On the walk from his hotel to Cushing's place of business, Thomas found he was breathing rapidly and his mouth was dry. He and his sister had spent almost the last of their money to make the long trip to Buffalo. What they would do next if their fund-raising efforts here failed, he could not imagine.

After fifteen years of trying to get his machine funded and built to restore their family business, Thomas was on edge before this meeting. But also tired: tired of rejection, tired from everything it had taken to get even this far. Tired, especially, of the role he'd have to perform again if his presentation to Cushing did not succeed. Lucille saw today's meeting only as a prologue to their real play. This time, though, Thomas wanted to earn the money as a businessman should, by convincing investors of his machine's value.

When he entered the Cushing and Company offices, he paused in the doorway, and what he saw lifted his spirits. The large, open room hummed with activity. Men worked together on the drawings or models that sat on every surface. These were men like him, who dreamed of the future and wanted to build it.

Thomas surreptitiously inspected his coat and quickly tucked away some loose threads at the worn cuffs. He must look his current part – that of a promising inventor in whom others could confidently invest – because to men such as Cushing, even small details could matter. Thus prepared, Thomas saw his first audience: two secretaries working at a desk in the center of the room. He began his performance by putting on his 'confident yet modest' expression, then walked briskly towards them.

One woman seemed the sort of clerical person he expected: older, conservatively dressed, unremarkable. The other, a typist bent over her machine, appeared rather young, her outfit smarter and more feminine. As he neared them, he chose to address the younger woman, saying "Good morning, Miss." She looked up from her work and smiled. When he saw her face, his heartbeat quickened, and that was not just from his usual nerves before a meeting.

She struck him as exceptionally alive. Her smiling mouth was slightly open, as if she'd been caught by surprise. Even behind the glasses she wore, her gaze seemed to take in everything about him eagerly – but with a thoughtful curiosity, not the simpering admiration he usually received from secretaries. And, too, she was quite pretty, with a pale but warm complexion beneath her abundant golden hair. When he noticed all this, his stomach suddenly dropped.

Once, when he was a small boy, Thomas had fallen down a flight of stairs at Allerdale Hall. The vivid sensations had never left him. First, he'd felt the jolt of fear in the pit of his stomach. Then he'd begun to experience his fall as slowly if he were struggling to move through wet clay. As he'd tumbled, he'd observed every detail of the stairs, though the fall had taken only a few seconds. Now time slowed again for him and he found himself noticing the smallest things about the girl – her curving upper lip, the beauty mark above her mouth…. But, he reminded himself sternly, he should not be paying her any attention at all.

He tried to right himself by performing the usual staging: he put down the carrying case with a little extra emphasis. Doffed the top hat with a subtle flourish. And finished by removing his gloves a trifle slowly, to call attention to his elegant hands. As he'd hoped, this audience watched him expectantly. Thomas did look at the older woman long enough to say politely, "Forgive the interruption." But he felt compelled to turn back to the typist (her glowing face…). He informed her – in his best aristocratic drawl – that "I have an appointment with Mr. Carter… Everett… Cushing."

The golden-haired girl replied cheerfully, "Goodness!" She turned (the elegance of her neck…) to the other woman, adding in the same tone, "With the great man himself!" At that rather pert remark, the two women shared a smile for some reason. Thomas, disconcerted, wondered if the typist was making fun of him for the way he'd announced his business. But something inside him said, she would not do that, so he did not react haughtily or in anger as he might otherwise have done. Instead, he forced a small smile and replied mildly, "I'm afraid so," producing his card as she turned back to him.

She took it and read aloud: "Sir Thomas Sharpe - " (her gentle voice, saying his name!) " - Baronet." She looked up at him as if startled, then abruptly dropped her gaze and the smile faded from her face. The other woman, however, took the card and said politely, "He'll be here shortly." He glanced at her, saying "Thank you," as she moved away. When he looked back to the typist, perplexed by her sudden change in attitude, she was regarding him coolly. She had started to gather up the manuscript from which she'd been working.

"You're not late, are you?" she asked, with a slight edge to her voice (the flash of her amber eyes!). She stood (her slender waist…) as she added, "He hates that." She straightened her collected papers (such delicate hands!), tapping the edge of the pile on the desktop. The sound drew Thomas's eyes down to the typescript still there – "Chapter One," it began – but he looked up as she began to walk away (the graceful sway of her skirt…). He hastily said, trying to keep her attention, "Not at all," but she did not stop.

