An Unlikely Match Read online

  Cover image: Baroque Lady © Simon Podgorsek

  Cover design copyright © 2012 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2012 by Sarah M. Eden

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: October 2012

  978-1-62108-283-5

  To Joe,

  who will probably never read this

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Annette, Heather, Jeff, LuAnn, Michele, and Rob, who keep me from quitting, push me forward, and help me laugh at the insanity of being a writer.

  An enormous thank you to Kirk Shaw, who took a chance on me and my writing and whose professional guidance made me a better writer. I’ll miss you as my editor, but I am grateful to call you my friend.

  My sincere gratitude also goes out to Sian Bessey, who saved me from myriad self-inflicted embarrassments by guiding me through the various Welsh words and phrases found in this book. Anything I got right, I owe entirely to her expertise. Any and all errors are completely my fault.

  Thank you to Thomas Gwynn Jones and Sir John Rhys, who wrote wonderfully thorough and captivating books on Welsh mythology and folklore, without which this tale would have fallen irreparably flat.

  Last, but not least, thank you to Samantha Van Walraven, whose guidance and expertise I appreciate immensely. I look forward to working with you in the future.

  Prologue

  England, 1805

  It isn’t every day an impoverished young gentleman inherits a sizable fortune and an estate. Nickolas Pritchard, not only impoverished and young but a gentleman as well, felt his luck acutely the day just such a remarkable inheritance fell upon him. A roof over his head, even if that roof had the unfortunate tendency to be in Wales, was more than he could have claimed only days before word of the demise of his extremely wealthy, extremely childless, extremely distant cousin had reached him in the London rooms he would have been able to occupy only a few more days, that being when the next quarter’s rent was due.

  He’d worn black, as the occasion had warranted. He had even attempted to appear somber as his wildest dreams became reality. The solicitor had informed him in a decidedly Welsh accent that he now possessed a fortune amounting to very nearly £10,000 per annum and a home and estate belonging to the Prichard family for more than four hundred years. Nickolas’s branch of the family had altered the spelling of their surname during the previous century, something the solicitor assured Nickolas could be overlooked, if not entirely forgiven.

  So Nickolas had signed the documents required of him, maintaining an appropriately grave countenance, and had climbed into his newly acquired traveling carriage, destined for the wilds of Wales.

  “One thing more I am instructed to tell you,” the solicitor had said before the carriage pulled away. “The late Mr. Prichard wished me to inform you, at the last possible moment, that the house you have inherited, though sound in every other way, is, I fear, quite inarguably haunted.”

  That pronouncement had entertained Nickolas to no end during his journey to his new home. Quite inarguably haunted. He had absolutely no worries on that score. As such things as specters existed only in literature and the minds of the easily deluded, he traveled to Tŷ Mynydd, his new home, without the least expectation of finding the place swarming with ghosts.

  In one respect, Nickolas was entirely correct. Tŷ Mynydd was not, in fact, swarming with ghosts. The house and grounds had only one. And that one, as history or any of his new neighbors could have told him, was plenty.

  Chapter One

  Radnorshire, Wales—September 1805

  Only after more than a dozen staff members had offered an obviously begrudging “croeso” in his general direction did Nickolas begin to suspect he was not, in fact, being gravely insulted. It was, he decided, some form of greeting. When he said “croeso” to the housekeeper, she looked so very monumentally shocked, he wondered for a moment if he had misinterpreted the mysterious word. Indeed, Mrs. Baines’s silver eyebrows shot so high on her forehead they nearly disappeared beneath her starched cap.

  “And to you, Mr. Pritchard,” she replied with a lingering aura of all-encompassing surprise. “But when did you learn to say such a thing?”

  “I will confess here and now, Mrs. Baines, I haven’t the slightest idea what I have just said to you.” Nickolas very nearly chuckled at himself. “I have heard that word from every person I have met since my arrival and made the rather broad assumption that it was some form of greeting. Was I wrong to think so?”

