While You Were Dreaming

by Celeste Bradley

  It didn’t help Norah’s protests that she fell asleep at once and did not stir until a ruckus arose in the hallway outside her chamber. A narrow seam of light passing into her curtained bed told her that it was well into the afternoon and the lilting wispy voice wailing in the hallway informed Norah that the rest of her family had arrived.

  Sudden cowardice made her want to hide out under the coverlet a bit longer. After all, she was supposed to watch over Emmeline! Despite the fact that she was a scant two years the elder, no one—including Norah herself—had any doubt that it should be the way of things. Norah was clever and more wise about people and the world. Also, Norah had nothing better to do.

  Emmeline was never expected to be sensible. Emmeline’s primary tasks had always been to be beautiful, to be as fashionable as her formerly limited budget allowed, and to make herself as irresistible as possible to men.

  Fortunately, Emmeline enjoyed her work—and Norah would be the first to admit her cousin was very, very good at it. Further, since Em now had a surprise inheritance, she had become not only fashionable but was destined to be a true trendsetter under the tutelage of the great Lementeur, mantua maker to the highest of the high.

  I am a terrible guardian, letting Em maneuver me into slipping out early and driving so fast.

  She would have to face the family sooner or later. Then she thought of their vast grief at seeing Emmeline in her death – like sleep. Oh goodness, she must hurry!

  Norah didn’t need a lady’s maid to get in and out of her practical gowns. She needn’t do more than twist up a quick braid to speak to her own family, so she was out of her bedchamber in mere minutes.

  JOHN HAD NEVER been so happy to see Miss Grey as when she entered Lady Emmeline’s sitting room.

  Emmeline’s father, Lord Bester, Baron of something or other, was threatening John with dire happenings if he didn’t allow a father see his own daughter, while the elderly duo of ladies seemed inclined to trade off weeping and fainting. One kept crying out the word “naughty.” It seemed that some idiot had carried tales of Lady Emmeline’s accident far and wide, exaggerating matters greatly, not that matters weren’t deadly serious in the first place.

  Lord Bester carried on, uttering garbled madness regarding sabotage, highwaymen—and incredibly!—heiress–eating wolves.

  John had waited it out, stolidly blocking the doorway to Lady Emmeline’s sickroom until someone sane arrived.

  It seemed that Miss Grey would have to do.

  “Uncle Bester! Stop browbeating the vicar at once!”

  For a moment, John thought Miss Grey would actually clap her hands like a schoolmistress at her various relations. Yet her scolding tone worked a treat and the “naughty” woman subsided into gulps of fading hysteria.

  Miss Grey came to stand next to John. He felt ridiculously gratified by her support.

  Until she opened her mouth, of course.

  “Victor Barton,” she turned on him with flashing eyes. They were pretty eyes up close, really, such an interesting blend of green and brown…

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss Grey?” Beware, mate. This one has teeth.

  “Is there a reason—any valid reason at all—that you are keeping my uncle from seeing his own daughter in her time of need?”

  Right then. Teeth indeed. “Why no, Miss Grey. We were merely waiting for you to wake from your afternoon nap to join us.” With that tiny dig, he bowed himself out of the fracas and sidled around the crowd. There were only four Greys in the room, yet a moment ago it had felt like an invading horde.

  As he made his escape, John could hear Miss Grey setting things to rights behind him. “Uncle Bester, you and Great Aunt Blythe should go in first. Mama, you may sit out here with me. Let’s have a cup of tea…”

  Once outside Lady Emmeline’s rooms, John came face to face with Lady Bernadette and Lord Matthias.

  Bernie tilted her head. “Coward.”

  “Sayeth the one hiding in the hall,” John retorted. Too familiar. He bowed. “My lady.”

  “You could have handled that better,” grumbled Matthias.

  John’s spine stiffened. That was simply too much. “Then it is a good thing I’m on my way out. Do enjoy your family party. I have a great deal to do at the vicarage.” He didn’t, actually, but he stomped away in a bitter hurry without tossing in the customary “my lord.” He didn’t regret it one little bit.

