Page 41 of The Right to Remain Single

“What the deuce do you know about it, Blakely?” Papa said. “If you ask me, you’re nothing but a fraud.”

Thomasina had had enough. “If he is a fraud, I am too.” The instant the words were out, she regretted them. A gleam of hope entered Papa’s eyes. She should have kept her mouth shut; she needed to distance herself from James.

And yet how could she help but defend him?

“You’re a fool, girl. Not an ounce of commonsense in you,” Papa said.

She took hold of herself. She had refused every other attempt to marry her off, and she would do the same now. “Joey, please help Brother Antoine up to bed.”

“Aye, that’s a good notion.” Papa jabbed a finger at the monk. “Get better quickly, or else. The exorcism must take place as soon as Christmas is over.”

“Have no fear, I shall be perfectly well.” The monk moved slowly up the stairs, cradling his injured wrist.

Papa stomped away, and Sam vanished chortling along the passage toward his bedchamber.

“I’ll get some arnica and bandages.” Thomasina hastened up the stairs, and James followed. “Don’t come with me,” she snapped.

“I must. I intend to ask Brother Antoine for the truth.”

“Didn’t Max see what happened?”

“No, if you recall, he was outdoors marching.”

“Oh, very well.” She stopped at a cabinet in the corridor to look for rags and a pot of arnica paste. “Wait for me.” A wave of misery swept over her; she deserved no consideration at all. “Please.”

“Of course.”

Why must he be so patient and kind, when she’d done her best to push him away? It made it so hard to repulse him…but what choice did she have?

They found Joey helping Brother Antoine remove his coat. The monk was clearly in great pain. “I’ll help Miss Thomasina bandage him,” James told Joey. “Make sure no one else has a chance to accuse Max of pushing them down the stairs.”

Brother Antoine blanched, as if he wasn’t already white as his shirt, poor man. Thomasina spread arnica ointment on the monk’s wrist, and James held it while she bandaged it firmly with the rags. “That should do for now. If you would like some laudanum for the pain, let me know.”

“You are most forgiving, Miss Warren,” Antoine said. “I think you know that the ghost did not push me.”

“Did Furbelow order you to fall?” James demanded. “Or did he push you?”

The unhappy monk let out a sigh. “Both. I told him it was too dangerous, and he said it was up to me—risk breaking my neck on the stairs or have it done for me on the gallows. When I hesitated, he pushed me.”

“I never liked Sam, but how could he?” she cried. “He might have killed you!”

“And then, like a fool, I lied,” the monk said, “for fear that he would accuse me anyway.”

“I already told you that I would not allow Furbelow’s accusation to harm you,” James said.

The monk drooped, and Thomasina said, “Leave him be. He is in a most difficult situation, and in pain, too.”

“Very well,” James said. “Let’s go.”

In the corridor, she glanced up and down, but no one was nearby. Nevertheless, she spoke in a whisper. “I wish I knew why Sam is doing this.”

“So that a sudden death will be blamed on the ghost,” James said.

* * *

James regretted having to put it in so many words, but she deserved to know. At least she wasn’t avoiding him for the moment.

“Papa,” she breathed. “Oh, no!”