Bernie sat next to Aunt Sarah in the sturdy carriage that Haven had provided for John Barton's use. John and Uncle Isaiah sat across from her, as gentlemen did, taking the rear-facing, less comfortable seats.
John caught Bernie's gaze and issued her a self-conscious smile. She nodded politely back with an awkward smile of her own. Next to her, Aunt Sarah rustled with repressed urgency. Never had Bernie felt under such scrutiny! How could she ever learn if she liked someone if every single twitch was noted in some sort of matchmaker scorebook?
Dancing later would be better. Bernie tucked her arms inside her cape and folded them beneath her bosom. Her bodice felt too tight. This had been her last silk gown from her life before. She and Aunt Sarah had ripped it out and remade it into this one two years earlier.
The pale green silk still fit fairly well, although her eighteen-year-old bosom had been a little smaller. Bernie felt restricted, as if Aunt Sarah had sewn her chaperoning vigilance into every seam.
Which was an unfair thought. Aunt Sarah had done her best, spending evening after evening painstakingly snipping threads in order to salvage the greatest portion of fine fabric. Then she and Bernie had spent hours poring over pattern books, trying to find just the right cut that would complement Bernie's new height and figure, and put the reclaimed silk to best use.
The result was this simple gown. The once fuller skirts had been remade into a slender column, allowing the extra fabric to be used to lengthen it. The old ruched bodice had been ironed out and used for the cap sleeves, and the new bodice, made from diagonally pieced squares, was plain but for a running thread of darker green embroidery, simple leaves and vines climbing the lattice pattern. Bernie had never had time to progress past her early ladylike accomplishments into flowers and intricate animal figures, like the ones her mother had done with such skill.
"No matter," Aunt Sarah had told her briskly at the time. "The gown is still finer than any I've ever owned, and I've managed to keep breathing in and out."
The girlish ribbons that had once made silk bows around the hem had been picked apart and seamed into a single band, which Bernie now wore wound in her hair. She was grateful for it, for her hair tended to toward rebellion at the best of times. At the moment, it was so full of pins that she felt like a hedgehog.
Of course, she was well aware that she was focusing on these tiny discomforts to conceal the great galloping nervous excitement that threatened to make her leap from her seat and pick up her skirts to race ahead of the sedate team pulling the carriage.
Wouldn't Aunt Sarah twitch then?
Her First Real Ball. That was the only reason for her excitement, of course. She had spent the afternoon forcing Simon to dance with her, turning about their inn room, bumping into chairs, trying to remember everything she could from her brief time with the dancing master her mother had hired for her when she'd turned sixteen. Of course, she knew all the country dances. Assemblies might be few and far between in hardworking Green Dell, but even poor farmers liked to kick up their heels occasionally.
But the quadrille and the waltz were distant memories and Bernie feared she would not recall the steps when in the reputedly grand ballroom of Havensbeck.
And in his arms.
No. Stop thinking that. His note was simply friendly. She was new in town and the lord of the manor was merely being gentlemanly. She'd heard gossip from the chambermaids at the inn that Lord Matthias likely wouldn't even attend. And if he did, no one believed he would stay long. Certainly no one thought he would dance.
Except he asked me to dance. He wrote it down, right there in the invitation.
Her belly flipped at the memory of those words.
The handwriting had been more decorous and fine than that contained in the long anguished letters from the river, but it had been the same, she told herself. Simon thought so, although "less drunken" was perhaps not a sufficient reason for the difference.
She wished she could take it out and look at it again, as she had a hundred times today. However, she dared not bring her aunt to comment upon it to John Barton, who apparently had no awareness that the older couple believed him to be her correspondent.
Although your attendance will be reward enough, it is my dearest wish that you might charitably grant to me a waltz.
Oh, would this carriage ride never end?
Mathias sensed the very air grow warmer in the ballroom, as if he felt touch of sunlight on his skin on a cloudy day. He turned, aware that the rest of the guests had also looked up suddenly, as though the guest of honor had arrived at last.
Or perhaps it was only he who awaited her. He felt as if he'd been waiting for years!
Which was ridiculous. He hadn't even known of her until a few days before. And yet there she was.
Bernadette.
Yet she was very different from the canvas-bound girl in the plain bonnet and the mis-knitted gloves.
Now, Miss Bernadette Goodrich stood in a gown so elegant it was very nearly severe. She was indeed tall enough to lend a regal air to the fullness of her figure. Still, her unmistakable smile beamed out at them all. He felt as if she had invited them all to her ball and now glowed her welcome.
