She never wrote another letter. But then, she still had Simon, and her aunt and uncle. He only had Jasper.
Looking down, she saw that Simon had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on one skinny arm, his other thumb dangerously close to his mouth. "Just keeping it to hand," she whispered to him with a smile, recalling their father's wry estimation of the practice.
Before she lifted him into the trundle by her own bed, she picked up the latest letter and read it through again.
You thought the snow was magical. So did your mother. So did I. Now it is only cold and wet. But at least, when it lies heavy, it keeps the world at bay.
Beautiful words, yet so sad. Who was this man?
The house resounded with silence. Matthias wandered through the large rooms, his footsteps echoing through the luxurious drawing room with its dark fireplace and through the grand dining room where only a single candle still lighting the room reflected from the many crystals in the chandeliers.
He liked it quiet, of course he did. He was always telling Jasper that. Then Jasper would try to get him to go out, or have guests or make calls. In turn, Matthias refused, avoided and generally disregarded his butler's urgings.
Yet tonight the silence fell stifling. If not for his own steps and the slight creaking of the floors as he was walked, he would've doubted his own hearing. So still.
Some of the staff were likely in the village, enjoying the celebrations. Jasper was generous that way, especially since there was so little occupation with only the master at home. The house could probably do with less staff, but how could Matthias let his people go? Marianna had chosen them, or brought them with her, and even grown a few right here in Haven. They were Marianna's people is much as his.
So he paid them all and he paid them well, and in return they tried to fill their days keeping the manor in gleaming order, ready to host royalty. All for a master who never had guests, rarely ate dinner, and only infrequently rode his horse.
They could move on. Of course, none of them did. Matthias could feel their loyalty like the heat of a kitchen hearth fire, yet distantly, as if he felt it through the glass panes of sorrow that surrounded him.
It was a big house, and could sustain a large family and all their relations. A few times he had entertained the notion of letting it out, of leasing it to some large boisterous family that would fill the house with the sound of children running, and voices in the dining room, and music in the music room.
Then where would he go, if not here? Another place would not carry the memories of Marianna and Simon. Another place would be strange and sterile and new – – at least to him – – and he would have to pay attention, and learn new things, and remember which drawer held the buttons and which held the shoehorn.
He didn't want to pay attention. He didn't want to be focused and alert and aware of the present moment. What was the present moment to him? It held no Marianna and Simon.
It held no one at all.
Bernie might not care for the never-ending labor of keeping house, but she appreciated the ritual of visits to the ill and infirm. It was Aunt Sarah's duty as the vicar's wife, but Sarah hadn't the patience for tending the sick and had gladly handed the responsibility over to Bernie.
Bernie’s father had been a physician and her mother, his brilliant assistant. Bernie recalled riding in Papa's carriage from one fine house to the next, sometimes helping with tasks like bandaging a slight wound, sometimes banished to a parlor to wait while a lady gave birth.
Going on rounds in the tiny village of Green Dell reminded Bernie of those times and the way her father's calm manner and her mother's soothing voice would ease the worry in someone's eyes. In her own fashion, she tried to do them proud. Simon tagged along, for he was always happy to talk to anyone who couldn't escape his chatter.
"Mrs. Small, do you know about a little boy who died?"
In the small but sturdy cottage of the village's foremost matriarch, Bernie kept her hands busy plumping the old woman's pillows as she cast her little brother a warning glare.
Simon blinked innocently, his large green eyes shining with angelic sweetness. The little beast. Bernie's hands smoothed the complicated quilt and smiled at Mrs. Small. "Don't mind Simon. He has a bee in his bonnet."
Mrs. Small smiled indulgently at Simon. "No, he's a dear, he is! What lady, pet?"
Simon had chosen his mark carefully. Mrs. Small adored gossip.
Simon approached the bed, reaching out to touch the quilt with a single chubby finger, every inch the wistful waif. Bernie sent him a cynical glance. He had no shame at all.
"I heard a story, Mrs. Small," he said breathlessly. "A sad story, about a little boy and his name was Simon, just like me!"
