She smiled. “I’m fine. And I’m going to take out an ad in the newspaper soon, swearing that I’m fine.” She looked at Penny and added softly. “And that I’m not leaving.”

“Leaving? Why should you leave?” Carter asked frowning.

“Penny thinks the ghost followed her to the library and pushed the floorboards through.”

Carter tried to hide a smile. “Why would the ghost do that? I thought that she was here to talk to the ghost.”

“Go ahead, make fun of me, you ruffians!” Penny said indignantly.

Carter found a chair at the table as well. “Penny, I’m not making fun of you. My question is why? If there is a ghost, and I’m not at all convinced myself, one would think that the ghost wanted to talk to someone. Clear the air. Be released from its terrible curse of haunting, moaning, and chain dragging!”

“Our ghosts have never dragged chains around—or even moaned, for that matter,” Penny said, a hard edge in her voice.

Carter was trying very hard not to smile. “Penny, I’m sorry, honestly, I’m not mocking you. I just can’t see any correlation between old floorboards giving out and a ghost that should be relegated to haunting a single place. I mean, what ghost have you ever heard about that travels around the countryside haunting different places?”

She stared at him hard. “You want my opinion?”

“Well, not really,” Clint murmured softly, playfully.

Penny cast him a baleful glance. “You two and Matt think that it would be an unmanly—unmacho—thing to believe in ghosts, and therefore, you won’t accept anything. Even though Darcy found poor Amy’s skull in a day when it had been missing for over a hundred years! She won’t admit it, but I say that the ghost told her where to find it.”

“Did the ghost tell you where to find it?” Clint asked Darcy.

Despite herself, Darcy felt a flush rising. Penny needed backing, but she didn’t want to get Clint and Carter going.

“Research, intuition, and maybe some energy from the past,” she murmured uncomfortably.

“So there!” Penny said.

“Yeah, so there. Darcy looked up the history behind the legend,” Carter said. “Penny, come on! Even Matt spent a lot of time in that room, remember? Lavinia was crazy about the place. She thought it was so historic and fascinating.”

“Yeah—he spent time with his charming wife,” Clint reminded Penny, smiling.

“I spent some really great days in that room, too,” Carter said, grinning at Clint.

Penny glared at him.

“What?” Clint said, staring at Penny. “Doesn’t Carter get a tongue-lashing on his wild, womanizing ways as well?”

Penny set a hand on Carter’s. “At least this poor boy was in love with Susan Howell.”

“Susan Howell?” Clint said. “What about Catherine Angsley, Tammy what-ever-her-last-name-was, Gina Danson, and that Glynnis-something woman?”

“Eh!” Carter said to Clint.

“He, at least, cared very deeply about Susan.”

“Penny, the point here,” Carter said, “is that all of us so-called longing-to-be-macho men stayed in the room many times—with nothing happening. A scared little bride who wanted the room to be haunted panicked in the middle of the night. Clara Issy freaked out while cleaning. And Darcy claims to be a ghost buster. Sorry, Darcy,” he said quickly.

“Maybe it’s a ghost who only dislikes women,” Clint said, grinning. “You know, some horses are like that. Dogs too. They have definite preferences for male and female people. Remember that German shepherd we had years ago? Gracie was her name. She absolutely despised men, but became a kitten anytime a woman was around.”

“Yeah!” Carter agreed. “And remember that little white mop thing Lavinia had?”

“Lhasa Apso,” Clint told him.

“Whatever. The dog was the cutest little pile of white fur in the world—until a guy went to pet it. Then it was all teeth and obnoxious yaps,” Carter recalled.

“Matt should have known not to marry her once he saw that dog,” Clint said.

“Ah, hell, we all thought she was the hottest thing since fire had been invented,” Carter reminded him.

“You’re getting off the subject,” Penny said.

“I didn’t realize we were really on a subject,” Clint said.

“But, Penny, there you go, we were on the subject, we simply found a solution to the dilemma,” Carter said with a laugh. “We have a ghost that isn’t fond of women. Maybe it’s a she, and she is simply jealous of good-looking girls.”

“Clara Issy would be delighted that you called her a good-looking girl,” Penny said tartly.

“Clara is adorable,” Clint argued.

“But hardly a girl,” Penny pointed out.