He looked at the typescript again, hoping to find something to remark on that would bring her back. While he skimmed the top page, he stalled by adding, "In fact, I'm a little early." She replied, over her shoulder, "Oh, I'm afraid he hates that too," as Thomas read:

'A house as old as this Hall becomes, in time, a living thing. It starts holding on to things – '

Even more intrigued, he said to her retreating figure, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but…." It was enough; at last, the typist turned back to him. Encouraged, he picked up the pages and took a few steps towards her as he asked, "... this is a piece of fiction, is it not?" The girl answered simply, "Yes." At least her tone now allowed him to continue, so he enquired, "Who are you transcribing this for?"

While she answered, "It's to be sent to New York tomorrow, to the Atlantic Monthly," he glanced at the page again. He started to reply, "Well, whoever wrote it, it's, em…," but the language pulled him back in:

' – keeping them alive when they shouldn't be. Some of them good; some are bad… and some should never be spoken of again.'

'This much I know: there are things that tie ghosts to a place (very much like they do us). Some remain tethered to a patch of land, a time and date, the spilling of blood, a terrible crime.'

He remembered to finish his remark to the girl: "... it's rather good, don't you think?" As he kept reading, he felt her move nearer as she asked, "Really?" She sounded uncertain. He replied, his eyes still on the page, "Well, it's certainly captured my attention," while he took in:

'There are other ghosts; others that hold on to an emotion, a drive – loss, revenge, or love. These, they never go away.'

Then the girl said softly, "I wrote it." It took a moment for her words to register with Thomas. As he looked at her doubtfully – how could such a young person, and only a secretary, write so compellingly? – she stated firmly, "It's mine." Her face showed determination and a shy pride.

He instantly recognized her feelings; the first time someone had complimented him on his machine's design, it had meant a great deal to him. Now that they had this in common, he was even more drawn to her. But – he could not help a dark thought – did she write because it was fashionable for the society ladies she doubtless emulated to try their hands at fiction? Or was she driven to create? Could she withstand having her work questioned? To survive, he knew from bitter experience, true inventors must be prepared to stand up for their ideas whenever challenged. His mind raced as he put the pages of her story back in order.

To test her determination, he said, assuming a slight smile but putting some doubt in his voice, "Ghosts." She quickly started to explain, saying "The ghosts are just a metaphor, really, for the – ." He just as quickly interrupted, eager to reassure her, with "Ghosts have always fascinated me," for she had passed his test. But in a rare moment of self-awareness, Thomas also acknowledged to himself that he had just started to, em, flirt.

And why shouldn't he? For everything he'd done in the service of his family, he thought he had earned this small moment. Why should he not, just this once, talk to a young, truly pretty girl who wanted nothing from him but his opinion? And it was harmless, really, for he likely would never see her again after today – even though he admitted to himself that he wanted to do so.

So Thomas took advantage of the moment to move very close to her while he explained, "You see, where I come from… ghosts are not to be taken lightly." At his explanation, she smiled a little. He could not keep from smiling back at her – genuinely, this time – making them conspirators against the doubters of the world.

A commanding masculine voice calling "Sir Thomas Sharpe!" interrupted their moment of rapport. The typist quickly turned towards the speaker, so this could only be 'the great man himself,' Mr. Cushing. Thomas hurried back to the desk and put down the typescript as Cushing approached and continued, "Welcome to our fair city!"

Saying "Sir. It's my pleasure," Thomas shook Cushing's proffered hand. To Thomas's surprise, the businessman then turned to the typist, who for some reason had not withdrawn from the scene. Touching the girl's arm lightly, Cushing remarked, "I see you've already met my daughter, Edith…."

Shocked, Thomas shot a glance at the "typist;" she demurely averted her gaze. He briefly looked askance at his host, but saw that the man was not joking. Thomas looked back at the girl – no, Miss Cushing – ruefully, sorry for his assumptions about her. She raised her eyes and met his look with a small but mischievous smile.

As they walked to the meeting, Thomas struggled to keep up his end of a conversation with Cushing, fighting the urge to turn back and watch the daughter. While she'd seemed like an unconventional secretary, Miss Cushing apparently was an even more unconventional young lady. Deliberately letting him think that she was a typist – he'd never met anyone like her! Now he wanted only to see and talk to her again. But that was not the script he must follow.

Once in front of the investors, Thomas concentrated, threw himself back into his role, and launched into his presentation.

