Tomorrow's Dreams

by Heather Cullman

  Like the other days she spent with “her children,” usually teaching them simple songs and reading them stories, this one flew by in a haze of satisfaction. Over and over again she guided clumsy, and in instances like Tommy’s, twisted, fingers through the simple acts of buttoning and tying, giving hugs and praise for every effort, successful or not.

  She was showing eight-year-old Hattie Lawrence how to direct the button through the hole for the ninth time when thirteen-year-old Emmett Lockwood let out a strangled laugh and began thrashing his hands in the air in frenzied excitement.

  “Look, Miz Parr-sh,” he chortled, gesturing at his correctly tied shoes and buttoned jacket with spastic jerks.

  Penelope returned his gap-toothed smile as she admired his handiwork. “Well done, Emmett! Perfect!” she praised, as pleased as if he’d mastered the principles of algebra. Giving him a congratulatory hug, she pulled him up from the circle of children on the floor and stood him in the place of honor in the center.

  Clapping to get the attention of the other students, she exclaimed, “Three cheers for Emmett! He’s tied his shoe and buttoned his coat for the first time.” She nodded at the boy, who looked ready to burst his properly anchored buttons in his pride as his classmates shouted, “Hip-hip-hooray!” as she’d taught them. “Emmett, dear,” she whispered into his malformed ear, “why don’t you bow like Miss Filer showed you last week?”

  He did so, several times, more than making up for his lack of grace with his enthusiasm. When the applause died, she put her arm around his thin shoulders and announced, “As your reward, you get to choose what game we’ll play for the rest of the day.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “No game. You sing.”

  The rest of the students bobbed their heads in agreement, several clapping and echoing, “Sing! Sing!”

  She returned their eager smiles with one of pure pleasure. Of all the audiences she’d sung for, none had been more appreciative or given her more joy than did her children. “Then, a song it is,” she agreed, sitting Indian-style on the floor, not caring that she crushed the crape trimming on her black mourning skirt.

  After a moment of deliberation, she began to sing her “Song of Dreams,” the first time since Tommy’s death she’d sung it. As she sang, her voice soft and filled with tenderness, she saw a bit of Tommy in the delight beaming from every face before her. Truly at peace for the first time in months, she closed her eyes and poured her heart into the song. The children sat in perfect enchantment, not stirring or making a sound.

  For several seconds after the last note faded away, there was complete silence. Then someone began to applaud. After a beat everyone else joined in, adding a chorus of “Hip-hip-hooray!”

  When she opened her eyes to acknowledge their tribute, she found herself staring at a very fine pair of brown riding boots, which now occupied the previously empty space between Minnie Rinehart and Michael Maloy. Up she looked, past muscular thighs encased in snug gold, olive, and cream checked trousers, up over a gold Chinese silk waistcoat half-covered by a dark olive jacket dandified with cream braid binding. Up right into a pair of sparkling hazel eyes.

  “Seth,” she exclaimed, holding out her hand to him as she rose to her feet. “It’s wonderful to see you.” And it was. More wonderful than she’d ever have believed.

  As he swept off his hat, his mouth crooking into a grin as he stepped into the circle of children and took her outstretched hand in his, she was struck by the purity of her joy. She’d expected to feel pain at the sight of him, to be stricken anew with the crippling sorrow she’d suffered during the terrible weeks following Tommy’s death. But she felt only gladness.

  “I know I shouldn’t have disturbed your class, but I couldn’t wait to see you,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her palm.

  She smiled at the head bowed over her hand, a head now covered with thick, gloriously shiny hair. It was wavier than she remembered, darker, too, in a shade closer to the deep burnished gold of her great-great-grandmother’s wedding bracelet than its previous sun-kissed honey. It was the most beautiful hair she’d ever seen, and she said as much.

  He chuckled as he straightened up. “I admit it is looking better, though it does seem odd to see myself looking so conventional.” He chuckled again. “Oh, well. At least I no longer scare myself when I look in the mirror.”