“It comes down to this, Penny,” Carter said. “It’s quite ridiculous to associate an accident in the library with a malignant ghost from the house, should one exist.”

“And it also comes down to this,” Darcy interjected firmly. “I’m not leaving. Unless I’m thrown out.” She stood. “Thank you, all of you, for your concern. Penny, since the public library has now become off-limits, may I crawl through some of the old house records?”

“Yes, dear, of course. Make my office your own,” Penny told her. She looked at her wistfully as she rose. “I still wish that you’d leave.”

Darcy smiled. “I’ll be all right, Penny. I promise.”

“Dinner at seven,” Penny said.

“I’ll be there,” Darcy assured her, and headed for Penny’s office.

The woman was a wonderful organizer, Darcy thought. As she studied the bookshelves, Darcy saw that records, histories, legends, and books related to ghost stories were arranged first chronologically, and then alphabetically. She sat in the chair in front of Penny’s desk for several minutes, just studying the shelves and musing over what had happened at the library. She didn’t believe that the entity haunting the Lee Room was truly malevolent—merely frustrated. And Carter and Clint had made an interesting point that afternoon—it had been all women who had been troubled by the ghost.

Meaning?

She wasn’t at all certain.

She needed to get moving.

She rose and selected a history that chronicled the early days of Stoneyville. The first pages were dry and bland, recording a great deal about building materials. Darcy skimmed the information. Then, there was the sad story about poor Melody, who had died in her lover’s arms.

Melody was given a loving, Christian funeral. Her parents mourned her loss until their dying days. The poor girl did not seem a good candidate for such a haunting. Besides, she hadn’t slept in the Lee Room. The Jackson room had been hers.

Reading further, Darcy again skimmed a great deal of mundane material dealing with births, deaths, baptisms, and marriages. However, moving forward to 1777, she found mention of a strange mystery. Apparently, the Stones had done a fair amount of procreating outside the bonds of marriage. Arabella Latham, the great-granddaughter of the builder’s brother, Malachi Stone, born on the wrong side of the blanket, was furious with her family’s decision to side with the Patriots during the Revolution. Malachi Stone had died before the house had been finished, and it was said that he had loaned his brother large sums to have the house completed. His heirs—legitimate and otherwise—were left penniless.

Arabella, however, had been engaged in a passionate affair with Regan Stone, a legitimate cousin of the current master of the house, Ryan Stone, and spent endless days there, basking in the admiration of both cousins. Perhaps she had designs on the legal heir to the house, and was using Regan to get close to him. Ryan, however, was in love with a young beauty of the region, Mary Anderson, who defied her own family, strong Tories, to elope with him.

Arabella, hearing of the wedding, was furious, but perhaps more convinced that she must snag her errant lover into marriage. Ryan was heading off to battle, and against the British, no one believed that the pathetic little American army had a chance. To be close to her new husband, Mary followed him around the country as he went to war.

But somewhere in those days, the ambitious Arabella disappeared. Regan himself was finally drawn into the battle, and killed at Monmouth. Ryan Stone survived the war and returned with his beloved Mary who produced no fewer than eleven children for him, ten daughters and one son, who then proceeded to inherit the house in his turn.

“Arabella!” Darcy murmured aloud.

She closed her eyes, and waited, trying very hard to open her senses and her mind. She thought of the dreams or visions that had plagued her.

The man, outside the house, coming in.

The woman, waiting.

It would make sense, she thought. Since apparently Arabella wanted marriage and legitimacy, and Regan Stone wanted nothing more than a mistress, they would have definitely argued. If their affair was as passionate as claimed in the history, they would have argued with a fervor.

Arabella probably knew intimate secrets about her lover.

She could easily have become a burden to him.

A tap at the door made Darcy jump.

“Yes?” Darcy said, drawn from her musings.

Carter stuck his head in the door. “Hey, you’ve been at it a long time. Dinner is ready. And you’ve had a long day. A rough fall. Maybe it wasn’t quite a Humpty Dumpty thing—you’re not in pieces and you’re certainly all together nicely—but still, you need a break.”

“Thanks, Carter,” she said. “And you’re right. I’m coming. Dinner sounds great.”

He waited for her at the door. When she rose, put the book back, and joined him, he slipped an arm around her in a brotherly fashion.

“You’re not scared off, are you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good. There’s no way that a fall in the library had anything to do with a ghost here.”