Her hand still remain tucked into the young vicar's elbow. Matthias felt a jolt, seeing her on another man's arm. However, Barton was a family friend. Of course she would arrive with the vicar, along with her aunt and uncle.
Perhaps he was like a brother to her.
Keep telling yourself that.
Mathias thought the fellow looked mightily proud of himself, walking into the ball was such a prize on his arm.
You felt like that once, remember?
The dark thought rose and then washed pale and silent, the shadow fading in the light of Bernadette's smile upon him. Mathias stepped forward, catching her eye and bowing deeply. As he'd hoped, she released Barton's arm to issue a low curtsy of her own in return. When she straightened, she clasped her hands before her as she waited for his approach, now standing slightly apart from the vicar.
Mathias thought he done that rather neatly, and hoped that no one had noticed. "Miss Goodrich. You came. You're here."
She laughed a little. "Yes, Lord Mathias. And you are here as well, at your own ball."
She laughed at him. Well, it was true he was acting the loon. He didn't care one little bit.
John Barton cleared his throat. Matthias tore his gaze away from Bernadette. Her eyes snapped green fire in the candlelight, how captivating! He forced a civil nod to the vicar, who was, after all, his very own vicar, a good man carefully chosen for Haven's greatest benefit.
"Hello, Barton." His welcome sounded rather lackluster. Must do something about that. "You're here, as well."
Barton was looking at him, or rather, through him, as if inspecting a seed in his glass of lemonade. Whatever the vicar saw made him lift his hand as if to snatch Bernadette back into his custody. He caught himself and folded his hands behind his back, clearly dismayed at his reaction.
So the vicar was courting her.
Bernadette, however, stood equidistant between the two men, her bright gaze taking in the bedecked ballroom, oblivious to raised hackles or any other sort of territorial conduct. If Miss Goodrich was being courted, she showed no awareness of it.
She has no idea he fancies her.
Matthias didn't allow his thoughts to progress any further down the notion of who else might fancy the cheerful Miss Bernadette Goodrich.
"The staff has outdone themselves on the decorations," he said, although he'd barely glanced at them. Then he had an inspired notion. "And the tables are absolutely laden with refreshments and cakes."
The emerald gaze fixed on him instantly. "Cakes?"
Matthias nodded and turned a bland gaze upon Barton. I am lord of this hall. I do not fetch cake. The vicar shot him a grim, defeated glance, then bowed smartly to Miss Goodrich. "Would you care for something, Bernie?"
Perhaps Barton sought to underscore his familiarity with the use of that family nickname, but Matthias, painfully alert to her every expression, saw Bernadette draw back slightly at the diminutive.
Matthias understood something in that instant. "Bernie" was the girl who wore thick shapeless coats and scampered in the snow with her little brother. Tonight Miss Goodrich wanted to be something more. Not someone else, precisely, but beyond simple Bernie. As she had every right to. Tonight, she was without a doubt a grown woman, regal and refined. A woman named Bernadette.
When she replied to the vicar, her tone cooled ever so slightly. "If you please, John. Cake and, hmm."
"Champagne?" Matthias suggested.
"Truly?" Bernadette's eyes widened as she glanced about for her aunt. Matthias enjoyed her moment of lip-chewing indecision. "Well perhaps, hmm, later, if there is to be a toast."
Barton nodded pedantically. "Much more appropriate for a young lady."
When Miss Goodrich and Matthias turned on him with narrowed gazes, Barton stepped back, bobbed a quick bow that encompassed them both, and strode away.
Matthias thought he heard Miss Goodrich mutter, "It had best be a large piece of cake."
Lord Matthias leaned down closer. "Your aunt and uncle, I presume?"
Bernie turned to follow his gesture to where an older couple stood with the innkeeper and his wife. "Yes, that is Uncle Isaiah and Aunt Sarah."
They looked just a bit thunderstruck by the elegance of their surroundings.
"Your cake, Bernie."
Matthias turned to see John Barton at his elbow. Back so soon? How conscientious. The young vicar handed a plate with a sliver of pastry upon it to Miss Goodrich. He then gave Matthias a strange, slightly victorious look.
"My lord, might I beg a moment of your time? We have a surprise for you!"
At that same moment, Mrs. Goodrich appeared at Bernadette's elbow. "Bernie dear, I've found some people I would like you to meet. Such a lovely village, so very friendly!"
