When she reached him, she grabbed each of his mitten-covered hands and shoved them inside her coat to warm against her belly. He would lose his fingers if she couldn't warm them in time.
It was only then that she thought to look over her shoulder for the man.
Her eyes found him at last. He was dragging himself back onto the ice. As she watched, the lip of ice beneath his belly crumbled away and he began to slip into the rushing water.
She couldn't leave Simon. But she couldn't let her brother's savior drown or freeze, or both!
She pulled off her coat and rolled her brother up quickly into it like a sausage, so that no part of him was exposed.
Leaving him behind, his muffled protests nearly inaudible, she slithered back out onto the ice as far as she dared. It would do no one any good for her to fall into the river now!
She grabbed her long scarf and unwound it from her neck. "Here!" she shouted over the rushing water. "Grab this!"
Luckily, the scarf, made from bits and scraps of yarn saved up over the course of a year, was tightly knitted and very long. And luckier still, the man had more presence of mind that had a frightened eight-year-old boy.
He caught the end of the scarf on the first try and wrapped it around his wrist by twisting his hand. Bernie had no hope of towing him free, but she could at least try to give him something to pull against.
She held the band of knitted wool in both fists and braced her feet in front of her, leaning back against the pull of his weight that threatened to drag her out onto the dangerously thin ice.
When her boot heels caught on a ridge of ice, she used her whole body, tensing like the a bow with the scarf as her bowstring. The man used the leverage given by his handhold on the scarf to worm his way onto the ice on his elbows, then his belly, then his knees. At last, he lay crawled to the edge of the earthen bank and staggered to his feet.
When the tension eased on the scarf, Bernie rolled away, abandoning him in a great hurry to get back to Simon now that their savior had been himself saved.
After she'd assured herself that Simon was indeed warming up, she bound him even more tightly into her coat and stood, lifting him into her arms like a sack of flour.
Her throat closed tight in gratitude. He was getting heavier every month. And now, thanks to the man before her, Simon would continue to do so, would grow and learn and survive, at least until she got him back to the inn. There, she fully intended to murder him herself!
Bernie turned to the man of mystery, only to look up into the furious gaze of Lord Matthias Waterford of Havensbeck Manor. Oh.
"What the bloody hell do you mean by letting the child play on the ice!"
His dark sapphire eyes were brilliant. His fury only made them brighter. Bernie studied this as if she were watching him from far away. He loomed over her and his tension was obvious. She should have been alarmed or at least inclined to step back from him. Her relief at Simon's rescue and her deep gratitude to this man made her unafraid.
Instead she put out one hand to him while hefting Simon higher on her shoulder with the other.
"I love my brother. I would do anything for him. But no one can watch a child every single moment."
He flinched from her as violently as if she had burned him with her touch. "You say that because you are not a parent!"
“No, I am not. Merely a deeply committed sister.” She smiled at him. "I can see you're truly upset with me. However, right now I would pretty much do anything for you, as well."
He stared at her. "What a strange thing to say to me."
Matthias didn't think she was offering what it sounded like she was offering. From her level gaze, he surmised that she was much too innocent to understand how odd she sounded. She was a virtuous woman, from a respectable household. The shadows in her eyes came from pain and loss, but not from jaded knowledge.
Marianna had been like that. She'd said the most outrageous things, yet her obvious innocence and inner joy had turned her blunt outspokenness into charming vulnerability.
His emotions roiled within him. Fear for the boy had stirred old ghosts into raging demons of loss. One child lost. One child saved. The world hinged on such tiny moments, on the crack of ice, by the tip of the candle.
It was all too much. He wanted to flee this woman, her clear gaze and her little Simon. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and keep her forever. He wanted to go back to being a young man with joy in his heart. Or perhaps he wanted to be old, with his loss dimmed and dulled by the years between.
He didn't know what he was thinking. He was an idiot, standing here staring at a coatless young woman holding a soaked shivering child while he dripped icy water from his sodden clothing. "Come to the house."
He plucked the exhausted Simon from her grasp and tucked him against his own chest. Without another word he turned to start back up the river path to where he joined the carriage lane by the bridge. She could follow him or not, but he knew she would.
Bernie scrambled quickly after him. Of course, he was right. They had to get Simon warm and dry at once. She was suddenly very aware of her damp and dirty gown. By the time they reached the manor she began to shiver. The door opened even as they approached and the footman rushed out to take Simon from his lordship. Even as Bernie entered the grand foyer of the manor, a chambermaid bustled forward with a blanket and threw it over her shoulders. A small man with sharp features rounded everyone up briskly.
"Barnes, take the young lady to the blue room! I'll have a tub brought up at once for the boy."
The maid firmly removed Bernie from the hall and before she knew it she was halfway up the stairs. She halted and half turned. "But Simon – –"
The fellow, who could only be Jasper the butler, didn't smile at her but his expression was reassuring. "The young man will be in the room next to yours, Miss Goodrich," he assured her. "Now go."
Such was his manner of command that she began the climb the stairs again without actually thinking about it. The maid led her into a beautiful room and after laying the fire in the fireplace of creamy stone, began to strip her wet things from her. Yet all Bernie could think was one thing.