  Mrs. Baines narrowed her eyes, though she didn’t look upset or offended. “In the future, Mr. Pritchard, it’d be best not to make so many guesses. Otherwise you may find yourself offending every person you encounter.”

  It was a rather informal speech from a woman whose employment was not entirely secure, there being a new master of Tŷ Mynydd. Nickolas, however, found he liked her approach very much. She would tell him what was what without feeling the need to sugarcoat anything.

  “Do you plan to tell me what it is I have only just said to you, or shall I continue on in my ignorance?” Nickolas smiled at her. His smile had won him an extra slice of bread or an extra helping of stew at any number of inns as he had traveled from one friend’s house to another. He’d subsisted on house parties and dinner invitations for years, not caring that he was often invited simply to even the numbers at dinner. An invitation often meant the difference between going to bed quite satisfied or very hungry.

  Those days—he smiled to himself—were now in the past. He would be a desirable addition to any hostess’s guest list. He had income enough to tempt all but the highest-reaching matchmaking mothers. Perhaps even enough—he very nearly sighed out loud—for Mrs. Castleton. For the young Miss Castleton, she of the ebony hair and dark-brown eyes, had caught Nickolas’s attention at the beginning of the Season. He’d thought many times in the six months since he’d first laid eyes on the dark-haired beauty that it was a deuced shame he hadn’t two shillings to rub together.

  “Welcome.” Mrs. Baines’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Croeso is Welsh. It means ‘welcome.’”

  “And what does Tŷ Mynydd mean?”

  “Roughly, it means ‘house on the mountain,’ though you’re saying it wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  “Muh-nith. Tee Muh-nith.” Mrs. Baines sounded each syllable slowly, pronouncing it precisely.

  He tried to copy. Mrs. Baines’s expression could have soured a lemon.

  “I was that horrible, was I?”

  “Welsh is not for the faint of heart,” Mrs. Baines responded.

  “Do many around here speak Welsh?”

  “Only those worth talking to.”

  Nickolas laughed quite heartily at that. “So the question is, do I attempt to learn Welsh myself and risk offending all and sundry with my inevitable butchering of the language? Or do I relegate myself to the ranks of those not ‘worth talking to’?”

  “Are you worth talking to?” She studied him as if attempting to discern the answer.

  It was an impertinence most would not tolerate in a servant. Nickolas enjoyed it immensely. “I certainly hope I am and that my neighbors will agree and accept me to the neighborhood.”

  “’Tis not your neighbors’ approval you should be concerned with,” Mrs. Ba
ines said. “Only her approval matters.” She spoke almost reverently of this person who seemed to require nothing more than a pronoun to identify her.

  “Her?” Nickolas pressed, intrigued. Mrs. Baines hadn’t struck him as one mysterious by nature. He opened his eyes wide, the way he always did when urging the many gossipers of the ton to spill their tales. It worked once more.

  “Gwenllian ferch Cadoc ap Richard of Y Castell,” Mrs. Baines answered.

  Nickolas raised an eyebrow in appreciation, both of that indiscernible name and of Mrs. Baines’s ability to say the entire thing without pausing to catch her breath.

  “Let us hope the lady has a nickname,” Nickolas muttered.

  “She is known as Gwen,” Mrs. Baines said. “And her approval of you, sir, is essential to your future here. If she does not approve, your life at Tŷ Mynydd will be an endless misery.”

  A local dragon, then? He would have to do his utmost to butter the old lady up. During his years of poverty—which would be nearly all of his twenty-five years—he had learned a thing or two about charming his way into the good graces of even the most fearsome of society matrons.

  “And when can I expect to make the acquaintance of . . .” He opted not to attempt her name, not being sure he had the required several hours such an undertaking would involve. “. . . of Gwen?”

  “You will meet her when she chooses to make herself known.” Mrs. Baines nodded with crisp finality. “You have met the staff, sir. If you wish, I can show you to the master’s chambers, and you can rest before dinner.”

