Rowan’s eyes settled on mine. “Do you have anything else to add?”
I had become too lost in my thoughts for any witty remark to the contrary and shook my head.
“What a darling story,” Tabitha said, her hand going to her heart. “I hope something similar can happen to my children.”
With a tight smile, I reached over and squeezed my sister’s arm. “You must remember that not all that begins well ends well.”
“Don’t be too hasty where we are concerned,” Rowan said, jumping to his feet. “Our story is not over yet.” He crossed to Clodwick’s side and slapped him on the arm. “Eh, Clodwick?”
Clodwick jolted forward out of his nap, his eyes blinking rapidly, and his jaw opening and closing. “W—what happened? What did I miss?”
“Nothing at all,” Rowan said. “Just waiting for you to ask after Miss Delafield’s wrist.”
I dipped my head. So he had noticed Clodwick’s lack of attention to me as well.
When I lifted my gaze again, Mr. Clodwick wiggled his nose as if waking it up. “Yes, I have been meaning to ask about it. I was worried that Miss Delafield would no longer be able to paint.”
“Paint?” Rowan frowned. “Arabella—er—Miss Delafield, are you hiding such a special talent from me?”
I hadn’t heard him call me Arabella since the moment he had come to my rescue. Was he doing it on purpose to soften my resolvetoward him? I would have to think on that later. “My skills as an artist are too limited to call a talent,” I explained. “And I am sure there are many things you do not know about me,Mr. Ashworth.” I emphasized his surname so he would understand that we were not on such casual terms for him to keep calling me Arabella. Even if I kept calling him Rowan in my head.
His mouth curled. “Are you issuing a challenge?”
“Absolutely, not.” My sharp words surprised me. It was all too easy to forget my manners where Rowan was concerned. Mr. Clodwick would think I was a woman possessed. He had enough delusions with his ghost friends to worry about me as well.
“Can we see your paintings today?” Clodwick asked, completely oblivious to the tension right in front of him. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. That man had only two interests in his life, and I did not think I was one of them.
“Yes, my art. Of course.”
“Surely, not now,” Rowan said quickly. He had a strange look in his eyes that reminded me of his mischievous youth. “Miss Delafield has just exerted her energy to come down the stairs. Tomorrow is soon enough.” He slapped Clodwick on the arm again. “Isn’t that right, Clod?”
“Clodwick, sir,” Mr. Clodwick corrected.
“That’s what I said,” Rowan argued. “Now who is up for a game of riddles to distract Miss Delafield?”
My mood brightened. I did love a good riddle. With Rowan’s promptings, Clodwick started us out, his voice monotone and mechanical, like a dying clock. “I haunt the house where my body expired. Up.” Clodwick pointed to the ceiling. “Down!” He pointed to the ground. “In your bed, in your chair, in your study, in your mirror, and,” he sighed heavily, “sometimes even in your hair.Who am I?”
I hid my grimace with a forced laugh. “A ghost.” Then I clapped excessively to cover how my laugh sounded more like a cry.
The rest of the riddles were far more normal, many of which I had heard before. But it was the perfect distraction from my irritation and achiness. How could Rowan have known? He couldn’t possibly have remembered how fond I was of riddles.
Rowan came to perch on the arm of the sofa beside me again, as if he sensed my conflicted thoughts about him. His presence proved more distracting than any riddle. “Thank you,” I whispered.
His brow lifted. “For what?”
“For this.” It was the most words I could manage, but I could see by the look in his eyes that he understood.
A maid brought in a tray of tea and sandwiches just as Mr. Mason joined us. Elizabeth took the opportunity to excuse herself to see to her correspondence in her room—though I could not fathom who she would be writing to. In the bustle, Rowan gently picked up my injured hand. “Your bruise is healing.”
I glanced down to see the faint ink stain on my middle finger. I quickly withdrew it. I was not, nor would I ever be, ready to tell him I wrote stories. For if I did, he would surely inquire after them like he did the paintings. Where would I begin? I couldn’t very well tell him the reason no one outside my family could read them was because of him—how I had stopped writing all together for a time after his barbed insults when we were children, but how I had started again to console myself that there was still something beautiful for me in this cruel world. There was no use sparring with him on the subject. He would never read my words. No one unrelated to me would ever read any of them ever again.
“I am glad to see you are feeling better today,” Rowan said, ignorant of my dark thoughts. “I hope your injuries heal quickly.” He gave me asmile before fetching me a sandwich on a plate while Tabitha took over the tea things.
There it was again. More kindness.
Was it me, or was Rowan vastly different from the adolescent I had once known? No, it was impossible. It had to be an act. But what was he playing at? I wasn’t certain, but I would find out. For if I did not, I feared I would fall under whatever spell his presence seemed to cast over me.
Chapter 15