How had Jasper known her name?
Even as weary as he was, Simon rebelled at the notion of being bathed by the pert Havensbeck chambermaid. Bernie rolled her eyes, rolled up her borrowed dressing gown sleeves and, after dismissing the young woman, tossed her rotten, precious little brother into the steaming water. He yelped.
“Time for another dunking, me lad, and no complaints from you!” She scowled as she poured a pitcher of water over his head.
He came up sputtering. “Bernie, I had to get the bottle!”
“Well, you nearly died trying!” She worked a handful of rather fine soap into his hair as she scolded him. “If his lordship hadn’t been there—“
Simon pushed her hands away and gave his own head a scrubbing. “I’m not a baby!” Before she could pour another pitcher of water, he dunked himself in the tub to rinse.
When she came at him with a wash cloth, he held up both hands to stop her. “I’m clean! It was ice, Bernie, not mud!”
He was so little, sitting there in the giant copper tub, looking up at her with dark shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Bernie’s fury left her. In its wake there remained only her terror.
He might have died. I couldn’t save him. Were it not for Lord Matthias, I would have lost him.
She buried her face in the cloth and fought the sobs that threatened to rip through her.
“Aw, Bernie!”
Without lifting her head, she stuck out one arm and pointed at the bed.
It was a mark of how weary he was that he did not protest a nap. She kept her face in her hands and listened to him slosh his way out of the tub, dry off and pad over to the vast bed.
“I haven’t a nightshirt—“
She could only make a strangled gulping noise but he seemed to understand that now was not the time to debate the notion of sleeping in hi
s skin.
At last, when the room was quiet but for Simon’s deep breathing and the snap of the coals in the hearth, Bernie allowed the tears. When she’d wept every remnant of her fear and panic away, she was left calm and empty. She dried her face on the cloth and straightened.
Simon’s bath had gone lukewarm. She could ring for a fresh one for herself, but the thought of all the servants trouping in and out made her go a bit weak in the knees. Fortunately, the maid had left two more pitchers of water warming by the fire. Bernie rolled the cloth around her hand to protect it from the hot pewter handles and carried them one at a time to pour into the bath.
Then she stripped quickly, hung her dressing gown over a chair by the fire and slipped into the bath. Not hot, but pleasantly warm. The water soaked the last of her chill away and the elegant floral-scented soap dispensed with the last remnant of river smell.
How divine. She didn’t get many hot baths in the middle of winter, and never in a tub she could lie down in. She lay back against the warm copper back and gazed upward.
The ceiling was decorated with a frieze of blue sky and clouds, surrounded by a carved trim gleaming with gilt. It was nonsense, of course. Bernie could hear Aunt Sarah now. A pointless luxury to be enjoyed by the useless. A sin when there is so much work to be done!
It was also joyous, and pleasing, and harmless, as far as Bernie could see. What was wrong with pretty things? If one must have a thing, like a ceiling for instance, was it not a celebration of heaven’s gifts to make it a beautiful thing?
One could go too far, of course, and value things too highly, or deprive others for the sake of mere objects, but Bernie did not get the impression that Lord Matthias thought overmuch of his possessions.
What did he think of, other than the past?
Was he a good master? The village was prosperous and the estate well-kept. Was that a sign of a thoughtful man, or merely an efficient one?
The water cooled too soon and Bernie had to rise reluctantly from her treat to dry before her chill returned. Her gown and underthings were nearly dry, but for the hem and cuffs, so she donned them once more. For a moment, she gazed longingly at the wide bed and the rather small boy using only a portion of it. Then she shook off her languor.
She wasn’t a guest here. She was flotsam, washed up by the river. It wouldn’t do to take advantage.
So instead of a nap, she set herself to leaving the room as she had found it. Mostly, that task consisted of mopping up water from the floor and tidying the towels and soap.
On the table by the bed, the maid who had taken away Simon’s soaked clothing had left a small pile of Simon’s belongings. It was the usual collection one might find in a boy’s pockets; a wobbly marble, a brass rivet from a harness, a small river stone with a hole worn in it, a handkerchief that greatly needed washing, a wad of sodden paper.
Bernie picked up the handkerchief with two fingers and took it to swish out in the bathwater. Then she hung it on the fire guard to dry.
The paper gave her pause, however. There was something familiar about the size and shape of the rolled wad.
As she peeled away the layers to reveal the blurred lines of all too familiar script, Bernie’s heart began to pound.
Simon had gone after the bottle. Somehow in the middle of the danger and commotion, he’d managed to uncork the glass and pull the letter free. Her little brother had a cool head on him, that was certain.
That determination had nearly cost him his life. If she were a proper adult, with an appropriate notion of child-rearing, she would toss the entire mess into the fire and let it steam until it caught.
Instead, she spent several long minutes peeling back sheet by sheet, laying them on the warm stones of the hearth.
I want to know.
It is a bright winter this year. The sun rides low but lovely in a clear sky. The snowfall is dry and crystalline, so unlike the heavy wet snows of that year that slowed my way home.