  “That would be delightful, Mrs. Baines.”

  “Very good, Mr. Pritchard.”

  He was, moments later, deposited in his chambers and left to the ministrations of his newly acquired valet. The man made short work of assisting Nickolas from his fashionably snug jacket and laying out an appropriate selection from Nickolas’s still-unfamiliar wardrobe—he had obtained a new set of togs with the first of his inheritance—before leaving his new employer to soak in the luxury of a hot bath.

  Nickolas’s new home was not at all what he had expected. He’d imagined a structure not unlike those of his friends’ homes: extremely English and formal. Tŷ Mynydd sat buried in lush, wild greenery amidst rolling hills. He couldn’t quite bring himself to call the surrounding landscape mountains, not after visiting the north country, where mountains were indeed mountains. The house itself was cobbled together, not belonging to any particular style of architecture but borrowing from every one imaginable, and a few not quite imaginable. He’d spied a single tower not far from the home, all that remained of what appeared to have once been a fortified castle.

  What would his old friends think of his new home? What would the divine Miss Castleton think? Nickolas smiled to himself. Surely her parents could not object to him now.

  The Season had come to its inevitable close several months earlier. September in Town, he knew quite well, was very nearly devoid of society. An invitation for a month-long house party would most likely be welcome amongst his associates, filling quite nicely the time remaining before the Little Season reached its height. And it was about time he returned the favor after having sponged off of his share of society for so long. The Castletons would most likely accept. They were already aware, he was certain, of his own preference for Miss Castleton. They might, now that he had the means of supporting a wife, give more consideration to his suit.

  He was dried and dressed long before dinner was due to be served and decided to embark on an unguided tour of his home. One could discover far more interesting things without being confined to the formality of being shown about.

  The adjoining chamber to his own, Nickolas ascertained, was for his future wife. He smiled at that. If he had his way, it would not be empty long.

  He followed the corridor, which quite haphazardly rose or dropped a step without warning and, he felt certain, did not run precisely straight. There were other bedchambers as well. The family rooms, no doubt. Up a flight of stairs, he discovered, quite by accident, the nursery. Down another oddly located staircase, he found another corridor with more bedchambers, likely meant for guests. One, in particular, drew his attention.

  It was decorated almost entirely in white. Lacy white curtains draped the bed tucked into an alcove. The coverlet was white as well, with tiny flowers embroidered along the edge. The windows were curtained in sheerest white. A vase with—what else?—white flowers sat on an end table.

  It ought to have been an overwhelming sight, far too white and colorless. Instead, the effect proved breathtakingly beautiful. Nickolas stepped inside. He didn’t speak a word and found himself working to not breathe any more loudly than absolutely necessary. The room felt more like a church than a bedchamber, as if one ought to be reverent and respectful within its walls.

  He walked to the window, watching the scenery through the translucent curtains. The window rather artistically framed the lone stone tower, which appeared not as far distant as it had seemed when he arrived that afternoon. Something about the landscape at Tŷ Mynydd was appealing in its wildness.

  Perhaps it was the heretofore unacknowledged drops of Welsh blood flowing through his veins, but he felt almost as if he had lived at Tŷ Mynydd his entire life instead of only a few hours. It felt like home in a way no other place ever had. He had no memories of the home where he and his parents had lived until their deaths when he was six years old. He had been shipped from one relative to another after that until he began at Eton. He’d always been a stranger wandering through the world without a place where he truly belonged. Looking out over the untamed hills surrounding his inherited house, Nickolas felt like he’d finally found his corner of the earth.

  A scream brought Nickolas back to the present. He turned toward the doorway, from whence the scream had come. Something about it wasn’t the least bit unnerving, almost like hearing a child squeal during a game of hide-and-go-seek.