Matthias could only stand there as Bernadette was led away. She glanced over her shoulder at him, gave a rueful shrug, and obediently trotted after her aunt.
Matthias turned back to John. "I suspect collusion."
John Barton beamed at him innocently. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I don't understand."
"No? Well then, let us go view this surprise."
John Barton led the way to the base of the staircase to the mezzanine. Ranged upon the first half-dozen steps were a varied group of children. They looked quite ordinary to Matthias, although one assumed their parents felt differently. Some were plump and some plain, and at least one child had a very unfortunate ratio of ears to skull. Matthias didn't actually recognize any of them, but then he had hardly spoken to anyone in the village for years. For all their motley size and appearance, they all looked well scrubbed and eager. Something was going to happen, for the guests standing around the staircase were beaming with pride and expectance at Matthias, clearly hoping for his attention and appreciation.
John Barton gave a quick double-clap and the children, who had been nudging and elbowing each other and generally behaving like children, immediately stopped and stood still. Matthias watched as John Barton raised both hands and begin to wave them in the air like a conjurer.
And, just like such a magic, sweet choral music came from the throats of the children. Their high voices rang like bells in the grand ballroom.
Matthias held very still as the children's chorus wound through an ancient carol, singing of the holly and the ivy with breathtaking purity in their piping voices. Matthias was spellbound at the sheer unlikely crystalline sound emerging from such everyday beings.
And he waited for it to hurt.
It did, a little. He thought of his own little Simon, and wondered if his son would've stood on the steps right this moment with these carol-singers at the Christmas ball. He thought of Marianna and how much she would've enjoyed this performance. He also thought of skinny little Simon Goodrich and how the children before him all looked much more well fed and prosperous.
By the time the song ended, Matthias's thoughts had completed a harrowing circle from the past back around to the present. It was somewhat tiring, to tell the truth, this need to exist in the present. Would it ever become easier?
Nonetheless, he applauded most assiduously and as the children filed down the stairs he bent over and shook each small, perspiring hand. He did it fully aware that the entire village watched him. He also did it because the little carol-singers had clearly worked very hard on their astonishing performance and they all watched him with eyes hungry for his approval.
He was not so far gone from this world that he would ignore such a trusting gaze.
They were all so small to be so accomplished. Matthias shook his head in wonder. Clearly, John Barton was some sort of champion vicar, the sort of fellow who never settled for "good enough." A man like that must always be looking for the next obstacle, simply for the joy of overcoming it.
The children clearly obeyed Barton out of respect and affection, for they were not as subdued as they might have been had they walked in fear of their instructor. As they filed from the room a few of the boys began a cheerful shoving match, clearly energized by their success.
Matthias watched them, his sadness swimming slowly deep below his surface, like a trout beneath the ice. What sort of boy would his little Simon have been? Would he have been like the scrappy little one who gave as good as he got? Or like the older boy who was aware of the eyes upon them and quickly dragged the scrappers apart? Simon would never sing, or play, or scrap, or dash off to one side and sneak a seed cake from the refreshment table the way one little girl did on her way out.
The pain welled. The memories swirled within him. He drew himself up, suddenly tightly aware of the crowd around him.
Then his gaze found the amused and sympathetic eyes of Miss Bernadette Goodrich, where she stood on the other side of the semicircle of spectators.
Matthias felt the tension begin to drain away as he watched her smile grow. Then he noticed that Ms. Goodrich stood now only with her uncle, the Vicar Goodrich. John Barton and his co-conspirator Mrs. Goodrich were nowhere in sight.
Seize the moment, yes, I will. Matthias was not about to let Miss Goodrich slip away from him again.
He dashed across the crowd so quickly that he granted himself fortunate that his boots did not skid on the marble floor when he bowed before Miss Goodrich.
"Miss Goodrich. Vicar Goodrich." He crooked one arm in her direction and indicated the dance floor with a nod of his head. "Did I not reserve a waltz for this evening?"
Miss Goodrich tilted her head. "Well, my lord, you did ask. However, I do not actually recall replying with consent."
Mathias blinked. Um. He had suddenly run out of words. It was certainly presumptuous to assume that a lady wished to dance simply because he'd asked. I’m no good at this sort of thing anymore.
Not that he ever truly had been.
Just as he was about to utter a curt apology and flee, she wrinkled her nose at him and tucked her arm into his. "So, my lord, my belated response is 'yes'."