Page 5 of The Right to Remain Single

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Thomasina waved at Max to let him know she was safe, and retreated worriedly into the house. Not many intruders saw the ghost. Mostly, they peered into the darkness, often in the wrong direction, and only succumbed to belief and the resultant terror when the ghost descended upon them as a deathly cold wind, roaring and howling with rage.

Mr. Blakely had grinned, drat the man, as if he intended to march up and offer to shake the spectral hand.

Oh, dear. It was bad enough that he’d come to Hearth House, but far worse, what if he succeeded in sending Decimus Maximus away? She mustn’t let that happen. Max was her friend as well as her bulwark against marriage. She would gladly curse Colin for interfering. Why must men assume that a woman’s purpose in life is to tie herself to some stupid man? For years and years, she’d tried to explain to Papa, but he simply refused to understand.

“Miss Tommie!” cried Mrs. Day the instant Thomasina closed the door behind her. “Venturing out in your nightdress to accost a complete stranger! Whatever is the world coming to?”

Thomasina stamped the snow off her boots. “He’s not a stranger. He’s a son of the Earl of Statham. I’ve met him often in London. And I was completely covered by Papa’s greatcoat.” She removed the coat and hung it on its hook.

“The son of an earl? Even worse! Whatever must he think of you?” the housekeeper exclaimed. “A friend of Master Colin’s, too.” She still thought of Colin as the charming, irrepressible boy who had come to visit from time to time when Thomasina was a girl.

“Pooh! Who cares what he thinks?” Thomasina said.

“Gentlemen gossip, Miss Tommie,” said Mrs. Day grimly.

Not this one. He was a true gentleman, through and through. After failing to seduce Mr. Blakely, she’d sought half-heartedly for another gentleman to ruin her, but none of them appealed to her as he had. She’d given up on that method of avoiding marriage, resigning herself to outright refusal instead.

Mrs. Day squeezed out a rag and scrubbed the stove. Belatedly, Thomasina noticed the aroma of scalded milk. Steam arose from the wet rag. “Tsk. I forgot the milk, and it boiled over. Why not leave that to Martha to clean up?”

“Because it needs doing now, Miss Tommie, not when Martha gets her lazy behind up and moving. What’s left of the milk is in that mug on the table,” Mrs. Day grumbled. “Gentlemen gossip,” she repeated, “and what if it should come to Mr. Tilson’s ears?”

If only it would, thought Thomasina glumly, but nothing was likely to counteract her pristine reputation. How she wished she could be like the other Warren women—heedless of public opinion, risking their reputations by bathing naked in a lake, seducing smugglers, and so on. But the opportunity to behave disgracefully had only come her way once, and she’d been rejected.

That still rankled. She should be grateful to him for behaving like the perfect gentleman, but she wasn’t. How could she be, when he’d made it clear he found her both disgusting and disgraceful? Since then, she’d managed to avoid him for the most part, but now, speaking to him again… Dratted man, it still hurt.

He’d laughed when her coat had fallen open. Seemingly he remembered that day with nothing but amusement. “I don’t suppose Mr. Blakely even noticed what I was wearing,” she lied.

“No young man could fail to notice a pretty girl in her nightdress.”

“He was thinking of nothing but the ghost.”

“Oh, come now.” Nevertheless, Mrs. Day shivered. “I hope he can make it go away.”

I don’t. Occasionally the ghost became rather noisy and rumbustious, but it was well worth the year-round protection he gave her from suitors.

Thomasina filled a pitcher with hot water from the stove, took the mug of milk, and went upstairs to get dressed.

She stirred up the bedchamber fire, shivering, and sipped the lukewarm milk. How she wished Mr. Blakely hadn’t come. Perhaps she could explain to him why she would rather keep the ghost.

She sighed. What was the use? He hadn’t believed her last time she’d tried. Men never understood, which made no sense, seeing as frequently men didn’t wish to marry, either.

Once the fire was crackling merrily, she brushed her hair and moved away to her dressing table. A thin film of ice had formed over the water in her washbasin. She cracked the ice and went to the window to empty it.

That dratted Mr. Blakely was in the garden again.

* * *

After seeing his horse safely bestowed, James returned just in time to see the Roman soldier once more, before he faded to wherever ghosts go at dawn. The soldier raised his spear and opened his mouth wide to roar a threat, but his power was rapidly waning.

James raised a hand in greeting. “Salve, amice!”

The ghost lowered the spear. From his gaping mouth came a faint cry, “Virginem…” His voice faded away. Before James could ask for an explanation, the ghost was gone.

Virginem…. Something to do with a maiden, a virgin.

At a sound from above, he looked up. Framed in an open casement, the chestnut curls he remembered so well cascading about her face, was Miss Warren.