Jenny stifled a nervous laugh.
Ghosts do not exist! “If that is what you want,” she said aloud.
Lord Dowding led Jenny through the tall weeds to the main entrance of the house. The rotting doors lay cast aside on the ground. The remnants of old paintings clung to lichen-covered frames. Thick dust, decaying leaves, and tiny twigs covered the marble floor as they walked past an oak staircase with missing steps that led to the next floor.
After continuing through a short corridor, they walked through a second door, this one still intact, although its hinges squealed in opposition.
And what stood on the other side of that doorway made Jenny come to a gaping stop. The house wrapped around an open courtyard. A railed balcony, lined with numerous doorways—some with doors and some gaping holes that led to dark interiors—circled above them. On either side of what had once been a thriving garden sat two carefully crafted marble benches.
As wondrous as all that was, however, what awed Jenny most grew in the middle of the garden.
“That tree,” she gasped. “Look at its branches!”
The mighty oak was likely as old as the house itself, if not older. The ends of its long, gnarled boughs disappeared out broken windows, had punched through walls, and had grown so tall that its crown towered over the house. Light trickled down from the open ceiling and through the branches, creating soft rays that touched the ground.
Although they were once again outside, the air that surrounded them was warm and humid, which allowed for a handful of daffodils to bloom beside the tree.
“It’s said that when the house was completed,” Nicholas said, “the owner planted this tree from a sapling. His hope was that it would remain here forever.”
Jenny smiled. “I wonder if he also planted the flowers.”
“I suspect so,” Nicholas replied. “It’s a shame that such a lovely house was allowed to fall to ruins. I hear the descendants of the man who built it still hold the deed, but none wish to return to claim it. Thus, it remains in this state. Soon, very little will be left of it as nature returns the stone to the earth.” He put out his arm once more. “I’ve one more thing I wish to show you.”
They passed through a stone archway, its door nowhere to be seen, and into a long corridor. Debris crunched beneath their shoes, and bronze sconces hung from lichen-covered walls. The air smelled like a forest. The farther down the corridor they walked, the darker it became, and thoughts of the rumors filled Jenny’s mind.
“Are you sure it’s safe to proceed, my lord?” she asked, wishing her voice did not tremble.
“Nothing here can hurt you,” he replied as he took hold of her hand.
Her heart leapt to her throat at his touch, but a feeling of safety washed over her.
They stopped before a massive door that hung by one hinge. “This is the ballroom,” the earl said.
Jenny gasped. Sunlight filtered through the empty lead patterns that were once stained-glass windows, creating glowing images on the stone floor. A large iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, its candles long gone.
Hand in hand, they trod carefully toward a fireplace so large that both could have easily stood inside it. The mantel was bare, but Jenny could imagine decorative pieces adorning it.
A gust of wind blew through the empty windows, sending the first droplets of rain cascading onto the floor.
“Quick, this way,” Lord Dowding said, pulling her to the middle of the room to stand beneath the chandelier.
“What is it?” Jenny asked, searching for signs of a specter or creature on the prowl.
“Shh,” he whispered, his finger to his lips. “Listen.”
For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Jenny heard it. An instrument of sorts, akin to a violin, only different. “Music? But where is that music coming from?” Her eyes fell to the fireplace, and a cold draft washed over them. “The house is not haunted,” she said with a laugh. “It’s the wind moving through the chimney!”
Her laughter came to a sudden halt as she looked up at the earl, for he wore a smile that made her legs shake beneath her.
With a flourishing bow, he put out a hand to her. “Miss Jenny, I was inattentive at the ball. Therefore, I believe I owe you a dance.”
Giving her no time to respond, he placed a hand on her hip, took her hand in the other, and began the steps of a waltz. Accompanied by the pelting of rain and the whistling melody coming from the chimney, Jenny had never been happier.
It was as if, in that moment, time belonged only to them. Jenny imagined that somewhere in heaven, an hourglass dripped the sands every passing hour, and they alone could tip it on its side. There was no longer concern for what her future might hold, and she hoped that her wish given at the well would come true—that all he needed to accomplish would come to pass.
She wanted nothing more than to spend eternity dancing beneath that medieval chandelier as light filtered through the glassless windows.
For this was what they were meant to do.