It seems so cruel that something as small as a snowflake had the power to take you from me. A tiny snowflake, heavy instead of light, multiplied by the millions to block the road, to weigh down my carriage, to drive a chill gloom so deep into our home that only the rash use of candles could hold back the darkness.
And when the fire blazed, where was all that wet and damp to suppress its ravenous flame? Hateful winter, to take such vengeance upon us.
A dark season. A bright season. I know not how to embrace this glittering lovely world without you in it. All my abandoned winters have seemed so dark before. I do not fit rightly within this brilliant time.
I need answers, my darling. There must be answers to all the world's questions where you are. Pray, spare some for a dark man unsure of the light.
Chapter 9
No one came for the bath. Bernie waited quietly, with Simon snoring lightly in the big bed and the nearly dry letter in her lap.
She had no fear of being caught with it. After all, it was only a few sheets of paper that could be anything at all. Moreover, she’d practiced folding it lengthwise and sliding it into her sleeve so many times that she was quite confident she could do so at the merest turn of the latch.
I am becoming sadly deceptive.
Part of her was ashamed. That was the part that took all Aunt Sarah’s admonitions to heart. The part that believed in fair play, honesty and high virtue.
The other part, the one that kept all of Lord Matthias’s letters in the bottom of her sewing case, the one that read and re-read them long after Simon had fallen asleep, the part that had wanted to come to Haven even after learning of the author’s high rank and tragic loss.
She didn’t mean to be conniving. There was simply some part of her that clung to the outlandish notion that those letters had been meant for her to find, that upriver was a man who needed a friend, and that possibly, just possibly, that friend might be her.
This was the fantasy that had kept her warm during the harsh winters at the vicarage, had made it easier to smile at her brother when loss and responsibility threatened to weigh her down, had given her something to look forward to year after year when her unchanging life seemed likely to remain yet the same forevermore.
I need answers, my darling.
A bolt of restlessness shot through her at the thought. She stood to pace before the hearth, folding and unfolding the pages in her hands.
She needed to get out of this room.
Simon would be fine. It was a grand house, full of earnestly helpful staff. If anything, the manor should fear Simon and his ambition to see and know everything there was to know about everything.
For a second, she savored this relative lack of responsibility. Simon was safe. He was clean and dry and asleep. There was even a tray of buttered bread and pickles laid out for him when he awoke.
Mentally dusting her hands, Bernie opened the door as silently as possible and set out to explore the manor.
One end of the long hallway led to another hall which led to the grand staircase. Since Bernie had no desire to see the front hall again, she went in the other direction.
This led to a grand gallery. One side of the long wide room seemed made of light. The windows were wide and high, larger than even the glass in the Green Dell chapel.
At first she found her gaze drawn by the magnificent views of the estate grounds. She faced the drive, a long gravel lane that looped on itself in front of the great doorway, so visiting carriage could turn easily.
Stretching out before the house were long beds of flowers—or at least, they would bloom come spring. Now they were like the straight bones of some giant creature slumbering just under the snow. Only the dormant branches of the maze stretched high enough to pierce the fallen snow, reaching up like a gray-brown memory of the green walls of summer.
It was austere and chilling to see, yet Bernie could imagine the life just below the surface, ready to burst forth once the season turned, pulling off the still white blanket of winter.
“I fear it lo
oks a bit grim now,” said a voice over Bernie’s shoulder.
She jumped a little, then turned to see the line face of the Havensbeck butler.
“Jasper—I mean, Mr. Jasper—“
“Jasper is fine, Miss Goodrich.”
It wasn’t fine, not really. But she was in the awkward position of not-quite-guest so she took the nice man at his word.
“Thank you, Jasper.” She waved a hand at the window. “I was just thinking about,” she was going to sound odd but the words just kept coming, “blankets.”
But Jasper’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Yes, miss. I quite see what you mean. Everything is caught in a spell of slumber, so to speak.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “Precisely!”
“Is young Master Simon resting well?”
Bernie nodded. “He’s a terror to put to bed, but once there he falls like a sawn tree. There’ll be no waking him until he’s ready.”
Oh dear. She sounded as if she were fishing for an invitation to stay the night. “But I’m sure it won’t be long until he’s up and about,” she assured the kindly butler. “And we’ll be on our way.” And out of yours.
“I hope the staff took good care of your needs,” he said as he turned her from the end of the hall back toward the gallery. She wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, for he didn’t so much as touch her elbow, but suddenly they were perusing the paintings instead of the view.
“The lords of Havensbeck make up quite a roguish band,” Jasper said. Bernie had the impression he was continuing a conversation they’d never actually held. Odd, but reassuring. She wasn’t the only pudding-head about the place.
She gazed obediently at the first painting. It was a life-size portrait of a man in a suit of armor. She squinted at it. “Didn’t they weave tapestries back then, not paint canvas?”
“Oh, this isn’t a portrait of a medieval knight. It’s only Lord Burgess stuffed into some ancestral loot. His current lordship’s great-great-uncle, that is. He hated the fashion of the day, with those puffy pumpkin breeches—“
Sleepless in Staffordshire Page 7