Havensbeck had good old Wermer, of course, but Matthias liked to keep his hand in when it came to the tenants. The improvements to the vicarage were coming along, according to the notes. John Barton had been a good choice, although Matthias wasn't sure there was enough work in Haven for a young man of Barton's energy and vitality.
A vision of Miss Goodrich arose. He saw again those vivid green eyes above the rustic mittens clamped over her mouth. Laughing at him.
John Barton was courting her? Matthias fought the tightening of his neck muscles. The notion made sense, and John should certainly marry. A vicar's wife would be good for Haven. She would do much to make up for the lack of a lady of the manor.
But John was a serious fellow and Miss Goodrich clearly loved to laugh.
His twisting thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Jasper, backing into the room, lugging a vast tray. Matthias looked up sharply.
"Jasper, do you know if our new vicar plans to marry soon?"
Jasper went quite still and thought a moment rather too long on it, in Matthias's opinion.
"Marry? The vicar?" Jasper seemed deeply surprised by the notion for some reason.
"Yes. He is squiring a young lady about. The ward of his former teacher, it seems. She is interesting." Startling. Disquieting. Compelling. "Rather pretty."
"John Barton the vicar is courting Vicar Goodrich's niece?" The crockery clinked on the tray.
Matthias blinked at his butler. "Is that so odd?" Perhaps there was a good reason it would be a bad match? Matthias found himself very interested to hear it, if so.
Jasper shook himself free of his shock. "I wouldn't know. Your tea, my lord." He stepped forward to plunk down a tray as tempting as a child's dream. Minced ham sandwiches, the fresh baked bread cut in the shapes of stars. Iced tea cakes with precious cardamom and currants. Steaming tea, ready to be poured into a china cup so fine one could almost read through it. There were even two elegant slices of fresh lemon, grown in Spain and held in a locked basket in the Havensbeck root cellar like the pure gold it was.
Matthias stared at the tray. "I am not a schoolboy, Jasper. I did not request cakes, or stars, or gumdrops or spun-sugar jesters with bells on their caps."
"What, my lord?" Jasper looked distracted even in the face of his lordship's bafflement. "Oh, yes. Your ritual fast."
"It's not a ritual!"
Jasper expression turned a little exasperated. "Well, cooks cook, my lord. It is what they live for. You keep one of the finest cooks in England on your staff and you expect him to be fulfilled by poached eggs and toast?"
Matthias scowled at him. It wasn't a ritual. It was just a habit. "Just pour the tea! Then get thee gone, wearisome creature."
Jasper dashed from the study, muttering. Matthias couldn't be sure, but it sounded like, "The vicar? Oh, no, no, no!"
After the tea and sandwiches, Matthias did feel a bit clearer as he examined his records.
The rents from the three northernmost farms in the valley had grown scanty. Matthias had decided to try to solve the puzzle without speaking again to Wermer. Low yield could be attributed to many things, and he did not want to make a mistake by criticizing another farmer who had suffered some sort of mishap.
He shuffled through his papers, looking for the weather tallies from the past year. Had it rained too much? Not enough? He honestly had no idea.
The notion shocked him somewhat. As he flipped sheets to one side, he thought back. What about the year before? Had it been a good year or bad? And the year before that?
He hadn't a single notion. It wasn't as though he'd noticed and now the answer escaped him. Shame tingled within him. He'd been a poor master indeed if he could not track his own lands!
Jasper had left the iced cardamom cakes, tucked in next to the sandwiches. Matthias could call him back to take them away, but the damned butler was so bloody annoying these days.
In truth, they were delicious. His cook truly was excellent.
Matthias had not hired the man. Marianna had. He had a dim memory of her interviewing dozens of eager applicants, trying so many dishes she'd complained she would never keep her figure if she did not find one soon enough. She'd been such a proud hostess, and her table the talk of London and Staffordshire alike, for she never traveled without the fellow.
