The carriage bumped a bit on the snow-packed lane, but Bernie could not tear her astonished gaze from Aunt Sarah's face. "You think I should wed John Barton?"
"Well, why not?" Aunt Goodrich folded her arms before her, a bit defensively to Bernie's view. "He's a fine, established man, a good man! It's a worthy match. You'll make a fine vicar's wife eventually."
"Now, now, Sarah. Give the girl a moment to absorb the notion." Uncle Isaiah turned to Bernie, his kind eyes sympathetic. "Just think about it, Bernie, dear. John is in need of a wife and you two seem to get on well. And," he shrugged a bit helplessly, "we know John."
Know John? What did that mean, precisely? Bernie clenched her eyes shut in exasperation. "Get on? We danced one dance! We went for a half hour's walk! I'm supposed to base such a monumental decision on a reel, three fields and a badger's burrow?"
"You're too old to think like a romantic child," Aunt Sarah muttered with a sniff. "You have no idea how hard a world this can be for a woman!"
Bernie opened her eyes to gaze across the carriage at Sarah's bent shoulders and roughened hands. Oh, I have a fairly good notion. She felt her face grow hot with shame. She'd seen more than her aunt realized in the lives of the villagers. Girls disgraced and rushed into bad matches, too young. Older spinsters living on charity and the pickings of ever more meager gardens as their strength failed them.
There were far more terrible fates for a woman than marrying a good man and living in a fine, modern vicarage. She and John likely would get on. They would work for the village and perhaps have some children and spend their entire lives together, getting on.
She wanted more.
I'm so blasted selfish I can't stand myself right now. But I still want more.
Even now, in the carriage, she saw her aunt fussing over her uncle, who was visibly drooping. Suddenly, she realized why they were pushing her for a match with Barton. Isaiah Goodrich was old and weary, and Aunt Sarah was worn to the bone. The post was too hard, the village of Green Dell in too much need, but the vicar couldn't retire. If they could scarcely survive on the vicar's income, the pension would never care for all four of them.
I've been so blind.
Two orphans at their door had meant a significant dent in the couple's ability to stretch a vicar's income, yet Bernie had not realized that for a long time. They had never said a word to her about it. She'd had to overhear a quietly worried conversation when she'd needed to visit the privy one late night.
That was the summer she'd built the dam, dragging the stones on a ragged horse blanket she'd tied around her shoulders like a cape. She'd found a book in her uncle's library about stone work and had done her sixteen-year-old best. When the first dam had washed out during the spring rains, she'd done it again, twice as wide with portals built in to let high waters pass.
Carefully, she folded her hands before her. This was like the dam, wasn't it? Something that would help her aunt and uncle, and Simon, too. Something that only she could do.
A vicar's wife. A life of gravity and dedication. Bernie lifted her gaze to her aunt across from her. Sarah may be work worn and hard-edged, but in her way, she seemed content. She doted on her husband and the two of them were strong partners, shepherds and examples to all.
There were worse fates, to be sure.
No more silly fancies about broken-hearted lords sweeping in to rescue her. You could help everyone in your family, if you would simply grow up.
Yes. Rebellion was for children. She could take this next step. After all, she was smart and strong and she understood what a vicar's life entailed.
"You're right, Uncle Isaiah. I'll give it a good thinking over, I promise."
They nodded, pleased. Still, a tiny voice in Bernie's mind wailed, But why must it be Haven?
Matthias lurked in the recesses and unused rooms of Havensbeck Manor until the last of the guests had either departed or taken to one of the bedchambers prepared for them. How could he face anyone after that strange and public moment of near-lunacy?
Really, there is only one person you cannot face.
He would have to, at some point. He'd behaved like a lout, throwing her aside in the middle of a waltz!
What must she think of him?
What would Marianna think of him?
Divided loyalties tore more powerfully than hungry wolves, it seemed. Matthias felt bloodied and defenseless between them.
Beautiful, exhilarating Marianna, the starry-eyed memory of life-past, the spellbinding passion of his youth, the woman he'd adored beyond sense, the mother of his beloved Simon.
