot as he brushed the snow from his frock coat. “Love…it is a pesky little emotion. And it arrives at the most inconvenient of times.”
“Well, it has certainly been an inconvenience for me. My heart has not had a moment’s rest since I arrived back in Emerald Falls. Therefore, I plan to ensure that we do not continue in this ridiculous manner any longer. Moreover, I plan to see Montefeltro and Miss Hartwell united before he leaves for Italy.”
James ran his thumb across her cheek, brushing a wet lock of hair back behind her ear. He loved the way her eyes brightened, determined, unfailingly loyal in defense of her heart. He could stand there forever, admiring her strength and the courage it took to speak the words he needed to hear, but the snow was making icicles of them. If they stayed in this spot much longer, they would be fully covered, like ornamental snowmen, in the middle of the roadway. “I heartily agree with you. If it is love, we should encourage both Lord Montefeltro and Miss Hartwell toward each other.”
“James?” Eleanor said, as she moved a little closer to him. She tilted her head up, so he could see directly into her eyes.
Her cheeks were flushed and wet from the falling snow, her lips slightly parted. He didn’t know if she would speak again, or if she would allow the enchanting world around them to finally bring them together, once and for all, a fully committed couple. His hand trembled as he cupped her face, a thrill of warmth that contrasted the wintery world around them raging in his chest.
He didn’t speak. Instead, James leaned down, savoring every flutter of her eyelids and twitch of her lips, their breath mingling together until their lips finally met with the tenderness their newly expressed confessions warranted.
James was gentle, almost hesitant, as he carefully explored, restraining the passion that had only intensified over the years. He was near to pulling away, uncertain at her hesitance, when she slowly responded but with a bit more fervor than he had shown. Her hands pressed against his chest as he threaded his fingers through the loose strands at her neck, pulling her closer, needing her near as he deepened the kiss.
As they finally parted, their foreheads resting together, he gazed down at her. She stood with her eyes closed, leaning into him as though she never wanted to part. He would gladly kiss her once more and was near to doing so when a shrill cry shattered the beauty of the moment.
“Eleanor!” Her mother hurried toward her, followed by Mr. Dove, Montefeltro, James’s mother, and Mrs. Hansen. They both turned to their unwanted chaperones as they stood too close not to be considered lovers caught in a tryst worthy of scandal.
“Mama!” Eleanor’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of red as she pulled his greatcoat tighter around her shoulders.
Mrs. Dove held out Eleanor’s evening pelisse, allowing her to switch from his larger greatcoat to her feminine version. “Lord Montefeltro, please do not think ill of my daughter. The confusion of the mistletoe has caused this little mishap. The kiss was simply an extension of what occurred in the house.”
Eleanor stepped forward, taking James’s hand in hers. “Mama, Papa, I plan to marry Mr. Bailey. I love him. I have loved him for two and a half years. I have no intention of marrying anyone other than the man I love.”
“You are to marry Lord Montefeltro. He is offering you a title and wealth. Do not squander this opportunity just so you can remain in Emerald Falls,” her mother spluttered, spit flying from her mouth as she grabbed hold of Eleanor’s hand.
“There will not be a dowry if you marry Mr. Bailey. I vow to withhold all monies from you if you pursue this course,” Mr. Dove said. His jaw tightened as his eyes silently accused James of ruining his daughter.
Eleanor looked to Lord Montefeltro. “You are free to request the hand of the woman you love. I wish you the greatest joy.”
Montefeltro stepped forward and bowed to Eleanor and then to James. “I wish the same to both of you.”
“No.” Mrs. Dove grabbed hold of Lord Montefeltro’s arm. “An engagement is a binding contract. You cannot leave my daughter’s reputation in ruin. ”
“Mrs. Dove,” Montefeltro said, his lips twitching as he tried not to smile. “Your daughter ended our engagement more than a day ago when she realized I have developed feelings for another woman. Trust me when I tell you she is the one who deserves your devotion. Not I.”
Mrs. Dove’s hand flew to her mouth as she let out a yelp. She turned to her husband, demanding that Lord Montefeltro remove from their home that evening. Seeing as the count had done him a favor by releasing Eleanor from the engagement, James offered his hospitality.
When they arrived back at the Widow Hansen’s home, his mother sent word to Granville House to have a bedchamber prepared, and Montefeltro sent word to his valet to remove his items to the new destination. Everything seemed nearly settled.
“Mr. Dove, please consider bestowing your blessing upon a union between Eleanor and myself.” James would not relent in this request. Family was far too important to push them away in any circumstance.
He knew if her father refused him, it was possible that he would send Eleanor to London once more to find another match. She would be successful. Not a man in England—or the entire world—would refuse her benevolent nature. Of course, most men need only consider her perfectly proportioned figure, ash-brown hair, large hazel eyes, and high cheekbones before offering marriage. But she deserved a man who loved her for every quality that made her Eleanor Dove. He wanted to be that man.
Mr. Dove shook his head, refusing to agree until he finally realized there was no other option. “I meant what I said, Mr. Bailey. You may marry my daughter, but I will refuse to provide a dowry.”
James held his hand out, not only to strike agreement on the bargain, but to let him know he held no ill will toward the Doves. “The terms are sufficient. I will post the banns on the morrow.”
“Now that everything is properly settled,” Mrs. Hansen said, breaking through the thick air between the men, “Mr. Bailey, you cannot leave my guests in suspense on the matter of this ghost story. You must return to the parlor this very instant, where we will continue the tale with the poor woman seeking to rid her house of a murderous ghost.”
James considered begging off. He wanted to pull Eleanor into a private alcove so they could speak of everything that had occurred in their lives in the last two years. He wanted to know what she had seen and done while in London. He wanted to hold her close and kiss her at least one or two more times that evening, but Mrs. Hansen’s pleading won him over.
Once he was back in the parlor, he stood before the guests, all the candles snuffed out except the one in his hand and the roaring fire behind him. He finished the tale, divulging the murderer as a ghost who haunted Brownstone Manor. Of course, his story would have been far more effective as a frightening tale if he hadn’t been interrupted the first time. It also might have been effective if his countenance were dull and jittery, but he couldn’t contain the smile upon his face. He was happy with his situation and not even the clincher of a ghost story could dissuade him from the blissful felicity of finally having secured an engagement with Eleanor Dove.