Bernie Goodrich wrapped one fist in the back of her brother's thick winter jacket and held tight to the leafless branch over her head with the other. Beneath them, the ice-edged water of the River Churnet swirled gray and white.
"Just a bit more."
"I haven't any more, Simon. Do you want to take a dousing in the ice water and cause Aunt Sarah to carry on about you taking a chill? She'll boil you alive in the tub until you're the color of a cooked lobster!"
"Got it!" Eight-year-old Simon held the bottle aloft like a trophy, brandishing it in triumph.
Bernie pulled him back to the bank with a mighty heave. "Heavens, you're growing. I won't be able to do that for much longer." She set him on his feet and then brushed her fallen hair back into her knitted hat so she could better examine their prize.
"It's a different label than last time," Simon pointed out. "Look, there's a waterwheel on this one."
Bernie tilted her head. "I think it's one of those Dutch inventions. A windmill." She held the greenish-brown bottle to the wintry gray daylight and tried to peer through it. "This one looks chock full of paper!"
"Bernadette Goodrich! What on earth are you doing on the riverbank on such a terrible day?"
Bernie tucked the bottle away into the folds of her skirt as she straightened. "Nothing, Aunt Sarah!" She called back up the bank.
Her aunt gazed down at her from the path above the Churnet, her work-worn fists plunked onto her angular hips. Her brow held the permanent furrows of confusion that Bernie and Simon seemed to inspire in their childless aunt and uncle.
"Are we late for something?" Simon whispered as they clambered up the bank. The grassy slope was covered in a thick fall of snow. They left a trail of footprints, one set small and the other not much larger, in the pristine bank.
It was a good question. "I don't think so, but perhaps?"
It seemed to Bernie that she was usually in the wrong for one thing or another. Tardiness was her usual sin, although according to Aunt Sarah she was also accomplished in Laggardliness and Inattention. In the six years since she and Simon had been sent away from the epidemic that had taken their parents, they had lived in the vicarage of Green Dell and had done their best to adapt. Simon had only been two years of age, so the crumbling house and poor village was all he knew. Bernie, on the other hand, had been fourteen, old enough to recall every moment of another life.
A life very different from this one. "Let's see. We fed the chickens, filled the coal scuttles and turned down the beds."
"I fluffed the pillows!"
"And a fine job you did of it, too." Bernie counted off on the fingers of her woolen gloves. "Chickens, coal, beds, wood-box, and the dough is rising."
"We didn't dust the parlor!"
"Oh, Christmas Bells on a Stick!" Bernie swore. It was Wednesday and the village Ladies League met in the vicarage parlor every week. "Scurry home and get the cloths from the linen basket. I'll put the bread in the oven and meet you in the parlor. Go on! Run!"
Simon bounced ahead of her. If her aunt wasn't lurking watchfully about, Bernie would pick up her skirts and race him home. But the prospect of a lecture on decorum along with the usual one on duty made her head ache just a little bit.
She didn't mean to be a slackard. It wasn't that she minded the constant work, for Aunt Sarah was thrice as industrious herself. None of the chores she'd been set were terribly arduous, at least not now that she was fully grown. It was just that there were so bloody many of them!
And now she'd said bloody in her head, which had to count as some sort of sin. Bernie sighed. It was so easy to sin, living at the vicarage. When Mama and Papa were alive, she'd hardly seemed to sin at all!
The paper-stuffed wine bottle tucked deep into her coat pocket banged against her knee at every step. It was the first one they'd seen this year! Excitement simmered within her, fighting with the frustration that threatened to boil over.
With the Ladies' League gathering at the vicarage today, she and Simon wouldn't have a moment to examine their find until bedtime!
Christmas Bells!
The days are too quiet without you and your mother. The nights are as silent as death itself. Sometimes I must snap my fingers at my ears to be sure I can still hear anything at all. Where is your shriek of glee? Where is your mother's laugh? Did you take them with you onward or are they lost forever?
