Matthias faltered in the waltz step. His entire body forgot a dance he’d known since boyhood as his heart rose up and threatened to stop his breath.
Bernadette laughing in his arms.
Marianna laughing in his arms.
He felt odd and vulnerable and the ballroom was too bright and too loud.
I can't breathe.
His soul felt stretched between two points in time. His chest ached. The pounding in his head drowned out the musicians and the crowd and the voice of the young woman before him, asking what was the matter.
The past and the pain and the loss, his friends for so long, his only companions, pulled at him the way a band of brothers would tug one of their own away from a cliff’s edge.
The future stretched out before him, beckoning him onward, tempting him with clear skies and far reaches, if only he would dare to jump. Fly.
Fall.
He stepped back. The past breathed a sigh of relief. He stepped back again and the future looked confused and stricken and so very disappointed. Her cheeks paled and she looked mortified.
Then his retreating feet carried him out of the ballroom and down the hallway that led deeper into the house. There, her portrait hung, facing him where the hallway split and turned.
Marianna.
Did her beautiful eyes accuse? Did her brow furrow at his faithlessness? Did she lift a hand to reach out to him, to stay his departure, to keep him at her side.
This Marianna was a thing of oil and canvas and memory, that was all. She did not speak, she did not touch.
She did not laugh, not anymore.
The past did not nourish. It did not sustain. Life went on without him. And he opened his hand and let it slip right by him, turning instead to flee deeper into the darkness of his house, his haven, his never-changing shrine to all that was.
He could feel Marianna's eyes following him as he strode away. For the first time, it didn't feel particularly comforting. They were only paint, after all.
Bernie stood alone in the center of the grand, luxurious ballroom and died a little inside.
She’d been so stupid, to read the words of a man writing to his lost love and to imagine for a moment that those words might have been for her.
His face. His eyes, full of confusion and fear, like a man fleeing darkness.
Fleeing her.
The murmurs of the ball guests pierced her awareness. Glancing around, she saw all faces turned her way, all eyes fixed upon her.
There were two directions to run. One was out, away from Havensbeck, away from the stunned audience, away from the dark, broken man who could scarcely look at her suddenly.
Or there was in.
Well, she'd followed him this far. Bernie picked up her skirts and ran after the lord of the manor.
When she left the ballroom, she saw a dark flutter down at the end of a long hallway. She stopped to pluck a candle from the nearest sconce, ignoring the splash of hot wax on her glove. Then she scurried down the hall. She thought she'd seen the flutter moving off to the right.
She turned and followed. Then she found herself face to face with the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. More lovely than Mama, even. Her mouth went dry.
The portrait hung just a bit higher so that the gaze of the stunning creature seemed to look right past Bernie, over her head as if she were of no importance whatsoever.
His letters had fallen short, Bernie realized. He'd never quite managed to communicate Marianna's porcelain perfection.
Was this why Jasper had distracted her with cattle thieves and lace smugglers, to keep her from seeing this vision?
Matthias’s lady had been utterly dazzling. Flawless skin glowed even in paint and pigment. Rich brunette hair flowed over her shoulders and into the folds of her pale blue silk robe that brought out the flash of her laughing summer-sky blue eyes. Her rose-tinted lips curved in a small smile of endearing vulnerability.
And on Marianna’s lap sat a tiny chubby boy, hardly more than two years old, with pink cherub cheeks, his mama’s blue eyes and a great mop of his papa’s ebony curls.
Simon.
Bernie’s first thought was that her own skinny, shabby Simon had been that adorably plump once, with chubby baby fists and fleshy little pink toes like fat pearls.
Her second, rather more unworthy thought was that she was an idiot for thinking she could ever fill a void left by a woman like that.
And why should you wish to try? Aunt Sarah spoke in her mind. Stop daydreaming, Bernadette. The blue-eyed beauty in that portrait has nothing to do with you.
That was certainly true. Bernie was suddenly terribly afraid that this house and its lady and her heartbroken lord had not a thing at all to do with her.
And never would.
John Barton found her as she slunk back through the ballroom, looking for her aunt and uncle. If only she could leave!
Bernie felt sick. She was an idiot. No one knew better than she how he still mourned his wife! What did I think, that I was going to sail into his arms and make him forget his pain?
Yes, that was exactly what she’d thought, reading his letters over and over again, hoarding them close, like talismans of a glittering future with the sort of man who loved with his whole heart.