  He heard Bernie’s soft voice behind him. “That was rude, dear.”

  “Sorry, my love,” Matthias murmured.

  That tender reply entirely drained away John’s satisfaction over his reckless omission of his lordship’s due courtesy. No matter what, Matthias would always win. Had already won, until death did they part.

  Oh, Bernie.

  NORAH GRIMACED TO herself. She had probably offended the cursing vicar. Well, no matter. She was forever offending someone with her outspoken ways.

  Beside her, Mama sniffled. “Oh Nottie, I was so dreadfully worried.”

  Norah’s mood eased. “That’s very sweet of you, Mama, but I’m absolutely fine.” She felt very well indeed after her feast and her nap, not that she would ever admit it to that dratted man.

  “Oh yes, dear. Of course you are. You’re always fine. But poor Emmeline!” Mama leaned closer. “What will we all do without her inheritance?”

  At least Mama had the grace to whisper such an unworthy question. Norah knew her great-aunt and uncle feared the same. Naturally, Emmeline was loved by them, each in their own way. Yet primarily Emmeline was valued. She was the family’s only financial asset, even before Lord Matthias’s man had knocked on the door of the historically-relevant-yet-now-crumbling Kewell Abbey to offer deliverance in the form of a far-flung inheritance.

  The first time Norah had seen the Abbey at the not-very-discerning age of eleven years, she thought it the grandest place on earth and her cousin Emmeline the lovely princess of a rich kingdom.

  Lord Bester had seemed the very picture of a gracious monarch when he had welcomed his younger brother’s widow and daughter with casual benevolence.

  “It will be good for Emmeline to have a playmate of our own class,” he’d said to Norah. He’d meant it kindly enough. Unlike his father, Bester didn’t care if his brother had married “down.”

  The Dowager Baroness, Great-Aunt Blythe, took a shine to Mama and made her “milady’s companion.” Mama had security for as long as Great-Aunt Blythe lived, as much as anyone at deteriorating Kewell Abbey had security. The place was largely unlivable, with entire wings blocked off where the damp had ruined the walls.

  Little Norah and little Emmeline got on very poorly at first, until Norah understood that Emmeline was to be indulged completely. Yet when Em’s extremes drew disagreeable attention, it was always Norah who was blamed.

  Realizing at last that no reasonable adult resided within fifty miles of the Abbey, Norah took it upon herself to sit on Emmeline until the spoiled little beast desisted. After that they got on famously. Emmeline continued to be overindulged and Norah continued to sit on her when her behavior threatened to become too poisonous.

  Norah hadn’t had to sit on Em for years. Merely mentioning it was usually enough.

  I should’ve sat on her in that inn yesterday morning. I should have plunked myself right down on her lap before I ever let her talk me into adventuring out on our own.

  Now Mama’s whispered question came back to haunt Norah.

  What would she do if Emmeline did not survive? Who was she if not Emmeline’s guardian and guide? Worse, who was she without her sweet cousin and dearest only friend?

  Norah squelched that terrible thought instantly. Emmeline would always need her. Only if her pretty cousin managed to secure someone truly stable and goodhearted could Norah imagine a life where she wouldn’t be essential. He would have to be someone tolerant and kind, someone who would firmly curb Emmeline’s excesses while indulging her harmless and entertaining
frivolity.

  Warm gray eyes and a shaggy mop of uncombed hair. Thick muscles filling out a common work-shirt and coat.

  It was very odd that she should think of the cursing vicar just then, wasn’t it?

  JOHN SUSPECTED THAT he had overestimated his mule’s affections. The animal kept forcing John into the deep snow on the verge of the lane leading back to Haven. When John would stumble into a thigh-high drift, the mule would try to turn the cart and head back to the luxurious Havensbeck stables.

  Quite frankly, John didn’t blame the beast. The vicarage would be cold and painfully quiet after the holiday bustle of the manor. “It isn’t as though you are hauling rocks,” he grumbled. Those had been unloaded from the cart and left by the side of the river where they would likely wait until spring.

  “My tutor said that in Russia they eat bad mules.”