He had just switched on his miniature machine when Miss Cushing slipped into the room. Smiling slightly, she took a place standing against the wall behind her father. Without her glasses, she looked even prettier (and somehow vulnerable). Thomas was surprised at her presence; no other woman he'd met had ever shown the faintest interest in his work. In a rush of pleasure, he could not help but warmly return her smile, looking past her father to do so. Cushing noticed; he glanced at his daughter and frowned. When he turned back to Thomas, he said firmly, "Turn it off, please." Startled, Thomas complied and shut down the model.

The next few minutes became increasingly hard for Thomas to bear. He had experienced rejection before. But Cushing's words stung more than most, because the young woman was there as witness. As Cushing listed the cities where Thomas had "tried – and failed" before, the younger man shot a glance at Miss Cushing, both compelled to find out and dreading her reaction to his failures. She lowered her eyes quickly, avoiding his scrutiny, and he could not read her expression. His stomach sank, but as he wrenched his attention back to the businessman's lecture, Thomas set his face into a mask of polite attentiveness. Behind it, he wondered glumly what the excuse would be this time. Too young? No proven engineering experience? Not canny enough for the world of business?

When Cushing gave his reasons, he managed to shock Thomas, because they struck at him personally – softest hands and privilege, indeed! He felt the vein of accumulated resentment that always ran deep under his carefully polished persona threaten to surface and explode. In the past, he had taken the dismissals quietly. Now, though, he could not swallow being humiliated in front of this young lady. He managed to control the rage that threatened to burst from him, but still spoke more passionately to Cushing than he had ever managed to speak in his life. When he'd finished, almost panting from the intensity of his feelings, the other man merely raised one eyebrow in surprise.

A wheezing chuckle stopped Thomas before he could react. It came from the old lawyer. Ferguson leaned across the table and said, still chuckling, "Carter, I haven't heard a young man speak that fiercely to his elders since – oh, since you lectured Abernathy senior into giving you your first contract for concrete delivery! As I recall, you hadn't much but your determination going for you then." Cushing gave a slight sideways nod, acknowledging the point, but didn't speak. Another man, though, asked, "Why not at least hear the fellow out? I for one am intrigued by his machine." A few more of the men nodded or murmured in agreement, and Cushing shrugged, acceding to the group. But when he looked back at Thomas, his eyes were still cold.

As Cushing turned to pick up the prospectus, Thomas dared a glance at his daughter, but saw only her back as she left the room. He was somewhat glad to see her go at this juncture, for she had unexpected effects on his behavior, and he needed all his concentration for the investors' next questions.

In the jumble of Thomas's thoughts as he left Cushing's offices – the businessmen had agreed to a second meeting! – one demanded attention: the person with whom he most wished to share this news was… Miss Cushing. That idea made him stop suddenly, though he was in the middle of the sidewalk. Not to have thought first of telling Lucille felt as if he'd betrayed his sister. But as he took a deep breath to stop his panic, he hit on a justification for his sudden desire. Miss Cushing could give him valuable insights into her father's character, and such knowledge could help him win Cushing's approval. (That Cushing's approval would in turn gain Thomas easier access to Cushing's daughter would only sweeten the success.) Thomas nodded once to himself as if to cement his clever idea, then resumed his walk to the hotel.

He would approach Edith at the reception this evening, he decided. His pace slowed as he envisioned it. Not so much their conversation, though he hoped she would be pleased by his success thus far. No, mostly he saw them dancing together – his hand on her trim waist, her warm gaze meeting his openly, the flush on her skin and the rise and fall of her breasts as he led her faster and –- A workman jostling against him startled Thomas from his daydream. Others around him looked to be headed home at the end of their work day, so he lengthened his stride to make up time. Lucille greatly disliked it when he was late.

At the hotel, he would have to report his day's activities to her. As he hurried there, he uncharacteristically made a resolution. For once, he would keep a secret from his sister – that he had real hope this time, and that if he won what he now dearly wanted, his path would take him away from Allerdale Hall for good.

Thomas has made his first choice...

Notes:

Not beta'd (due to a challenge deadline), and only my third fiction, so helpful feedback is welcome!

Also, I'm thinking of making this a chapter story, with a shift to an AU after a couple more chapters. Do you think readers in this fandom would be interested in something that's more on the romance than the horror side of Gothic Romance? (It will have some gothic moments, and the ending may or may not be happy, but I want to focus on Thomas's choices and their consequences.)