Versus cheerful and compassionate Bernadette who, entirely without mystery or wile, had managed to laughingly stir him from his graveside slumber, exhaling the sweet breath of the lively present to warm his numbed cheeks. She even had a Simon of her own in tow.
There was comfort in the known. Turning his face back into the past, he could simply go on as he had been. He could do his duty, he could perform mostly as a normal man, except for a few weeks every winter when his grip on normality would slip and he would drink far too much and write letters to the dead. The year would pass much as any one before it. And so would the year after that, and the year after that.
The stirring of emotions long banked in the smoke-stained depths of his soul bid fair to upsetting that endless chain of mere existence. Bernadette came, like a practical housewife with a broom, and threatened to sweep the ashes of his heart into her keeping.
Restless, unable to remain still, Matthias began to stride the empty night halls of his manor, his gut feeling like ashes swirling before the force of a broom.
The simile spooled onward, until he pictured pretty, grinning Miss Bernadette Goodrich smacking the dust from the carpets of his spirit, polishing the patina from his once sparkling mind, throwing open his heavy draperies and calling forth the sunlight to wake him every morning, and curling close and warm with him every night.
Ahem.(why did the voice sound so much like Jasper?) Perhaps you ought to first make her your lady wife?
Wife?
Marry?
I am already married.
No, you are not.
Oh. He'd forgotten again. The vows he'd made that day had expired, like a lease, the title of husband torn from him.
Father, as well? He paced faster, taking a turn above the ballroom, seeking scope for longer strides as if he could outpace his own battling emotions.
No. He'd had a son. The mere two years allotted made no difference to the way his child had changed his heart. He would always be Simon's father, until the day he died.
Funny, bright-souled Simon!
The bundle of bulky jacket and awkward boots lay heaped at Matthias's feet where he'd stopped half-around the mezzanine above the dark ballroom. The bundle snored lightly.
"Simon?"
The carriage ride back to the inn seemed to take forever. Surely, Bernie thought, she could have walked the distance faster on her own!
Of course, she wasn't on her own. Uncle Isaiah was pale with exhaustion and even Aunt Sarah flagged badly. Bernie had to help them to their chamber, and then stayed to build up their fire despite Aunt Sarah's weak protestations of wastefulness.
As she fluffed up her uncle's pillows and kissed the top of his balding head goodnight, he took her hand in his chill, dry one.
"We only want you to be cared for properly," he said sadly.
Bernie extracted her hand with a gentle pat. "I know that."
It was all perfectly sensible. Fortunate, even. John cared for her, and looked forward to caring for Simon. She was the lucky one.
“I cannot come to an answer until I speak to Simon,” she said quietly.
Aunt Sarah bristled. “I can’t think why! It isn’t up to a little boy!“
Uncle Isaiah put a hand on Sarah’s arm. “You do that, Bernie. Go on now. I’m sure he’s still wide awake, waiting to hear all about the ball.”
Aunt Sarah fussed again, albeit half-heartedly, as Bernie and Uncle Isaiah shared a look of understanding. Then Bernie turned and picked up her skirts to make her way up the stairs.
But the chamber she shared with Simon was dark. He must have been more exhausted by his adventures than she’d thought, for there was only a lump beneath the covers barely visible in the glow from the coals.
She didn’t want to wait until morning, not when she was feeling rather determined and self-sacrificing now. Better to put this matter to rest before she weakened.
Sitting down on the mattress next to her dearest little lump, she reached to pull down the coverlet.
Then she leaped to her feet and ran back down the hall. When she burst into their chamber, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Isaiah looked up in surprise.
“He’s gone!”
Matthias knelt next to Simon, curled sound asleep in the mezzanine. There was a smear of cream on his upper lip.
Matthias had missed out on the cake, due to the ill effects of his own uncertainties. Served him right, of course. Still, he had once liked cake.
