The man calmed at that. His face resumed something of its usual cheerful expression.
Matthias could not remember his name. He known it once, of course he had. The fellow had taken over this inn from his father, and probably his father before that. A family in his village for generations and he couldn't remember the blasted man's name.
What had he become?
"I merely stepped in to warm myself for a moment." This was certainly true, as he was sweltering. The inn was stifling, although no one else seemed to mind it. "How is business, Cransby?"
There. He done it. He dragged the man's name out of the murky past. Hadn't he?
The innkeeper hesitated and then licked his lips. "It's Cranston, my lord, but no matter. And business is right smart at the moment, thank you for asking. When the word got out the Christmas ball was going to be at the manor house as of old, folks decided to come from all around the county."
Matthias stared at the fellow blankly. "The Christmas ball, you say, at the manor?"
The man beamed. "It's awfully generous of your lordship to put on a special dinner and all. Oh, the missus is right thrilled, she is. Isn't a woman in town the village who isn't pressing her best dress right now!"
Not a simple village assembly. A ball. With a dinner. At the manor. Matthias held his breath for a long moment.
Jasper was the devil. Jasper must die.
At the top of the stairs leading down to the main rooms of the inn, Bernie paused as Simon pulled his hand from hers.
"I forgot my horse!" Simon dashed back toward their bedchamber. Bernie took a moment to smooth the lace at her neckline and check that her shoes were dry enough to escape notice.
"And have you had much new business due to the upcoming ball?"
The deep voice came from below, from the front hallway at the base of the stairs. The baritone rumble of the masculine tone were nothing like the innkeeper's cheerful tenor, or even Uncle Isaiah's resounding pulpit voice. Who is that?
The innkeeper spoke. "Oh, I'd say so for certain, milord."
Milord. It was him. Of course it was him. He sounded just as she'd heard him in her thoughts every time she'd read his letters. Bernie's heart began to race and she pressed her palms there as if to capture it and keep it where it belonged. Biting her bottom lip, she slid her foot down a step and bent to peer through the spindles of the railing.
"There's some has come from the remote farms, and there'll be more, I reckon, when the day comes. Folks don't want to be kept to home because of the weather." The innkeeper went on. "And of course, there's the vicar's people what come today."
"John Barton? I wasn't aware that he had family nearby."
Oh, that voice.
Bernie slid down one more step, then another, until she could make out a broad shoulder in a black greatcoat. The rest was blocked by the angle of the stair and by the innkeeper's stout form in his brown jacket. The innkeeper was taller than she was and yet this fellow loomed over him. Oh, if only they would move a step to the right!
"Be not so much relations as they be friends, I'd say," the innkeeper went on. "It's his vicar from downriver, the one that trained him up. He's right chuffed they could come. We're all puttin' out our best foot, like. Fine folks, they are."
His lordship had come to ask about them? Uncle Isaiah and Aunt Sarah and Simon and her? Suddenly recalling her hoydenish antics in the village, Bernie blushed hotly. He'd seen her gallivanting about with Simon? And in that awful redingote that made her look as shapeless as a bear, too! And Simon in his ill-fitting boots and patched trousers? She deeply regretted the urge that had led her to save her good things for the upcoming special occasion. Oh, what a picture they must've made playing in the snow and spoiling the old horse!
She could hardly blame the lord of the hall for coming to the inn to learn more about the odd newcomers disporting themselves so familiarly in his pretty village. Yet, was he so strict a master that the girls did not run and the boys did not fight off imaginary dragons?
"And is it only the elder vicar and his wife?"
The innkeeper burbled on even though Bernie wished to slap her hand over his overactive mouth. "There is the miss and the little boy, come to see good John. I don't know for sure now, so I shouldn't be telling, but if you were to ask me I'd say it is Miss Bernadette Goodrich that John Vicar be so eager to see."
"The vicar's daughter?
"I believe she be a ward, or a niece, or summat like that, milord."