But it wasn’t whole. Not anymore. She knew that but she hadn't wanted to believe it. She was just a silly, stubborn girl, using up candle stubs to read words that were never, ever meant for her. She was a sneak-thief or possibly a fortune-hunter, except that the fortune she'd wanted was the noble, kind man himself, not his riches. Did that distinction matter, when she was here under false pretenses, behaving as if she were trying to make friends when she already knew him better than she knew anyone but Simon?
“Miss Goodrich! How are you enjoying the ball?”
Bernie pressed her eyes closed to squeeze back the incipient tears of mortification. Then she turned with the best smile she could muster. It wasn't much to speak of. “John.”
The sturdy Vicar Barton didn't seem to notice. He grinned at her winningly, as if he'd finally found her after a long search.
"Yes, here I am."
His grin faltered slightly at her flat tone. She felt ashamed.
He was handsome and attentive and clearly eager for her company. Every word should not have to be hauled from her lips as if made of lead. Her smile should not be such a stingy thing for such a nice fellow.
I must do better. I will do better.
She assented to a dance, hoping it would give her a moment to gather her thoughts and not be such a dull stick.
By the time they’d circled the floor twice in lively country dance, Bernie was feeling better. Action always helped clear her mind.
Perhaps it was all just a passing fancy. Surely she would forget it eventually. Thankfully, she’d never said anything about her silly hopes, not even to Simon. No one knew that she’d almost made the most terrific fool of herself.
And if it hurt to think of him—and she rather thought it would, likely for a long time—then it would hurt. She’d seen enough of the world, enough of true pain, to know that she would survive her infatuation. Even recover from it, eventually. She hoped.
With her thoughts turned so inward, she was not entirely aware of dancing. Therefore, she did very well at it. When the music ended and she turned one last circle back into John Barton’s embrace, she was startled by the bright sparkle in his eyes as he gazed down at her.
Christmas Bells, he was handsome!
Well, at least that part of her still worked. She smiled back a little more naturally, relieved by the notion that she perhaps was not too terribly shattered if she could still enjoy the sight of an impressive fellow beaming at her.
His expression brightened further at her smile. “Come, let us find somewhere to talk.”
“Oh.” She cast a wistful glance back at the dance floor. She'd only just begun to enjoy herself a bit. “Yes, of course.”
"Somewhere to talk" turned out to be in an unpopulated corner behind the refreshment table, half-hidden by a potted palm. Bernie waited while John fetched a glass of lemonade for her. Some of the older women were imbibing of something stronger. Even Aunt Sarah had a thimble-sized glass of sherry.
Bernie had tasted champagne once, at another Christmas party, a long time ago. Her mother had handed her the glass for a moment while she’d adjusted the wide silk bow on thirteen-year-old Bernie’s head. Bernie had sneaked a tiny sip of bubbles and forbidden mature indulgence. She’d liked it very much.
However, lemonade was very nice too. There were no lemons in Green Dell, no hothouses with tiny pruned trees in pots, drooping with the weight of ripe lemons in midwinter. She had no idea where she’d seen that, but it came back to her as she tasted the bright, tart drink.
Perhaps it was experiencing a bit more of the world that was bringing such memories back. Green Dell never changed. The old, crumbling vicarage never changed, except to become more damaged and difficult to maintain. The days were all the same, full of work and service and, for everyone but Simon, worry. Lean but heartfelt Christmases came and went, the turn of year after year.
John was speaking. Bernie blinked and fought hard to catch up.
“This is a very plum assignment, I'm told. I'm afraid I always pictured myself somewhere a bit more rustic, I suppose. I thought I might be of greater good to a place of greater need.”
He would, she thought. An intelligent, vigorous fellow like John could do so much fine work in the world.
He went on. “But I had a good reason for taking this particular post.”
Bernie looked up at his pause and saw him looking at her closely. Stop woolgathering and pay attention to the man who actually does want to talk to you! When he waited for a response, she nodded. “And what is your reason?”
He leaned close. “You, Bernadette. You are my reason—for everything.”
The lemonade suddenly seemed to sour in Bernie's mouth. She was forced to swallow before she was quite prepared. Her throat burned and she realized she wasn’t breathing properly. She pressed her palm to her throat and wheezed out, “What did you say?
“I invited your family here for a reason.” His focus on her was intense, absolute and undivided. “I aim to beg your uncle for your hand in marriage. If you say you want me as a husband.
"Husband?" Bernie squeaked. She stared at him.
He gave an awkward half-smile. “It must mean something that you have no words, for I thought you had something to say about every little thing on earth. I only hope that it means something encouraging.”