Bernie fought not to roll her eyes. Her brother was entirely able to speak in perfect sentences, not this babyish blurting. Still, she hesitated to scold him now. Mrs. Small had been hoarding information for every one of her seventy-eight years. If she hadn't badly twisted her ankle on the icy lane a few days earlier before, she would probably be out collecting some more tidbits at this very moment. If anyone had knowledge about the mysterious Marianna and the man who mourned her, it would be Ellie Small.
Besides, Bernie could always scold Simon later.
Mrs. Small fidgeted with her covers, eager to chat. "My goodness! What a story, little one! There have been a lot of boys named Simon over the years. Do you know when this happened?"
Bernie went to the table by the fire to pour Mrs. Small a fresh cup of tea. Not that she was trying to lubricate the old woman's memory, or anything so self-serving. Simply being thoughtful, that was all.
"Probably not more than a few winters ago," she said over her shoulder, keeping her tone slightly indifferent. Simon could play the inquisitive waif, but she could not pull off such a feat without seeming strange and desperate. "I think it happened around this time of year."
"Coming on Christmas? Goodness, that would be a sad tale! Wait a moment. Did you say this happened here in the village?"
"I don't think so. Upriver, perhaps." Bernie gave a little dismissive smile as she served Mrs. Small her tea, cup on the saucer, handle turned just so, presented with both hands, exactly the way Mama had taught her in another time, another world. Then she turned a mild glare on her brother. "It isn't important. Just some old story he heard. I'm sure you wouldn't recall a thing about it."
Shame on her. Throwing down the gossip gauntlet like that, challenging Mrs. Small's knowledge of local history!
She was a terrible person. She secretly vowed to come back tomorrow and scrub Ellie's kitchen floor to make up for it.
Her guilt appeased by such a penance, Bernie took a chair from the table by the fire and brought it to the bedside. Simon snuggled closer to the coverlet and gazed up at Mrs. Small with wide-eyed wonder.
Now fully invested in proving her infallibility, Mrs. Small sipped her tea and squinted at the far wall, visibly combing through decades of collected tittle-tattle.
"Simon," she mused aloud. "There was Simon Cooper, the boy that fell out of the hayloft and never woke from it. Of course, he was near sixteen." She glanced at her listeners, checking for confirmation.
Simon shook his head. "No, this one was littler than me."
"Ah. How sad." More tea. More scrutiny of the distant wallpaper. "There was young Simon Morton. He had the burst appendix. He was a wee lad, no more than six or seven."
Bernie leaned closer. "Upriver?"
Mrs. Small tapped her fingers on the rim of her teacup. "No, no, downriver. In Beekerton, or thereabouts."
"But there was also the lady." Simon pressed close, visibly willing Mrs. Small's extensive memory to do its magic. "His mother died and he died, too."
Mrs. Small blinked. "Together? Oh heavens. Well, that would be that poor woman upriver, then, wouldn't it? What was her name?"
Bernie sat with her fists clenched in her lap, unable to deny her own need to know any longer. "Mm?"
"Marianna!" Mrs. Small b
urst out. "That's it! Oh my, what a tragic tale. Her and her little boy dying in that fire! Why, the entire county was aghast! But that had to be seven years back."
A year before she and Simon had arrived at the vicarage. That explained why they'd not heard about it at the time. And if anyone had ever mentioned it to Bernie in the time soon after her own loss, she wouldn't have noticed past her own pain.
But now?
"Seven years?" Marianna's husband still mourned his wife and son with desperate intensity.
Bernie fought the urge to clutch her own Simon close in that moment. She didn't know what it meant to lose a spouse, but if she ever lost her dear little beast, she thought it quite possible that she would die on the spot.
Or expire slowly and alone, piece by piece crumbling under the pain, dissolving to nothing over all the years of her life.
Just like him.
She'd fixated on the letters as if they were a story, an escape from her humdrum life, a romantic tale in some book Aunt Sarah would disapprove of. Now, she pressed her palm to her middle in response to the jolt of true compassion she felt for the man who wrote them. You poor soul.