"Well, I suppose that would be a good match for John."
Heavens, even strangers were all to ready to marry her off!
The innkeeper made an agreeable noise. "She's a pretty thing and sturdy, too, which is a handy thing for a vicar's wife."
Sturdy? Bernie wanted to die.
"And I'm thinkin' John will make a good father to the little lad. It'd be a blessin' all around for the old folks to get Miss Bernadette sorted away and young Simon raised proper."
Sorted away, like a spool of thread in a sewing box. And what was wrong with the way Simon was raised so far?
Bernie hadn't realized that she'd made it all the way down to the landing until his lordship moved slightly sideways and she found herself with a perfect view of his face. She pressed closer to the spindles.
He was not perfect, as she'd imagined. First of all, he was younger, perhaps thirty or so, although there was something weary in his expression. His face seemed carved of some fine and valuable stone. He was winter-pale, against dark-hair and dark eyes. Were they brown? Or perhaps blue. Shadowed by loss? He wore black, from his greatcoat to his trousers and boots. Even the scarf tossed loosely around his throat was the color of soot.
Yet for all his darkness, he did not appear threatening or even brooding. He seemed still. Not the stillness of a tranquil soul, overflowing with contentment. More the stillness of a hooded hawk held by its jesses in a falconer's grip. Confined, not panicked so much as waiting.
Waiting for you? Hardly. He barely knows you exist.
So there he was, standing before her as a real and solid as a man could be. Not words on paper. Not a silly schoolgirl dream. A real man.
No, a lord. A heart-stopping, handsome, tragic, lonely lord who waited for a beautiful lady to free him, a princess on a quest sent to unlock his grief-chained heart.
Not her, in her canvas coat and her scuffed walking boots, a penniless burdensome orphan, trailed by her beloved, skinny, snot-nosed little brother.
Scuffling noise brought Bernie out of her avid crouch where she knelt clutching the spindles of the staircase like a naughty child banned from the party below. She straightened, and briskly brushed at her skirts even as she took a breath to make some silly excuse about her odd behavior.
It was only Simon. He also hunkered on the steps above with his entire head trust between the spindles, ogling the scene below. Bernie grabbed for the back of his jacket and yanked him toward her. His mouth she did manage to clap her hand over.
"Not a word, I shall boil your drawers in poison oak!" she hissed in his ear.
The threat held and he stopped struggling, although he emitted an offended sniff. She would never do such a thing on purpose, of course, but apparently the one accidental incident had made an impression.
In the moment of suppressing Simon's urgency, who apparently intended for her to run downstairs and throw herself into his lordship's arms, the man himself managed to make his farewell to the innkeeper and slip away. Bernie resisted the urge to clatter down the stairs and watch him ride away through one of the windows.
Simon glared at her with his eyes full of the trenchant disappointment that only an eight-year-old could convey. He clearly thought she was a complete idiot, and had allowed an obvious opportunity to pass for some sisterly reason that he had no patience for.
She didn't answer his betrayed gaze, but merely pushed his hair back into place, straightened his collar and motivated him the rest of the way down the stairs with quick tap on his backside. "Aunt Sarah a
nd Uncle Isaiah are expecting us. Shoo!"
The same goes for you, she commanded her wayward thoughts.
Good heavens, Lord Matthias was delicious!
Chapter 5
Miss Goodrich!” John Barton stepped forward eagerly enough to greet her when she reached the dining room where her aunt and uncle had been stowed. He even smiled a little.
Had he always been that handsome? All tall, fair and burly, with eyes as gray and familiar as a misty day? Bernie swallowed back her surprise long enough to dip a little curtsy. “Vicar Barton.”
She thought she might have gained a clue as to why the new vicar had been openly embraced by the citizens of Haven!
He held out his hand to her and she gave him hers out of sheer stunned confusion. She’d left her gloves upstairs. His hand was so large and warm it was as if she’d pressed her palm to a fire-warmed hearth stone. She looked down and away, feeling a little strange.