She'd been marvelous at everything. Matthias had been unable to believe that Miss Marianna Shepherd had chosen him, over all the barons and earls that had followed her to ball after ball. He was only the son of a younger son, with a comfortable estate but no title. He saw little possibility of his suit against the titled suitors who pay assiduous court with flowery phrases and cheeky innuendo.
Straightforward Marianna had wanted nothing to do with their banter and gossip. "No one ever says anything real."
That was the first thing she'd ever said to him. It hadn't even been directly to him. He'd heard her mutter it after dragging her hands from the sweaty grip of some braggart with the dance skills of a baboon. When she'd turned away from the man, she'd found Matthias directly before her. Knowing she'd been overheard, she blushed. Even when awkward, she'd been so bloody stunning.
Matthias had bowed and offered his hand, without saying a word. She'd given him a sideways smile, absolutely aware of what he was doing. He really wasn't much of a conversationalist, but his tutors had made certain that he was an accomplished dancer. He'd swept her into a waltz and danced two numbers through, and never spoke a word.
She'd accepted the gift of his silence and lost herself in the dance, floating blissfully about the floor like an angel with a tiny wicked grin on her lips. When the second song ended, Matthias had to set her free or face social censure for impropriety. But as he left her, he bowed over her hand. "Thank you, Lady Waterford."
She'd narrowed her eyes at his presumption, but the smile still tugged at the corners of her perfect lips. "His lordship is getting ahead of himself," she said archly. "But time will tell."
They'd been wed the following month, oblivious to anyone in Society who might look askance at their brief courtship. Even the most cynical wag had to admit that their blissful happiness could not be denied.
So very happy, for such a very little while.
The short winter day had faded, and night had fallen in the study, turning the comforting masculine colors to gloomy shadows of themselves. Another day gone, another day closer to the anniversary of that night.
Matthias pushed away his tea and reached for his brandy.
And his quill.
Matthias opened his eyes, and blinked as the room around him swam into focus. Instead of viewing his richly appointed bedchamber, he found himself looking about his dim, cold study. It must be early if Jasper wasn't yet about. Only the slightest blue light peeked through the large windows facing the garden.
He probably ought to have had a little more tea and a little less brandy. It had been a long time since he had woken at his desk after a night of determined drinking. He thought he'd passed that stage years ago.
Except, he did not feel hung-over. In fact, except for the crick in his neck from sleeping in his chair, he felt fine. Glancing to one side he saw his brandy snifter only half emptied and the decanter beside it with one glass gone from its contents.
This was new. It seemed to be he'd forgotten to get drunk. Yet, spread out on his blotter before him were the pages he had written to Marianna and Simon last night. That much had not changed.
He gathered them up and rolled them tightly, not bothering to read them. No doubt he had said what he always said, that he missed them, and he ached for them, that he had no idea how he was to continue throughout the many years left of his life without them.
As always there was a bottle washed and dried with the cork ready standing on the side table by his desk, the greenish glass dark in the dim light. Jasper knew. It was Christmastime, after all.
By the time Matthias had shrugged on his surcoat, and buttoned his waistcoat, the light coming in the window had warmed
from gray to blue. Picking up the bottle that he had filled with his longing, and capped with his loss, he walked through the silent house and out his own front door into the dawn.
This week in Haven was meant to be a time of rest but Bernie could not shake her habit of early rising, much as she would have liked to. Of course, it didn't help that Simon was bouncing on her mattress well before the sun rose.
"Come on! Come on, come on, come on!"
"Shh! You'll rouse the place and then Aunt and Uncle will find something useful for us to do!" Bernie grumbled as she rolled out of bed, for the mattress was soft and thick and the room was warm. However, she herself was eager for another day in Haven.
They were not the first to rise in the inn, but nearly so. The drowsy serving girl waited on their breakfast in a leisurely fashion. Between yawns, she smiled at Bernie and ruffled Simon's hair.
"Be you excited for the feast, miss?"
