Page 12 of The Right to Remain Single

Thomasina crossed her fingers and prayed, Please don’t say you’re leaving.

What was the matter with her? Mr. Blakely had no reason to stay.

“Something of the sort,” he drawled.

Sam made a rude noise. Brother Antoine shook his head sadly. “One cannot reason with an evil spirit.”

“We shall see.” Mr. Blakely turned to Thomasina, a world of reassurance—oh, and that well-remembered mischief!—in his smile.

* * *

James watched Thomasina’s shoulders soften—but they stiffened again so quickly that he wondered if he’d imagined it. She wouldn’t change her mind and ask him to stay. Damnation! He admired a woman who took responsibility for herself, but what about commonsense?

Sam Furbelow was a libertine and gamester, and one of the most unlikable men he knew. Every family had its dirty dishes, but few were as unsavory as Furbelow. Perennially without funds, he wormed his way into the confidence of green young men, and made his way by luring them into gaming hells.

As for the sight of Furbelow reaching for Thomasina, and then calling her Tommie-love, it had been all James could do to keep his fists unclenched and by his side. Which was strange, as James wasn’t a violent sort of man. He was proficient with both pistols and swords, but he preferred courtesy as a means to settle disputes, as Furbelow had so mockingly pointed out.

And Furbelow wasn’t all that concerned him. James had seen Brother Antoine somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place him. He couldn’t say for sure that the man wasn’t a monk—but he hadn’t encountered any monks recently, if ever.

Regardless, James had seen the dismay on Thomasina’s face and didn’t intend to let Sam Furbelow get anywhere near her. He didn’t trust the monk either, so he accompanied Thomasina and Brother Antoine to the tower and listened to her speech again.

Sam Furbelow corroborated all she said, no matter how absurd. James watched him, wondering. Sam wasn’t the superstitious sort, but a pragmatist to the bone. Why would he agree with such nonsense? Meanwhile, the monk drank it all in. As soon as Thomasina finished speaking, Sam went straight for the narrow staircase that led to the battlements, beckoning to the monk. “Come, Brother Antoine, every guest at Hearth House must see the view.”

They all trooped up the stairs and emerged through a low door onto the battlements. A bitter wind tugged at their coats, and a thin layer of snow crunched underfoot. The view was magnificent—gentle farmland to the south, rocks, trees, and scraps of meadow to the north, and the Roman Wall stretching to west and east.

Furbelow pushed snow off the parapet and watched it fall. “He must have dropped the stone from here. Imagine that poor bastard below, looking up. If I heard the ghost shrieking, I’d get out of the bloody way.” Abruptly, he headed for the stairs. “I’m going indoors before I perish of the cold,” he said, as if he hadn’t been the one to lead them up there in the first place.

They all made their way down the winding stone staircase. “Well, Brother Antoine?” Furbelow demanded. “You’ve seen the masks. What next?”

“I shall pray and keep watch tonight, to sense the presence of the ghost,” the monk said. “After that, I shall know how to proceed.”

What a damned nuisance, thought James, who also intended to keep watch. The last thing he needed was a hostile monk annoying the ghost he hoped to befriend.

“Perfect,” Sam Furbelow said. “Let’s introduce you to my uncle.”

Walt Warren gave reluctant permission for the two arrivals to stay. “A holy man, are you?” he asked Brother Antoine.

“Oui, monsieur. I am a brother of the Franciscan order.”

“I don’t hold with Papism,” Mr. Warren said, “nor with Frenchmen, but if that’s what it takes to get rid of the ghost, I’ll put up with you.” He paused, scowling. “As long as you leave the women alone. No trapping the maids in the corridor for a kiss and fondle.”

Before the monk could stammer a denial, Mr. Warren rounded on Samuel Furbelow. “That goes for you, too, or you’ll be on your arse in the snow before you know it.”

“You misjudge me,” Furbelow complained. “I’m a reformed character. The only woman I want is my dear cousin.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Thomasina. James clenched his fists.

“Over my dead body,” Mr. Warren retorted.

And mine. With difficulty, James relaxed his hands.

“You have many good qualities, Sam,” Mr. Warren said. “But as I have told you time and time again, I’ll not give my daughter to a spendthrift. I’ve already wasted too much money on you, and only for the sake of my poor sister, God rest her soul.”

Only Thomasina remained unaffected. “Don’t let him vex you, Papa. You know perfectly well I’ll never marry Sam, and he knows it, too.”

“Alas, yes.” Furbelow heaved a sigh. “I go down on bended knee every time we meet, and she always refuses me.”

“All you want is my fortune,” Thomasina said.

Furbelow leered at her. “How could I not want you as well?”