She shut her mouth, for it was doing absolutely no good hanging open like a chicken-coop door. Breathing might help. She inhaled deeply, calmly, then burst out, “But we just met! Again.”
Something sparked in John's clear, untroubled gray eyes that frightened her or possibly thrilled her. It was just so hard to tell!
He stepped a little closer and took her hand in both of his. “Bernadette Goodrich, I have known you—and liked you very well—for six years. I remember the first time I saw you, when your uncle and I greeted you and Simon at the coaching inn downriver. There was a governess with you, seeing you into the hands of family. I don’t recall her name. You were so pale and sad, sitting up so straight in your uncle’s cart, riding back to Green Dell clutching fat, baby Simon sleeping on your lap. I ached for you.”
His tone softened with pity. “I thought you were pretty, of course, but it was as I watched you make your way in a new place that I came to admire you. I knew perfectly well that your life before was very different, but you tried so hard to master everything you could to take the burden from your aunt. You turned your hand to work that you could not possibly have imagined yourself doing and you persisted until you accomplished everything. And you made sure that little Simon laughed and played and felt safe, even when anyone could see that your heart was broken.”
Bernie had to drop her gaze then, for he'd clearly seen so much more that she'd ever known. She looked at his large hands, wrapped around her one. Those hands, she had to admit, felt exceedingly warm and secure holding hers.
He went on. “You were too young and I was too soon into my studies for anything to come of it then. I thought that if I waited, and if I found just the right position, that I would be enough of a prize to catch your interest.”
At that she looked up, startled. “You waited? For me?”
At her continued disbelief, he seemed to falter. “I thought, well, your uncle wrote to me often, and I to him. In every letter, he devoted much of it to you. How proud he was of you, or something clever you’d said to make him laugh, and how he worried for your future when he could no longer provide for you. He said you liked hearing of me as well.” He swallowed then and blinked. “It only now occurs to me that it might have been a bit of wishful thinking on his part. Or mine.”
Bernie recalled her uncle reading John’s letters before the fire, sharing news of him with them all. And she had liked it, very much. Now that she thought about it, she’d had a few wondering thoughts about him as well.
Until the winter day when she’d found the first bottle in the river.
Her throat tightened further. She’d been so foolish! Such a silly, romantic dreamer! Here John had been, waiting for her, working for her, while she’d been mooning over a grief-stricken stranger who’d not even known she’d existed until a few days ago.
Now, she frowned up at the man who had just offered her everything any woman might dream of: a fine home, a good heart, a handsome exterior and what seemed like true devotion. Am I his Marianna?
Her mouth opened. What was she to tell him? Shame brought on a flush.“I have absolutely no notion of what to tell you.”
He flinched a little at that, then gave a rueful bark of laughter. “Your honesty only endears you to me more, Bernadette. Confusion, I can understand. And I much prefer candid bewilderment to polite hints of false hope. You did not turn and run away. Might I deduce from that encouraging fact that the notion is not entirely distasteful to you?”
“No. I mean, yes.” She had to laugh at herself then, a gulping, panicky sound. “I’m sorry. I am confounded. I confess that I did think of you, of us, at one time.” She looked away. “But I seem to have given up on that aspiration.”
He nodded and sighed. “I left it too long. I know. You are twenty already. Everything just took longer than I’d hoped. I wanted just the right position, just the right place.“ He waved his hand around the ballroom.
Bernie knew that he meant the village of Haven, not the manor, but she cringed inside. Not this place, not for her. But that pretty village? And that gracious vicarage?
He went on in a rush. “I do not wish to plead a lost cause, but I have so much to tell you about Haven. One of the reason why I picked it is that the school is very good. Just the thing for an enquiring lad. Or we could ask his lordship about tutors."
Mortification squirmed in her belly. Oh, no. Not a word about his lordship. Not right now. Bernie held out a hand to stop John's torrent of words. “There is no need to convince me that Haven is a fine place, John. Or that you have much to offer any woman.”
She took a breath. She was not a liar, but she could not bear to expose her foolishness to this excellent man. “It is only that I didn’t realize. I truly had no idea you still thought of me. I thought you'd gone away, never to return. I thought I knew my future, caring for my family.”
“And then I fling my heart into your hands without warning.” He shook his head. “I understand. I have spoken my piece. I will not pester you with it, dear Bernadette.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a gentle fingertip. “When you’ve thought it through, you know where to find me.”
Yes, she thought. Just down the hall at the inn.