Bernie swallowed, and hid the jolt of excitement she felt at the very thought of the Christmas Ball at Havensbeck Manor. "We are," she replied. "Everyone says it's going to be astonishing."
The girl's grin widened. "Oh, it'll be a show all right, miss. Havensbeck ain't been open to us since I were a little girl, but I remembers."
Bernie mused over this as she ate her breakfast with quick sharp bites. This was the first year that Haven had opened its doors to the village at Christmastime since the tragic death of its lady and heir. Could it be that Lord Matthias was emerging at last from his deep mourning?
Simon seemed to be pondering the same question. "Do you think it was Jasper who got him to open the manor?"
Bernie slid a glance toward her all too observant little brother. "I think it's none of our business." Then she relented a bit. "But he clearly loves his people. He likely just wants to give them a nice treat for Christmas."
Simon narrowed his eyes at his plate as he chewed a giant mouthful of salted ham. When he swallowed, he looked at Bernie with wry assessment. "I bet someone told him he should have a new wife. I bet someone said, your lordship, sir, it's about time you found yourself a new wife and you should probably have a big ball and see what kind of nice girls are out there in the world. And then you should pick one who is kind of pretty and kind of smart and has dresses that are tight in the bosom."
Bernie didn't laugh. Much. Still, she managed to shake her finger and give her brother a quelling glare.
"Do not let Aunt Sarah hear you speak so!"
Simon rolled his eyes, but his cheeks did grow pink. He glanced around them to make sure he had not been overheard. Then he grinned at his sister. "I only say things like that to you. You know that."
"I know, beastie. But the Lord of Havensbeck is truly not our concern. We are here because Aunt Sarah and Uncle Isaiah wanted to visit with John Barton."
Simon smirked at that. "You really don't think that's why, do you?"
"No, I don't." Bernie fought back a sigh, and pushed her fork through the remains of her eggs. Her appetite had mysteriously faded. She didn't know what she was going to do about the John Barton situation. It didn't help that he was all things astonishing. He was smart, kind, rather unbelievably handsome, had a good position, and clearly cared deeply about Vicar Goodrich and his family.
Sudden restlessness stirred her from her comfortable chair before the fire and she pushed her plate away. "Come along, lazybones! Were you not the one bouncing on my bed half an hour past, eager to go out of doors?"
Simon shoveled three more bites of eggs into his mouth even as his body went into motion. With a last grand swipe of his napkin he wiped his mouth and flung it ceremoniously down upon the table. "Ready!"
After the warmth of the inn and the filling breakfast, so much richer than their normal winter fare, Bernie and Simon scarcely felt the cold. The morning was bright and crystalline with new fallen snow. Full bellies and youth went a long way to cheering one up, Bernie decided.
Simon wanted to see the river. They walked down the lane out of the village and clumped through the fresh snow to the river. Simon leaned far over the bank with his arms dangling, while Bernie kept a grip on the back of his bulky jacket.
"It doesn't look like our river," he said, straightening up with doubt wrinkling his nose.
Bernie gave his shoulder a shove with her mitten-covered fist.
"It isn’t our river, not yet. It's narrow and faster. And likely colder, coming down from the Roaches the way it does. We don't get such ice in our valley."
Simon was satisfied with that explanation, but it only promoted more questions. "I want to get closer. The ice is so thick on the each side. Will it freeze all the way over? Will keep running underneath? Are there still fish in it? Why aren’t they frozen?"
Bernie answered as sensibly as she could, for she was busy picking her way down the long path along the bank. It had been in use for so long it was nearly a lane, but the fresh snow didn't mingle well with long skirts. Bernie wistfully eyed Simon’s canvas breeches, tucked into oilcloth gaiters halfway down his shins that went down into his sturdy walking boots.
Her own practical short boots weren't much different, but not even a dozen layers of muslin and wool could keep the wind from shivering its way up a woman's skirt.
She was so busy complaining in her mind that she walked right into Simon, who stood still in the center of the path, looking ahead and up.
