The female figurine had curled locks, and a bird had landed on her outstretched arm.
“And here’s another of the same woman.” He pointed to a marble bust. The woman, now older, wore a veil, her shoulders were lifted, and although there were no arms, one could imagine them reaching out. “That’s from later in life. After she lost her husband and built the abbey in his memory.”
Rebecca licked dry lips. “Speaking of ... loss, I was sorry to hear about your wife.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”
When he said no more, she felt compelled to fill the awkward silence. “I ... only met her in passing, but I remember her being very beautiful. At least you will always have your memories.”
He winced and replied, “Sadly, yes.”
She blinked, uncertain what he meant, and embarrassed about her clumsy attempt to comfort him.
“Well.” She swallowed a gristly lump of regret. “Good night.”
He nodded but said nothing more, his gaze returning to the first statue in all her youthful beauty, before loss and time had stolen her charms.
———
Frederick looked over his shoulder and watched Miss Lane walk away, cursing his dull, awkward tongue. Why had he not engaged her in more pleasant conversation? Talking of long-dead abbesses and lost spouses was not exactly the way to put a young lady at her ease. Thomas would certainly chide him had he heard.
How strange to find himself speaking to a grown-up Rebecca Lane here in Swanford Abbey of all places.
Frederick was still unaccustomed to being in the abbey now that it was a hotel. He well remembered the years it had stood deserted, left to ruin, and supposedly haunted.
He recalled coming upon a few children clambering about the ruins of the abbey church long after the last Sharington had died and before it had been acquired by investors.
———
Walking past the abbey, Frederick heard a young lad, Robb Tarvin, teasing two girls. One he didn’t recognize, but the other was Rebecca Lane, perched atop a half-crumbled wall.
The lad was telling them a story about the soldiers who came and smashed the altar and chased out the nuns and abbess, scaring them to death, one quite literally.
Walking closer, he saw Rebecca’s big eyes fill with tears.
“No one would be so cruel, Robb Tarvin. You are a brute to tell such lies.”
“It’s no lie, and you are as ninny-headed as Kitty there if you don’t believe me. They say the ghost of the abbess roams these ruins even now, crying out for justice.”
“That’s enough, young man,” Frederick interrupted, stepping over the fallen coping to reach them. “I think you’ve frightened these girls more than enough for one day.”
The boy scowled. “Bah. It’s all true and you know it. I read the history in one of your father’s books!”
“I don’t think that bit about a ghost was in any book hemight have lent you. Nor do I think it kind of you to take quite so much pleasure in scaring these girls.”
The boy scowled again, mumbled something unflattering under his breath, and slinked away.
Frederick approached the vicar’s daughter sitting high on the partial wall. “May I help you down, young lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He reached up his hands and lowered the trusting Rebecca easily to the ground.
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly well. I was not scared.”
“No?” he asked, barely restraining a smile.