His gaze never left her. “You have grown into a woman. When I saw you last, you put me in mind of a colt, you were so skittish and awkward. Just look at you now!”
There was no need to wonder what he was thinking. The admiration in his eyes was undeniable. Bernie found herself ridiculously flattered. His open regard was a balm to her frayed nerves and self-inflicted humiliation over her hoydenish jaunt through the village.
She stammered out a thank-you, then wrinkled her nose at herself. “I am still a little awkward, I think,” she said with a rueful smile. “But your words were far too kind. It is you who have grown into a person of accomplishment and stature.” Really, she could only be formal for so long. She squinted up at him. “You’re rather like a tree, I think, sir.”
Simon giggled from behind her skirts, where he’d hidden when struck by a sudden bout of bashfulness.
John Barton took a knee, right there in the dining room, and peered around Bernie. “Who is that? Did you bring me a pixie to cause me mischief, Vicar Goodrich?”
He frowned, but the mock seriousness did nothing to dim the twinkle in his eyes. “No, I believe it is a giggledom. Or possibly a conflugated narfsplat.”
Bernie felt Simon jiggling with glee behind her.
“Narfsplat! Hee-hee!”
Tall, eye-catching and good with shy little boys. He was too good to be true—except that he was true. She knew him. She knew all about him. This outstanding fellow was no stranger to her at all.
He glanced up at her, the smile still tugging at his lips. “I know they are a timid species, those narfsplats, but do you suppose you could introduce me? I’ve always wanted to meet one.”
Bernie introduced Simon, tugging him out from behind her with the strength born of years of practice. Simon, perverse little monster that he was, was immediately distracted by the heaping tray of tea cakes and spiced biscuits.
“Oh, that’s all right,” John told her when she apologized for her brother's defection. “Eating is important work at that age.”
Bernie barely heard him, wondering, much like Aunt Sarah had. He seemed like the perfect man.
There must be a catch.
They sat down to a splendid cream tea, very nearly a luncheon. Bernie buttered a roll for her brother and tried to keep her mind on the visit and not on the shadowed gaze of a certain mysterious lord.
Simon wolfed down a manly portion of confections and tea, then gazed longingly at the bright day with his face pressed to yet another window. Bernie shook her head, thinking of all the nose prints he was leaving behind him.
“I want to go out again, Bernie. Please-please-please?”
Bernie glanced at her aunt and uncle. Aunt Sarah was gazing listlessly at the fire and Uncle Isaiah was frankly dozing in his chair. She ought to make sure they made it to their room before they collapsed.
Once again, John Barton came to her rescue. A discreet tug at a bell rope brought back the innkeeper’s wife. The woman clapped her hands, conjuring maids who cleared the table in a wink and coaxed Aunt Sarah to her feet.
Roused, Uncle Isaiah waved the younger folks out. “Go on, Bernie dear. Let John show you his fine vicarage.”
Bernie squinted at her uncle. She’d met John again, just as she'd promised. There was no reason to push the point! She'd rather go to her room and read through Lord Matthias's letters again, this time knowing his voice and his handsome face. But Simon jiggled in enthusiasm so Bernie stifled a sigh and made polite noises about John's graciousness, etc. and went back upstairs to fetch their coats.
The vicarage was not so much under repairs as it was enduring improvements. Fresh paint and a new carpet were apparently not enough for the generous lord of the manor.
John gazed about his new home with wry consternation. “I did tell his lordship this wasn’t necessary, you know. I would have been happy with a full coal bin and the odd visit from a housekeeper.”
Bernie was peering at the fine marble fireplace in the dining room. This house had a dining room, a breakfast room, a formal drawing room and a snug family parlor. The enlarged kitchens—plural!—had been equipped with multiple stoves, sinks, pumps and larders.
“It does seem rather expansive for a bachelor,” she said absently.
John cleared his throat. “Well, I think the intention is that I take a bride at some point.”