Despite Matthias's gentle prodding, there was no waking young Master Goodrich from his sweets-sodden nap. Matthias gave up on that idea and lifted the little boy into his arms instead, grubby boots and all. Simon stirred slightly, wiggling into Matthias's arms. He let out a great sigh of satisfaction.
"I like it here." Simon yawned with the abandon of the very young and very sleepy. He went on in a drowsy murmur. "We had a big house once. I remember. Everyone thinks I don't, but I do."
Then there was silence except for the thudding of Matthias's pulse in his ears. He'd carried his own child like this, limp-tired and boneless, cradled against his heart.
Matthias was entirely surprised to find that he didn't feel pain at this reminder. He felt warm and necessary in a way that being lord of the manor had never made him feel. It was wonderful to pick up a sleepy child and tuck him against his shoulder. It felt right.
There could be more children in his life, if he chose. Becoming a father again would cost his own Simon nothing. As he passed Marianna's portrait in the hallway, Matthias stopped to look into her smiling eyes once more.
You're being very silly, Mattie, he could hear her say the way she used to, with a depth of fondness in her amusement that belied her teasing tone. It occurred to him that of all the people in the world, his lovely Marianna would be the first to scold him for wasting all his love on the dead.
In his study, he balanced Simon Goodrich's slight weight easily with one arm while he reached out to tug on the smaller bell-pull hidden behind the other, the one that called Jasper and Jasper alone.
It was time for a certain little boy to be off in his own bed at the inn, and time for Matthias to face Miss Bernadette Goodrich with his heartfelt apology in hand. Perhaps bringing back her brother might ease her indignation?
Matthias could not imagine sunny Bernadette indignant. Still, he'd wager she looked very pretty when cross.
The night was stark black, as dark as any night Bernie had ever seen. The thick covering of crystalline snow helped reflect back the searchers' lanterns only a little before the circles of light waned to shadow and then to nothingness.
Bernie scarcely felt the cold for her terror for Simon, although she was happy she had managed to persuade Uncle Isaiah to remain behind. Her aunt and uncle were far too fragile for such a venture. Secretly, Bernie was glad enough to be able to surge ahead as quickly as her own weary legs could take her. She'd borrowed Uncle's boots and thrown on as many layers of woolens as she could but still she shivered in her old coat and scarf.
The low temperatures only drove her fear higher. Simon was so small and thin and she was certain he'd been too foolish to dress himself properly. She ought to have simply allowed him to go to the ball or at least to go down to the inn public room to join some of the other village children who were spending the evening there. But he'd looked so ragged this morning, with his large eyes shadowed with and his thin cheeks so pale. He'd told her that he was all right, but Bernie could not squelch the memory of him spinning away from her on his pitiful raft of ice. All she'd wanted was to wrap him in cotton wool and tuck him away, safe and sound for just a little while….
A little while so you could dance in the arms of his lordship?
Bernie refused to waste one instant of her stamina on self-recrimination. There would be plenty of time for that later. The only thing that mattered now was finding Simon. She rushed ahead of the innkeeper and the other village man who walked with her. She strained forward like a hound on a leash, searching her soul and her senses for any inkling of Simon's location. Sure she should be able to sense him if he were near!
She was so panicked and fear-stricken that she was not making sense anymore. She knew it, and she cared not at all.
She had her own small lantern so she did not notice that she left her companions behind until it was too late, and she had lost sight of any other bobbing lights other than her own. It was disconcerting but not alarming, not for her own sake. She knew where she was, more or less. The valley was a valley, just like her own, after all. The ground slipped down to the river and up to the hills and the river flowed from the village southward and westward. That helped somewhat in that she knew that she would be able to find her way either to the village or to the manor. It did not help her find Simon.
She slogged onward wearily picking her feet up high and stomping them down again to work her way through the knee-deep snow. Every once in a while she stopped to catch her breath and to call Simon's name. "Simon! Simon!"
After perhaps a dozen repetitions of this she heard a sound in reply.
"Hello, there!"
"Simon?" The voice had been deep. Bernie swung around in confusion. "Where are you?" She held the lantern high. "Simon?"
"Bernie-Bernie-Bernie!"