Suddenly ashamed of herself, she stood and brushed briskly at her skirts. "Well, Simon, it's time to leave Mrs. Small to rest."
"Lady Marianna and little Lord Simon," sighed Mrs. Small. "We all mourned, the whole valley. Poor, poor Lord Matthias!"
His name is Matthias.
And then, swiftly on the heels of that thought came another.
Lord? He's a lord?
Bernie swallowed hard. Not simply a gentleman but one of the nobility. And just like that, some little candle of hope, some secret dream she'd not even known she had, some fantasy was snuffed out by a chill draft of reality. She was of decent birth. Her mother was a lady, her father a gentleman, a respected man of medicine. She'd been born to a gentler life, a life of tea rituals and calling cards and lace on her underthings, but a titled match was still as far out of her reach as if she truly was just a poor vicar's daughter.
However, Simon was agog. "Lord Matthias? What's he lord of?"
"Why, he's the lord of Havensbeck Manor, he is! It's one of the oldest houses in the county." Mrs. Small announced proudly. "Some say that's what our river used to be called, back in Cromwell’s time. Haven's Beck."
Simon looked at Bernie, his eyes wide, practically jiggling with excitement. "Beck, that's another word for river, right? It's him, it has to be him! And he's a lord, Bernie! He's a lord and he needs a wife!"
Bernie clapped a firm hand right over Simon's mouth and smiled fixedly at Mrs. Small. "If there's nothing else you need, we'd best be on our way!"
She managed to keep Simon's exuberance suppressed until she'd gathered up her basket of jars of bone broth and dried herbs and shoved him out onto the walk outside of Mrs. Small's front door.
Then he turned on her, all coy sweetness stripped away. He folded his skinny arms and glared at her. "I found him. I found Lord Matthias! And you don't even care!"
She looked away, tugging her skirts out of the snow and picking her way down the lane. "I care. It's good to have it settled and done."
Simon ran in front of her and blocked her way with a challenging glare. "You need to write him back! You need to write a letter right now!"
Bernie drew back. "I need to do no such thing!" Except that she had thought about it, if she ever found out his identity. She would write a letter and he would write back to her and someday they would meet.
Her baby brother, her darling, the child who adored her above all others, stared at her with scorn. "Coward."
She lifted her chin. "You wouldn't understand," she said loftily, against the sting of his disapproval. "After all, you're just a little boy." And she picked up her skirts and whisked around him. It was time to finish her visits to the ailing and get back to the vicarage, where she belonged.
Chapter 3
Your post, my lord.”
Matthias glanced at the silver salver piled with envelopes, presented by Jasper as if it held the scrolls of Alexander the Great. Matthias looked away. "You know what to do with the invitations, Jasper."
Jasper didn't sigh, or grimace, but Matthias could feel his butler's disappointment. "My lord, there are several fine families within a few hours ride from Havensbeck who would be honored to have you at their table."
Fine families with suitable daughters. Matthias could hear the unsaid words vibrate through the room. He ignored them, even as he ignored the pile of post. Finally, Jasper fished out two letters from the heap of rich, creamy paper carrying blobs of wax with monograms and family crests pressed thereupon. These two missives, refreshingly free of ornate seals, came from a firm that oversaw his investments in London.
He set the letters aside to read later.
Jasper still stood by the desk, the salver in one hand, an opened letter in the other. Matthias looked up to see an odd expression on his butler's face. Not that Jasper would ever go so far as to smile, but there was something strange about him. "What are you reading?"
Instead of answering directly, Jasper began to read aloud.
"Dear my lord sir,
I am writing to you because you need a wife. I am needing a husband, so this is excellent news."
Oh, bother. Most women were more subtle, but every once in a while Matthias received a more, ahem, forthright offer from a person of the female persuasion.
"No more, please. God, I hate those letters."
Jasper gazed at the letter. "I rather like this one." He continued reading.