Bernie followed his gaze. When she saw the dark form standing on the carriage bridge upriver, she made a grab for Simon's shoulder and dragged him back behind a slender elm.
"It's him! Bernie, it is him!"
"Yes," she answered from between gritted teeth. “I can see that."
Simon twisted out of her grasp and sidled halfway round the tree trunk, so he could see the bridge.
"He's up so early! I thought lords slept all day. I would, if I was a lord!"
Bernie wondered if she ought to tell Simon that some adults didn't actually go to bed until nearly dawn, but that would lead to questions about carousing and such and she wasn't well informed enough herself to really answer those satisfactorily, not that she would, of course. Still, a vicar's household, while it saw a great deal of other people's suffering, did tend to lead a restricted life of its own.
"Don't let him see you!"
Simon was gone. Bernie looked around wildly, only to see that he'd ducked along the path to the next elm. She could see his little multi-colored cap just on the other side of the nearby tree.
He looked back over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide. "He has a bottle!"
At that, Bernie flattered herself against her own tree and peered around the trunk. A letter? Blast it. She wouldn't be able to look for the bottle until they returned to Green Dell, and what if it smashed up against the dam until it broke, just waiting for her to come home and fetch it out?
The bottle sailed toward them to land with a splash in the river between them and the bridge.
And there it went, bobbing away in the swift current, knocking this way and that along the edges of the thick ice forming a distinct frozen edge to the bank.
The flash of varicolored knitting caught her eye, heading downriver.
"Oh!" She hissed. "I am going to put you in dresses and braid your hair for this, Simon Arthur Goodrich!"
For it was Simon she saw, running full speed down the bank path after the retreating bottle. Bernie spared one glance up at the bridge before she hiked up her skirt and ran after her rotten little maniac of a brother.
He was only chasing the bottle to see where it went, surely. He was a smart lad, too smart to do anything so foolish as go on the ice. But he did.
Blast, blast and triple blast! The little idiot was belly down, moving out on the ice, crawling toward the thinning edge where the bobbing bottle was cast in an eddy.
"Simon! Simon! Get back!” She ran, calling and hoping that the ice would bear her own weight long enough for her to crawl out after him, drag him back by one ankle and possibly kill him herself.
&nbs
p; She never had the chance to find out. Just as she fell to her knees on the first few feet of the ice near the bank, she felt it. There was nothing to hear but the hiss and rush of the water driven to new speed by the narrowing banks, but the great, resonating crack of the ice rang through her entire body as if she'd pressed herself to a brass gong.
Chapter 8
In horror, she watched helplessly as Simon, trapped on a chunk of ice the length of his body, began to move away from the bank. The dark water churned and rushed between them, the gap growing wider by the second.
“SIMON!” Bernie had never been one to scream, but she screamed then. Even as she scrambled and slithered toward her endangered brother, she shrieked his name with such force that she felt the raw pain of it in her throat.
It didn't matter. Her knees, nearly bare on the ice, didn't matter. Her hands, protected only by her mittens, didn't matter. She crawled and slid and flattened herself like a worm, struggling to move closer and closer. “Simon, hold on!”
He hadn't gone far. His ice raft had turned as it entered the current and now was lodged across the rushing Churnet like a stopper in a bottle. She could see Simon clinging to the top of the ice using his hands and feet like calipers to hold him to the ice. But the water was so cold, his fingers would freeze and they would lose their grip for certain unless she could just reach!
A dark form sailed over her, a great bear of a man in a dark coat scrabbled along the ice like a four-legged demon, very nearly skating in his urgency.
Bernie saw him reach for Simon with one brawny arm, his hand outstretched like the talons of an eagle.
That large hand snatched her little bother off his little ice floe and flung him backward.
Simon spun spread-eagle across the ice like a wheel, slithering away from the river, until he came to rest on the brush-studded edge of the snowy shore. Bernie scrambled to him, careless of her own danger from the crumbling ice.
Sleepless in Staffordshire Page 6