  John looked up from stomping the caked snow from the canvas gaiters wrapped around his lower legs to see young Simon Goodrich grinning impudently at him from a seat on the fieldstone wall lining the lane.

  I am wearing my vicar suit everywhere I go from now on. He’d lost all authority in his rough work shirt and his canvas trousers. “Everywhere,” he muttered at his bad mule. “Possibly even the bath.”

  To Simon, he tipped his cap. “Master Simon.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Master of a lot of snowy nothing.”

  Simon, being Bernadette’s brother and no real heir to Lord Matthias, enjoyed the benefits of manor life and a lordly education, but owned nothing in his own name and likely never would. It would be the Army or the Church for Simon, unless he suddenly evidenced a heretofore unknown affinity for scholarly pursuits.

  Yes, probably the Army. At least Simon would have the clout to make an officer and not an infantryman. Suddenly sorry for his young friend, John grinned back at him. “I’m off to sand something at the vicarage. Want to help?”

  Clearly, Simon didn’t really want to pitch in with John’s self-inflicted manual labor, but he shrugged listlessly and dropped off the wall to fall in step with John and his suddenly edible mule. The mule seemed to sense a stewpot in his future and stepped lively the rest of the way to the vicarage.

  Mrs. Higgins from the village tended the vicarage itself, while a group of volunteer women from the village looked after the church. Mrs. Higgins was a fifty-ish woman from a nearby farm with an energetic stomp and a large collection of her offspring and their offspring living in her snug farmhouse. Some of her grown children were also employed by the manor.

  Every Saturday, Mrs. Higgins brought over a large basket of food, as arranged through his lordship. Parsnips from last summer’s garden, eggs, a roast or a ham, a few loaves of bread and a hefty half-wheel of Staffordshire cheese wrapped in cloth. John did well enough with cold plates and had even mastered the local oatcake, but he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with his weekly allocation of parsnips. By now a wagon load of parsnips resided in the root cellar. He’d never had the heart to tell Mrs. Higgins that he couldn’t actually cook. She would only huff at his incompetence. Then she would cook for him and work even harder than she already did.

  Although John felt he was a tidy fellow indeed, Mrs. Higgins didn’t hesitate to roll her eyes at some manly housekeeping foible and then apply vigorous means to correct it. In a few hours she could scrub what hadn’t seemed dirty, dust what hadn’t seemed dusty and smack the living daylights out of every carpet in the house. Normally, a single, youngish vicar with a spacious residence might find himself besieged on a Sunday evening by village ladies bearing cakes and pastries, plying him with savory meat pies and flirtatious glances.

  No such lady dared trespass upon Mrs. Higgins’s territory. John sometimes thought wistfully that he might not mind fending off a bit of culinary seduction, if it came bearing a cake or a pie.

  Now, lighting the stove and digging some tidbits from his pantry, John set an acceptable if somewhat masculine tea table, with hefty slabs of meat, cheese, bread and a small jar of jam.

  Simon made no complaints and dug right in. John poured the lad a cup of hopefully not-too-dire tea. He thought he was getting better at it.

  No hope there. Simon blew on it for a moment, then took a gulp. He immediately drooled it back into the teacup.

  “Too hot?” John asked hopefully.

  Simon grimaced. “It’s like stewed peat.” Then, aware that he’d been rude, he awkwardly backtracked. “But I’m sure some people like it like that.”

  John sighed. “I cannot figure it out. Do you know how to make tea?”

  Simon shrugged. “No. But Bernie does. I can ask her.”

  “No!” John shook his head firmly. “I will figure it out on my own.” Then he scowled. “Do you think Matthias can make tea?”

  Simon shrugged, losing interest in the topic. “Why would he, when he can tell Jasper to make it?”

  John poured his own tea, for as bad as it was, it was what he had. Were women born knowing how to make tea? He’d wager that Miss Grey could make excellent tea. She’d mock him if she knew he couldn’t.

  The tea overflowed the cup and scalded John’s hand. “Bloody hell!”

  Simon snickered. “That’s what Uncle Isaiah said when the wagon rolled over his foot.”