  Sure enough, the producer of said scream was a chambermaid who couldn’t have had more than fifteen years in her cup. He waited. If she was anything like the young, barely-out-of-the-schoolroom misses he had more than once been assigned to sit beside, she would soon begin a high-pitched, fast-paced, frantic explanation of whatever it was that had discomposed her.

  Five. Four. Nickolas counted silently, anticipating what was, no doubt, coming. Three. He heard the poor girl take a deep, shaky breath, her eyes still opened wide. Two. One.

  Right on cue, she began her explanation, which came out at precisely the pitch he had anticipated but in Welsh. The only word he recognized was Gwen. It proved more than enough to pique his curiosity.

  He raised his hand to cut off her ongoing monologue. “I am afraid my Welsh is a tad rusty.”

  “Rusty?” she repeated, obviously entirely confused.

  Nonexistent would probably have been a more accurate adjective. “I would appreciate if you would repeat—no, summarize—what you’ve just told me. Preferably in English.”

  She looked shocked. How many people would berate him over his lack of fluency in the native tongue of an area in which he’d never set foot before that very day?

  “Of course, Mr. Pritchard.” The chambermaid curtsied. “I only said you were in her room, sir. No one ever comes into her room. Except, of course, for when we dust and put out the flowers. She doesn’t like having anyone in her room. We know better than to make her angry. She can be scary, sir. Leastways, I think she is. The late Mr. Prichard did too. Most people do. And right wise of them, I say. She can be scary, sir. Especially to people she doesn’t like.”

  So much for a summary. He wasn’t entirely convinced the translation wasn’t a few sentences longer than the original version.

  “So she doesn’t like people in her room,” he repeated, amused in spite of himself. Who was this she? He had a very strong suspicion it was Gwen, whose full name he still refused to even attempt to repeat. Mrs. Baines had, after all, referred to Gwen as she and her with that same ominous emphasis. I
t seemed this local dictatress had been a regular visitor at Tŷ Mynydd.

  “No,” the maid replied, drawing out the vowel, her eyes and mouth forming perfect, wide O’s.

  It is a lovely room, he thought.

  He took another look at the bedchamber as he made his way to the open door. It was astonishingly lovely, in fact. Nickolas fully intended to host a house party as soon as arrangements could be made. The first invitation, he would send to the Castletons. With their home far off in Norfolk, the family would need accommodations at Tŷ Mynydd. Should the delightful Miss Castleton and her family accept the invitation, this beautiful bedchamber would be perfect for her.

  “And she is rather frightening, is she?” He didn’t look at the maid while he spoke so she wouldn’t see his amused smile. He didn’t want the poor girl to think he was laughing at her.

  “Yes, Mr. Pritchard, sir.”

  An eerie feeling slipped over him, like a droplet of ice-cold water running down his back, between his shoulder blades. It was an unusual experience for him. He generally looked at the world through, as he’d been told many times, rose-colored spectacles.

  “What makes her frightening?” He glanced back at the maid, who still hovered just outside the doorway.

  She appeared startled, confused by his question. Then, in a voice that indicated she thought he ought to have known as much, said, “She is a ghost.”

  Chapter Two

  Gwen hovered in a corner of her room unseen, undetected. She did not care to make herself known to this new Mr. Pritchard. Not yet. Such hesitation was unusual for her. The few times Tŷ Mynydd had passed to someone who had not grown up within its walls, she had made a point of introducing herself, with varying degrees of intimidation, to the new occupants within a few moments of their arrival. This Mr. Pritchard, who made an abominable hash of spelling his surname, unsettled her.

  Yet, she was inordinately pleased that he liked her room. She could not read minds, contrary to some of the more colorful legends surrounding her four-centuries-long sojourn on the grounds of her family’s estate and, therefore, could not be completely certain that Mr. Pritchard was pleased. But she’d seen the gentle smile that had played on his lips when he’d taken his first glimpse, and she’d been unable to prevent an answering one from appearing on her own face.