  “Your hair might be cut in a proper, gentlemanly style now, but you’ll never be conventional,” she teased.

  His gaze met hers, his eyes simmering with the topaz heat that had haunted her dreams of late. “You used to say that you loved my unconventionality,” he said, his words a sultry whisper.

  She wanted to tell him that she still did, that she loved not just his wild spirit but every untamed inch of him. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She didn’t want to give him hope for a future she was still uncertain existed for them.

  Hating herself for her cowardice, she looked away and asked, “Speaking of unconventional, how is Lisbet? Her last letter mentioned something about you talking your mother into letting her take a detective correspondence course she saw advertised in the Police Gazette.”

  “She’s doing fine, as are her course studies. I don’t doubt that she’ll make a fine sleuthhound someday.” The teasing warmth had fled his voice, leaving it as coolly polite as that of a stranger extending careful, well-bred courtesy at a social event.

  “And your mother?” she asked, stealing a glance at him through her eyelashes. Always the master of the moment, he was still smiling. In truth, if she hadn’t known him as well as she did, she’d never have guessed how deeply her subtle rejection had cut him. Knowing him as she did, however, she had only to look into his expressive eyes to see how truly devastated he was. The sight of his hurt deepened her loathing for her fears.

  “Mother is extremely busy with the newly merged Queen City and Vanderlyn breweries, and loving every moment of her frantic life,” he reported, releasing her hand to slip his own into his coat pocket. “Right now we’re in the process of converting the Shakespeare into a respectable beer garden, where men can take their wives and sweethearts dancing.” He chuckled dryly. “You should have seen the look on Monty’s face when I told him that he’d be serving ice cream and lemonade at his bar.”

  Penelope managed a faint smile as she pictured the lively bartender’s indignation. “Effie mentioned your plans in her last letter. She also said that you’ve asked her and Bert to perform skits during band intermissions. Neither of the actors had anyplace to go after the company disbanded, and they’re both terribly grateful to you for your offer.”

  He shrugged. “It’s the least I could do after the way they came forward to testify against Adele on your behalf.”

  “Adele.” She sighed. She was still haunted by nightmares about the awful woman. “Sam and Minerva wrote that she’s been transferred to Boston to stand trial for three counts of murder and twenty-two counts of extortion. Apparently she’s blackmailed just about every family on Beacon Hill over the course of the last twenty years, and society is all in a froth to see her brought to justice.”

  She reached out and gave his arm a warm squeeze. “They were also singing your praises. Between the political endorsements you secured and the money you contributed to their son’s campaign, Alexander Skolfield is expected to be the next mayor of Boston.”

  “Sir?” piped up a childish voice. Penelope glanced from Seth’s handsome face to see Emmett tugging at his sleeve.

  Seth smiled warmly at the boy. “Yes, young man?”

  “See!” He pointed excitedly at his coat and shoes.

  At Seth’s questioning glance, Penelope explained, “Emmett buttoned his coat and tied his shoes for the first time today. We’re all extremely proud of him.”

  “Did he indeed?” Seth intoned, his face serious as he bent down to examine the boy’s handiwork. After a moment of intense scrutiny, he praised, “Fine job, Emmett. Well done! I couldn’t have done better myself.” Th
e boy practically glowed with pride, especially when Seth offered him his hand, which he shook just the way Alberta Filer had taught him.

  “Who’s him?” asked seven-year-old Minnie, crawling forward to pull at Penelope’s hem while staring shyly up at Seth.

  Penelope gently hoisted the girl’s stunted form to her feet and introduced her to Seth. To Minnie’s wide-eyed delight, he bowed and kissed her hand while addressing her with the same courtly charm he often used to ease the jitters of overly shy debutantes. Like those debutantes, Minnie was immediately put at ease. So was the rest of the class.