A poor village meant a poor vicar, if he were an honest fellow. Uncle Isaiah gave everything to his people and they gave back what little they could. Summers were better, when Bernie could fish and pick berries and the hens laid well.
Now, in the winter, bellies were never quite full enough. The vicarage creaked in the night, and the windows weren't tight enough, and coal was too dear to keep the fire going all night long. Nonetheless, Bernie and Simon had learned to tolerate the chill and darkness to stay up late at night. Aunt Sarah believed in "early to bed, early to rise" and "early birds get the worm" and that keeping late hours made one susceptible to Satan's minions, or was it Satan's mischief? To be certain, Bernie was a terrible listener.
However, fear held no sway over two young people with a yen for a bit of freedom.
Aunt Sarah and Uncle Isaiah had been abed for hours, and Bernie and Simon were sprawled on their bellies on the braided rug in her bedchamber, with seventeen letters spread out before them, a single hoarded candle-stub brightening the center of the assortment of stained and wrinkled pages like a spotlight on a stage.
Four of the letters were from the first Christmas after the dam had been built. The next year had brought five, all during the three weeks before Christmas. Then there had been four every year until this one.
Simon touched the corner of today’s find. "He sounds different now."
Bernie tilted her head. "How so?" She'd noticed it as well, but she wanted to hear Simon's thoughts. He had a way of looking at things, of seeing the heart of the matter.
"His handwriting is better." Simon pursed his lips. "I think he didn't drink so much brandy this time."
Bernie would have liked to keep such knowledge from his young mind, but there was no keeping anything from Simon's sharp awareness. He was clever, like Papa. But not so serious. Bernie had made sure of that, remembering how to play and laugh herself, fighting through her own grief, just so she didn't have to see the bewildered gravity in his child’s eyes anymore.
"Mama would say he is finding his feet." She spoke of their parents easily, had made herself do so when she'd realized that if she did not give them to Simon, no one would.
"Or he ran out of liquor," Simon said, his tone matter-of-fact.
"Or Jasper made extra toast!" She was rewarded by Simon's snicker.
The man who wrote to his lost wife and child didn't mention other names very often, but Bernie and Simon were very fond of the passage from two years past where he had written, "Jasper despairs of me in these dark times. He would feed me quail in aspic, cake and puddings, filling my hollow spirit with food and pointless celebrations. I take my revenge upon him by refusing anything but dry toast with my brandy. It is petty, but I enjoy it in a small, black-hearted way."
Bernie thought Jasper must be a manservant. Simon stoutly maintained that Jasper was the mystery man's best friend. Bernie privately wondered if the letter writer had any friends. If he did, would he spend hours every winter writing to people who were gone?
She'd tried it once, after she'd found the first letters. She'd written to her mother, telling her all about how Simon was growing, and said the cleverest things, and how cold and bare the vicarage was, and how Bernie longed for something more from Aunt Sarah, who worked so hard on other's behalf but never laughed.
When she was done, she felt a bit lighter, but Mama and Papa would never read those words, and Aunt Sarah might, if they were left lying about. Bernie realized that her sixteen-year-old opinions might hurt her aunt, so she tossed the letter into the fire and then stoically endured a scolding for wasting precious paper when Aunt Sarah found the scraps in the coals.
She never wrote another letter. But then, she still had Simon, and her aunt and uncle. He only had Jasper.
Looking down, she saw that Simon had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on one skinny arm, his other thumb dangerously close to his mouth. "Just keeping it to hand," she whispered to him with a smile, recalling their father's wry estimation of the practice.
Before she lifted him into the trundle by her own bed, she picked up the latest letter and read it through again.
You thought the snow was magical. So did your mother. So did I. Now it is only cold and wet. But at least, when it lies heavy, it keeps the world at bay.
Beautiful words, yet so sad. Who was this man?
The house resounded with silence. Matthias wandered through the large rooms, his footsteps echoing through the luxurious drawing room with its dark fireplace and through the grand dining room where only a single candle still lighting the room reflected from the many crystals in the chandeliers.