  John was only slightly reassured by the notion that his much-revered mentor had spewed out a curse or two. John couldn’t seem to make it through an entire hour at a stretch.

  I never cursed before last Christmas. Which was a disconcerting thought, that Christmas should bring about such a flaw in his vicarly foundation. Some things he could happily blame upon Matthias. This one was all his own bloody fault. There, he’d done it again. Sorry.

  I shall not curse.

  John frowned and dabbed at the mess he’d made on the kitchen table with a tea towel. It left a stain on the linen. Mrs. Higgins was going to scold him now. But it’s tea… on a tea towel.

  He could envision Miss Grey rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath. That blasted woman!

  At least this time he kept it to himself. It was bad enough to falter, worse to be a poor example to fatherless Simon.

  “You should maybe start drinking coffee,” Simon said pertly and grinned around the piece of bread in his mouth. When John growled and threw a chunk of cheese at him, Simon laughed and dashed back outside, his boots thumping noisily on the freshly polished floor. “See you at the Christmas Ball, Vicar!”

  John grunted as his door slammed. The Christmas Ball, which he could not refuse and which would force him to endure the sight of Bernie whirling around the ballroom in her loving husband’s arms all evening long.

  Damn it!

  Chapter 5

  O

  NCE HE’D WANDERED back across the snowy fields to the manor, Simon Goodrich was bored.

  It was a very strange feeling. For as long as he could recall, he’d longed for a few hours to simply play, to climb trees or make a dog chase sticks or battle the village boys in one of their drawn-out snowball wars.

  Simon had always worked. Even when he was very little, he could remember feeding chickens and carrying kindling. When the day turned too dark to work, Bernie would teach him his letters and numbers.

  Then when he became “Master Simon,” it was all lessons and maths and writing. While Simon didn’t mind studying old battles, he’d much rather fight in one.

  Yet this holiday, for the very first time in his long nine-year life, Simon had nothing to do.

  The staff at Havensbeck was too busy to spare him even a bit of conversation. Bernie and his new brother Matthias hardly stood still for three minutes altogether. The stableboys were caught up treating Lady Emmeline’s horses for something called “shock” and now John was too grumpy for even a simple game of chess.

  Moreover, the house was brimful of lady guests, all clustered around Lady Emmeline’s sickbed—or deathbed, depending on which servant delivered the gossip. Simon started to wonder if Christmas
was even going to be Christmas this year. If Lady Emmeline did die, they would have to “rethink matters.” That’s what Bernie had said this morning.

  “You see that it wouldn’t be right to celebrate Christmas in a house of mourning, don’t you, Simon?”

  “Yes, I see.”

  Bernie had made him say it out loud, which was just an adult trick. Now that he’d said it, he’d not be able to complain later when Christmas turned dark and sad and the village didn’t come to feast and dance and eat large pieces of Cook’s towering fancy cakes.

  Simon walked down the main hallway of the house, the one that led from the front door all the way back to the ballroom stairs. As he walked, head down in a brown study, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, the staff moved swiftly in a complicated dance of preparation. They flowed past him carrying linens and vases, brooms and coal scuttles, always with a “good afternoon, Master Simon” as they passed.

  Simon answered politely but automatically, for he was thinking hard.

  He was thinking about how it used to be when he and Bernie had lived with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Isaiah. He and Bernie had been closer than close, but Bernie had still been sad much of the time though she’d tried hard to hide it.

  It wasn’t her new luxurious life at Havensbeck, or the way everyone bowed and called her “milady” that had made Bernie happy. It was Matthias who made Bernie happy.

  And vice versa. Simon had learned that term from his tutor and enjoyed using it as often as possible.

  Simon’s walk slowed further, which seemed to make the servants move faster.

  Finally, Simon stopped altogether and stood in the center of the fervor, thinking the right thought at last.

  Love.

  Love made ladies happy. They became very excited about it, and talked about it, and dreamed about it, like Bernie had when she’d been reading Matthias’s messages in the bottles that had been carried down the river, long before she’d ever met him.