  One by one those children who were able came forward, seeking an introduction. Seth treated each child as if he or she were a visiting member of the peerage, shaking or kissing their hand, and taking the time to ask each a simple, but personal question. He then went to the students who were too physically impaired to come forward and included them in the introductions.

  By the time he was finished, every person in the room was completely taken with him. Especially Penelope. Seeing him chattering with and obviously enjoying the children whom most society men would barely look at, much less acknowledge, made her realize anew just how truly special he was.

  As he rose from kneeling next to Herbert Brigman’s caned wheelchair, where he had been admiring the boy’s prized wooden horse, he lauded, “You’ve got wonderful students, Miss Parrish. You should be very proud of them.”

  She didn’t miss the way the children’s faces lit up with pride at his acclaim. Smiling at her own pride in them, she said, “You’re welcome to visit us anytime you like. Perhaps you’ll come someday and spend time with the boys. Our children learn mostly by example, and our boys have had far too few male examples to follow. Especially excellent ones like yourself.”

  One corner of Seth’s mouth turned up in a wry half smile. “An excellent example, am I?” He slipped his hand back into his pocket and appeared to fidget with something. “I’d be glad to help if I were staying in town, but I’ve decided to leave for Denver first thing in the morning.”

  Her heart gave a painful lurch at the news. “So soon? But you just got here.”

  He shrugged. “I see no reason to stay any longer. Your brother has offered to handle my affairs here, and at this point there’s nothing more to keep me.”

  “But what of … your house?” She almost blurted out “our House of Dreams,” but stopped herself in time. It wasn’t “our” house, and it never would be if she didn’t dare to believe in their love and ask him to marry her before morning.

  The hand in his pocket gave a sharp jerk. “I’m thinking of selling it. I see now that it will never be the home I dreamed of.” He looked about to add something else when Marcella Stewart, who taught the girls basic homemaking skills on Friday mornings, came through the door, burdened by two oversize baskets.

  “Penelope!” she exclaimed, her dark eyes lighting up with pleasure at the sight of the other woman. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Where’s Alberta?”

  As much as Penelope adored Marcella, she could have strangled her for her poor timing. Pasting on a strained smile, she replied. “Alberta had to see her husband off on business this afternoon, and I’m filling in for her. What brings you here?”

  Marcella set the baskets by the door, straightening her stylish cherry Gypsy bonnet as she cast Seth an appreciative look. “Mr. Bryerton over at the Delaware House was kind enough to lend me china, silver, and linen for my table-setting lessons tomorrow. I was on my way home from picking it up and saw no reason not to drop it off now.” She gave Seth a dazzling smile as she approached him. “You’re Mr. Tyler, aren’t you? My brother, Freddy Stewart, introduced us at Davinia and Cyrus King’s wedding last year.”

  “Formerly Tyler, now Vanderlyn, and yes, I do remember you, Miss Stewart,” Seth replied, taking her proferred hand.

  “You used to be Seth Tyler, but are now Seth Vanderlyn?” Marcella quizzed, visibly confused. “How very odd!” She looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to elaborate.

  He shrugged one shoulder and gave her a charming smile. “Miss Parrish will have to fill you in on the details. I haven’t the time now. I’m leaving town tomorrow morning and still have business to complete. So if you ladies will excuse me?” He kissed Marcella’s hand, then turned to Penelope.

  “Seth,” she whispered brokenly, her regretful gaze seeking his as he lifted her limp hand from her side. “I wish I could believe … I want to, but …” She shook her head helplessly.

  “Don’t,” he murmured. “I promised not to press you to marry me, and that promise included your not having to explain should you decide that your answer is no. However, if it eases your mind any, please know that I don’t hate you for your refusal and that you may always count me among your friends.” His solemn face softened with tenderness as he reached up and cupped her cheek in his palm. “Be happy, sweet princess. That’s all I ask of you. Just be happy.” With that he kissed her forehead, then turned and headed for the door.