He liked it quiet, of course he did. He was always telling Jasper that. Then Jasper would try to get him to go out, or have guests or make calls. In turn, Matthias refused, avoided and generally disregarded his butler's urgings.
Yet tonight the silence fell stifling. If not for his own steps and the slight creaking of the floors as he was walked, he would've doubted his own hearing. So still.
Some of the staff were likely in the village, enjoying the celebrations. Jasper was generous that way, especially since there was so little occupation with only the master at home. The house could probably do with less staff, but how could Matthias let his people go? Marianna had chosen them, or brought them with her, and even grown a few right here in Haven. They were Marianna's people is much as his.
So he paid them all and he paid them well, and in return they tried to fill their days keeping the manor in gleaming order, ready to host royalty. All for a master who never had guests, rarely ate dinner, and only infrequently rode his horse.
They could move on. Of course, none of them did. Matthias could feel their loyalty like the heat of a kitchen hearth fire, yet distantly, as if he felt it through the glass panes of sorrow that surrounded him.
It was a big house, and could sustain a large family and all their relations. A few times he had entertained the notion of letting it out, of leasing it to some large boisterous family that would fill the house with the sound of children running, and voices in the dining room, and music in the music room.
Then where would he go, if not here? Another place would not carry the memories of Marianna and Simon. Another place would be strange and sterile and new – – at least to him – – and he would have to pay attention, and learn new things, and remember which drawer held the buttons and which held the shoehorn.
He didn't want to pay attention. He didn't want to be focused and alert and aware of the present moment. What was the present moment to him? It held no Marianna and Simon.
It held no one at all.
Bernie might not care for the never-ending labor of keeping house, but she appreciated the ritual of visits to the ill and infirm. It was Aunt Sarah's duty as the vicar's wife, but Sarah hadn't the patience for tending the sick and had gladly handed the responsibility over to Bernie.
Bernie’s father had been a physician and her mother, his brilliant assistant. Bernie recalled riding in Papa's carriage from one fine house to the next, sometimes helping with tasks like bandaging a slight wound, sometimes banished to a parlor to wait while a lady gave birth.
Going on rounds in the tiny village of Green Dell reminded Bernie of those times and the way her father's calm manner and her mother's soothing voice would ease the worry in someone's eyes. In her own fashion, she tried to do them proud. Simon tagged along, for he was always happy to talk to anyone who couldn't escape his chatter.
"Mrs. Small, do you know about a little boy who died?"
In the small but sturdy cottage of the village's foremost matriarch, Bernie kept her hands busy plumping the old woman's pillows as she cast her little brother a warning glare.
Simon blinked innocently, his large green eyes shining with angelic sweetness. The little beast. Bernie's hands smoothed the complicated quilt and smiled at Mrs. Small. "Don't mind Simon. He has a bee in his bonnet."
Mrs. Small smiled indulgently at Simon. "No, he's a dear, he is! What lady, pet?"
Simon had chosen his mark carefully. Mrs. Small adored gossip.
Simon approached the bed, reaching out to touch the quilt with a single chubby finger, every inch the wistful waif. Bernie sent him a cynical glance. He had no shame at all.
"I heard a story, Mrs. Small," he said breathlessly. "A sad story, about a little boy and his name was Simon, just like me!"
Bernie fought not to roll her eyes. Her brother was entirely able to speak in perfect sentences, not this babyish blurting. Still, she hesitated to scold him now. Mrs. Small had been hoarding information for every one of her seventy-eight years. If she hadn't badly twisted her ankle on the icy lane a few days earlier before, she would probably be out collecting some more tidbits at this very moment. If anyone had knowledge about the mysterious Marianna and the man who mourned her, it would be Ellie Small.
Besides, Bernie could always scold Simon later.
Mrs. Small fidgeted with her covers, eager to chat. "My goodness! What a story, little one! There have been a lot of boys named Simon over the years. Do you know when this happened?"
Bernie went to the table by the fire to pour Mrs. Small a fresh cup of tea. Not that she was trying to lubricate the old woman's memory, or anything so self-serving. Simply being thoughtful, that was all.