Bernie went still. She hadn’t meant to point the conversation in that direction. Luckily, Bernie was saved from complete stammering gracelessness by Simon’s call through the open door.
“Berniiiee! Come see! There’s a stable! With a horse in it!”
“Very nice! Really! Must go catch up with Simon!” She practically ran from the house.
What are you running from?
She couldn’t explain it, even to herself, but the fact was that she could only breathe naturally when she stood out in the snow with the sky like a blue bowl over her head.
When John followed her out, she turned to him with a determined smile. “It’s far too fine a day to dawdle indoors!”
He kept his pleasant expression, but it took on a faint puzzlement. “It is cold enough to freeze butter outdoors.”
She waved a hand in dismissal of the temperature. “Simon and I are entirely used to the cold. Our landlord doesn’t believe in full coal bins.” That was true enough, so she didn’t understand the stricken look in his eyes.
“I fear I have much to do this afternoon,” John said reluctantly. “But if you want to see a bit of the valley, you should take the lane toward Havensbeck.” He pointed. “I should like to catch up to you and Simon when I’m able.”
Bernie looked away. “Yes. Of course. I look forward to it.”
She turned away from John and set out to chase her brother down. “Come along, Simon! Don’t you want to look around the village a bit more?”
He whirled, skidding in his oversized boots. “I want to see Havensbeck!” Then he took off again. Bernie was close behind, happy to run off the discomfort caused by her oddly intimate moment with John Barton. A tromp in the snow was just the thing.
It wasn’t at all that she wanted to see the manor on the hill.
Or the man who dwelled within it.
The winter sun, commonly weak and neglectful, today glinted brilliantly off the fresh snowfall on the Havensbeck fields. Although the light did nothing to melt the snow, and his breath still puffed white as pipe-smoke, the air was still. Even Matthias's great black horse seemed to feel it, slowing his walk until he trudged down the lane toward Havensbeck like a plow horse, eyes lazily half-closed against the bright day.
Matthias allowed it, and even found himself gazing at the clear blue of the sky in some astonishment. Had he ever seen such a vivid day in December? Since he usually spent this month knowing little but the sullen crackle of his study fire and the fierce bite of whisky in his throat, he could honestly say that he had not spent a day like this in many years.
The silence was broken only the fall of Perseus's great round hooves and even those were muffled by the packed snow on the lane. Deep gou
ges had been cut by cartwheels into the knee-high powder, pressed down again and again by the many deliveries to the manor. The rest of the world lay covered, smoothed and rounded and silenced by the sparkling blanket of white.
Until a flying ball of snow struck Perseus smack in the nose. Icy granules spattered Mathias’s face and he blinked in surprise. Perseus squealed and tightened his haunches. Then the world turned upside down.
Chapter 6
Matthias opened his eyes to find himself blinded by white. No, not blinded. Buried. He’d landed arse-first in a snow drift. It has closed over him as softly as a velvet fist.
Truly, he'd never taken such a comfortable fall from a horse. He got his feet under him and fought upward. He easily broke free of the soft, powdery pile, but he got a mouthful of snow for his efforts.
As he coughed to clear his air passage, he felt hands grasping his own. They tugged hard. Matthias tried to protest that he was not badly stuck, but it was too late. He tumbled out and down again, this time falling onto warm bundles of soft cloth and bony limbs.
“Oof!” It was a female voice, full of breathless amusement.
Another voice was frankly giggling. A child.
Hurriedly Matthias swiped at the snow sticking to his face with one hand while using the other to scramble backward off someone.
Oh blast. Off the woman he’d landed on with all his weight!
“Are you hurt, miss?” He stood quickly and leaned down to offer her a hand.
She lay on her back in the snow and held up one palm to stay him. “Simon?” she gasped, winded.
Simon. Matthias shook the snow from his vision and peered at the other person in the snow. A pointy, freckled face peered up at him from where the boy sat in the snow with his oversized boots spread wide.
Sleepless in Staffordshire Page 4