  Every fiber of her being cried out in agonized protest as she watched her dream walk away. And Seth Vanderlyn was her dream; she knew that beyond all doubt. He was her every hope, her desire, her heart and soul. He was her everything. Feeling that way, how could she stand there and simply let him go, when all she had to do to keep him by her side was utter two little words? Why was she so afraid to say them?

  True. She knew there would be moments when their lives would be shadowed by their past sorrow. But wouldn’t that sorrow be easier to bear if it were shared? And who better to share it with than Seth? Only he truly understood her grief; only he loved her enough to be her light and lead her from her darkness.

  Marcella began to chatter on about something, but Penelope was deaf to her words, her heart and mind racing as she watched Seth pause at the door to shake hands with Emmett again, who’d tagged after him like an affectionate puppy.

  As for her fear of being reminded of her guilt and failure every time she looked at him …? If that were the case, surely she’d have felt at least a tinge of those emotions in those first few moments when she’d looked up and met his gaze? But she hadn’t. All she’d experienced was exquisite pleasure at seeing him again.

  So what was she afraid of?

  What indeed?

  “Seth,” she cried so breathlessly that she was certain he hadn’t heard her. To her surprise, he glanced up from Emmett.

  “I—” She took a couple of steps forward, her mouth working soundlessly as she tried to shove the words past the ball of emotion swelling in her throat.

  He straightened up and stuck his hand back into his pocket, his eyes naked with longing as his gaze met hers from across the room. “Yes, Penelope?”

  “I … I … do believe,” she finally managed to choke out. “Oh, Seth! I love you!” She rushed across the room, clutched his hand between both of hers, and begged, “Marry me!”

  “Do you believe enough to marry me right now? At this very moment?” he asked, pulling her into his embrace.

  She twined her arms around his neck to guide his lips down to hers. “I’d marry you this very second if we had a preacher!” she declared as he claimed his mouth with hers.

  Thoroughly and with a hunger that left no doubt as to his love for her, he returned her kiss. So lost were they in their passion, that they probably would have continued on like that for a long while had it not been for the giggling chorus of “Hip-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hooray!” rising around them.

  Pulling his lips from hers, Seth grinned first at the cheering children, then at the smiling Marcella, who was leading them in their merriment.

  “I hope you don’t mind taking the class for the rest of the day, Miss Stewart,” he hollered over the revelry. “I intend to marry Miss Parrish before she has a chance to change her mind.”

  With that announcement, he jammed his hat on his head and held out his arm to Penelope. “If we hurry, we can catch Judge Dorner and secure a special license before he l
eaves his chambers. We’ll be married this very evening, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? I insist!” As she looped her arm through his, anxious to begin her life as Mrs. Seth Vanderlyn, her gaze was arrested by something caught on the cuff button of his jacket.

  It was a ribbon, a frayed and rumpled black one.

  “My lucky ribbon!” she exclaimed, plucking it from his cuff to stare at it in delighted wonder. “Wherever did you find it?”

  His smile broadened. “It was in the pocket of my evening jacket. I’ve been carrying it with me for months now, rubbing it with my crossed fingers, wishing upon my lucky star, and begging lady luck for another chance to love you.”

  “I told you it was lucky where we were concerned,” she declared with a giggle, standing on her tiptoes to plant another kiss on his curved lips. “All we had to do was believe.”

  Author’s Note

  Since I couldn’t resist the drama of having Penelope sing Der Fliegende Holländer (The Flying Dutchman) to Seth, her cursed Dutchman, I took the liberty of manipulating opera history a bit. Though the opera made its debut in Dresden on January 2, 1843, it wasn’t performed in this country until over thirty years later. The first American performance took place at the Philadelphia Academy of Music on November 8, 1876, with Eugenia Pappenhiem singing the role of Senta.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1996 by Heather Cullman

  Cover design Angela Goddard

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1001-6