“How charming. If that’s it then . . .” She turned back toward the horses.
He laughed. “Not quite. There’s more.”
“Of course there is.” She sighed and brushed away another insect. “Do go on.”
“Before they could wed, the young Lord Thomas was forced to leave England on some sort of urgent business for the crown, the details of which have always been vague. It all happened some two hundred years or so ago. He promised to return no later than a year and meet her here on this very spot. He vowed that nothing would keep him from her as she was the true love of his life.”
“And of course he returned and they had a dozen children and lived quite happily for the rest of their days.” She cast him a pleasant smile. “Now may we leave?”
“I’m afraid that’s not how the story ends.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “The year was nearly up when Thomas’s ship was lost at sea. Anne didn’t believe it, fate wouldn’t be that cruel. So she waited for him here, every day through all sorts of weather. Another year went by, and another. . . .”
“Rather silly of her really, to wait for a man who was surely dead. She should have gone on with her life.”
“How could she? He was her life.” Win heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “For more than two years she waited until she fell dreadfully ill—”
“No doubt from being out here in all sorts of weather.” Lucy shook her head. “Foolish girl.”
“And died.”
“How very sad. Shall we go now?” Lucy cast him a hopeful smile.
“That’s not the end.”
“Then do get to it, Winfield, before I am eaten alive.” She huffed.
“As I said, Anne died. Not a fortnight later . . .” He paused for effect. He’d always enjoyed telling this story. “Thomas returned, as she always knew he would. He had been shipwrecked and badly injured. It had taken him all that time to make his way home. When he discovered she had died, he was inconsolable. He came here and begged for her to return to him.” He lowered his voice. “They say he was quite mad with grief.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not the end though, is it?”
“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head. “His family and hers tried to reason with him. When he refused to leave the folly, they brought him food, which he ignored. A few days after his return, they found him dead. Some say by his own hand.”
“Then he was as foolish as she was,” she snapped.
“But some say it was foul play. That he was killed by a rejected suitor of Anne’s who blamed Thomas for her death.” Win glanced around the clearing. “They’re supposed to be buried near here somewhere, according to the story. I have no idea where. I’ve never seen any evidence of graves. It’s said . . .”
“Oh good, there’s more.” She rolled her gaze toward the heavens. “I was afraid you were finished.”
He ignored the sarcasm in her voice. “It’s said in death Anne and Thomas were finally reunited, here, where they were last so happy.” He glanced from side to side suspiciously. “It’s said as well they have never left.”
“Ghosts, you mean?” She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not the least bit ridiculous,” he said staunchly. “There have been numerous sightings here of a couple in the clothes of another time who simply vanish after a minute or two. Not only here but at the folly at Millworth as well. As if the lovers can’t decide if they want to be where they were happiest or where their dreams ended. There is quite a bit of documentation to that fact as well.”
“Oh, come now. Ghosts? Really, Winfield.”
“I have seen them myself,” he said without thinking, and at once realized he should have kept that piece of information to himself. “My cousin Gray and I saw them some years ago.”
“I have no doubt you saw something and your imagination simply—”
“We saw Thomas and Anne.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t believe me.”
“Of course I don’t believe you. What utter foolishness.” She turned on her heel and started toward the horses. “There are no such things as ghosts.”
“I know what I saw.” He hurried after her. “It may be unusual, but I don’t think foolish—”
She swiveled back toward him. “What is foolish is this, Winfield—you and me.”
He stared. “What do you mean?”
“I was a fool to think that we suited. It’s obvious now that marriage to you would be an enormous mistake. One I have no intention of making.”
He drew his brows together. “Because I saw a ghost?”
“No, of course not, although I do think your insistence as to what you saw is silly.” She waved off his comment. “But you are not the man I thought you were. May I say you are an entirely different person in London than you are here.”
“I am not!”
“In London you are serious and dignified, concerned with matters of finance and business. You are quite responsible as well. Here you are . . . you are . . .” She struggled to find the word. “Frivolous! That’s what you are. You’re frivolous.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, Winfield, but I cannot marry a frivolous man.”
He ignored the immediate sense of relief that rushed through him. “I’m not at all frivolous. Perhaps I was when I was younger but I’m certainly not frivolous now.”
“People warned me about you, you know. You have a most disreputable reputation.”
“Had a most disreputable reputation,” he said firmly. “I have reformed, for the most part. Indeed, I have been entirely too busy acquiring the skills necessary to manage my family’s interests to be disreputable.”
“And now that you have acquired those skills?”
“Now, I am going to be married!”
“Not to me.” She shook her head. “Goodness, Winfield, do you realize there have been times this week when you have appeared improperly attired? Without a coat?”
He gasped in mock horror. “Good God, not that!”
“Blasphemy is not the answer, Winfield. Nor is sarcasm.” She squared her shoulders. “I cannot marry a man who disregards the tenets of proper dress simply because he is in the country.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It’s not the least bit absurd and that’s not all. You are entirely too lax with your servants. Indeed, you treat them to a certain extent as if they are members of your family.”
“As they are.” He drew his brows together. “Many of them have been in our employ for most of my life.”
“Even so, they should be treated as befits their stations.” She raised her chin. “I have certain standards I adhere to, proper rules of behavior, if you will, and I have no intentions of allowing those to fall by the wayside.”
He drew a deep breath. “Lucy, this is—”
“And my name is not Lucy!” She glared. “I have told you that over and over again. I do realize you think it’s a sign of affection to call me by an abbreviated version of my own name but I do not like it. It’s Lucille, not Lucy. Lucy is the name for a scullery maid. Or a spaniel!”
“My apologies,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize it was that important.”
“Neither did I. In truth, I found it rather sweet the first time you called me Lucy. And perhaps the second. But by the third . . .” She huffed and tucked a strand of hair that had had the temerity to escape, under her hat. “It’s silly perhaps, I do realize that, but honestly, Winfield, it drives me quite mad. And it’s only one of many things I have noticed since our arrival.”
“Do tell, Lucy.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Where else have I fallen short this week?”
“Well . . .” She stared at him for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “You’re entirely too witty for me. There, I’ve said it. I know it sounds odd, but it’s true.” She shook her head. “Sometimes you say things that you, and other people, think are most amusing and I just think they’re silly.”