"I am comely and I have a nice smile. You will be happy to know that my gowns are getting tight in the bosom."
Matthias twitched irritably. Bosoms were the last thing on his mind. Although he recalled being very fond of them, once.
"I am very cheerful and I like to laugh. When the cow got out and ran through the garden with Aunt Sarah's bloomers on her horns, I laughed so hard that I had to sit down. I by chance sat upon the--"
Matthias looked up to see Jasper watching him.
"Do you wish me to stop, my lord?"
Matthias drew back. Damn it, he'd actually begun to be interested in that drivel! "Indeed I do. I believe I said as much."
Jasper nodded a bow as he flipped the letter back into its folds and tucked it into the stack of invitations. Matthias noticed that the paper of that peculiar offer was not fine, nor creamy, nor held an imprinted seal. In fact, it looked almost like butcher's paper, addressed in a smudged, blocky print.
No, thank you. He drew the line at women who could not use a quill properly.
Jasper took himself off at last and Matthias turned back to his reports of bushels and barrels. An image drifted across his mind's eye, a cow galloping clumsily about, a crown of lacy underthings flying like a banner from its blunted horns.
He didn't laugh, not quite.
I wonder what she sat on?
Outside his lordship's study, Jasper paused in the hallway to finish the letter.
"I by chance sat upon the sundial. I had to use a cushion at the dinner table for nearly a week.
If you would like to have a wife who can cook and bake and clean, I would like to have a husband who is a lord. I know a lot about tea and I am not afraid of dogs. Also I am a very good fisherman."
"Very good fisherman" was crossed out in heavy, blotted strokes. After it was written, "lady who fishes very well."
As he was alone in the hallway, Jasper allowed himself a real smile.
The closing clearly spelled out "Miss Bernadette Goodrich, the Vicarage of Green Dell, County Staffordshire" in the same blocky letters. There was no signature.
Jasper folded the letter once more and tapped it thoughtfully against the edge of the salver. Downriver. As head butler, Jasper took his duties very seriously. His lordship depended on him to take care of household matters, to see to the grounds and to keep things in good repair. When something in his purview was broken, Jasper had great power of discretion to fix it.
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Fix it he would. Yes, indeed.
Bernie stared at her aunt and uncle across the breakfast table. "A holiday? In Haven?"
Beside her, Simon wriggled in his chair. She felt his pointy elbow in her side.
"Upriver!" he whispered loudly.
Bernie absently caught the offending elbow in a gentle but uncompromising grip as she waited for Uncle Isaiah to confirm Aunt Sarah's announcement.
He smiled benignly at her. "Wouldn't you like that, Bernadette? It was young John Barton who extended the invitation. He's vicar there now. He has asked us all to join him for the holiday celebrations at the manor of the lord of Havensbeck."
"Havensbeck!" Simon squeaked.
Bernie felt her belly flip. Visit his manor? Eat at his table?
Aunt Sarah nodded. "You remember John, don't you, Bernie? He was studying with Isaiah when you first arrived here. Such a likable young man."
Bernie blinked. Aunt Sarah, who refrained from being judgmental with all her might, for that would be a sin, also abstained from dropping praise. Ever.
She looked down at her polished plate. She'd eaten every scrap of her toast spread with drippings and her meager allotment of bacon, except for the piece she'd slipped to Simon while her aunt served her uncle.
Of course, she recalled John Barton. He'd been tall and thin and fervent at eighteen, all big hands and stumbling feet and burning belief in his mission to bring salvation to the straying flocks of the world, whether they wished it or not. At fourteen, she had found him admirable but not terribly approachable.
Bernie was all for salvation, but she was of the opinion that, if let be, the flocks would likely exercise a little self-restraint of their own. Most people simply wanted enough coal on their hearth and enough food for their children. She much preferred Uncle Isaiah's kindly, uplifting sermons. He made people remember that being good was good for everyone, that kindness begat kindness and generosity of spirit could be infectious.
Sleepless in Staffordshire (Haven Holiday Book 1) Page 2