"Probably not more than a few winters ago," she said over her shoulder, keeping her tone slightly indifferent. Simon could play the inquisitive waif, but she could not pull off such a feat without seeming strange and desperate. "I think it happened around this time of year."
"Coming on Christmas? Goodness, that would be a sad tale! Wait a moment. Did you say this happened here in the village?"
"I don't think so. Upriver, perhaps." Bernie gave a little dismissive smile as she served Mrs. Small her tea, cup on the saucer, handle turned just so, presented with both hands, exactly the way Mama had taught her in another time, another world. Then she turned a mild glare on her brother. "It isn't important. Just some old story he heard. I'm sure you wouldn't recall a thing about it."
Shame on her. Throwing down the gossip gauntlet like that, challenging Mrs. Small's knowledge of local history!
She was a terrible person. She secretly vowed to come back tomorrow and scrub Ellie's kitchen floor to make up for it.
Her guilt appeased by such a penance, Bernie took a chair from the table by the fire and brought it to the bedside. Simon snuggled closer to the coverlet and gazed up at Mrs. Small with wide-eyed wonder.
Now fully invested in proving her infallibility, Mrs. Small sipped her tea and squinted at the far wall, visibly combing through decades of collected tittle-tattle.
"Simon," she mused aloud. "There was Simon Cooper, the boy that fell out of the hayloft and never woke from it. Of course, he was near sixteen." She glanced at her listeners, checking for confirmation.
Simon shook his head. "No, this one was littler than me."
"Ah. How sad." More tea. More scrutiny of the distant wallpaper. "There was young Simon Morton. He had the burst appendix. He was a wee lad, no more than six or seven."
Bernie leaned closer. "Upriver?"
Mrs. Small tapped her fingers on the rim of her teacup. "No, no, downriver. In Beekerton, or thereabouts."
"But there was also the lady." Simon pressed close, visibly willing Mrs. Small's extensive memory to do its magic. "His mother died and he died, too."
Mrs. Small blinked. "Together? Oh heavens. Well, that would be that poor woman upriver, then, wouldn't it? What was her name?"
Bernie sat with her fists clenched in her lap, unable to deny her own need to know any longer. "Mm?"
"Marianna!" Mrs. Small burst out. "That's it! Oh my, what a tragic tale. Her and her little boy dying in that fire! Why, the entire county was aghast! But that had to be seven years back."
A year before she and Simon had arrived at the vicarage. That explained why they'd not heard about it at the time. And if anyone had ever mentioned it to Bernie in the time soon after her own loss, she wouldn't have noticed past her own pain.
But now?
"Seven years?" Marianna's husband still mourned his wife and son with desperate intensity.
Bernie fought the urge to clutch her own Simon close in that moment. She didn't know what it meant to lose a spouse, but if she ever lost her dear little beast, she thought it quite possible that she would die on the spot.
Or expire slowly and alone, piece by piece crumbling under the pain, dissolving to nothing over all the years of her life.
Just like him.
She'd fixated on the letters as if they were a story, an escape from her humdrum life, a romantic tale in some book Aunt Sarah would disapprove of. Now, she pressed her palm to her middle in response to the jolt of true compassion she felt for the man who wrote them. You poor soul.
Suddenly ashamed of herself, she stood and brushed briskly at her skirts. "Well, Simon, it's time to leave Mrs. Small to rest."
"Lady Marianna and little Lord Simon," sighed Mrs. Small. "We all mourned, the whole valley. Poor, poor Lord Matthias!"
His name is Matthias.
And then, swiftly on the heels of that thought came another.
Lord? He's a lord?
Bernie swallowed hard. Not simply a gentleman but one of the nobility. And just like that, some little candle of hope, some secret dream she'd not even known she had, some fantasy was snuffed out by a chill draft of reality. She was of decent birth. Her mother was a lady, her father a gentleman, a respected man of medicine. She'd been born to a gentler life, a life of tea rituals and calling cards and lace on her underthings, but a titled match was still as far out of her reach as if she truly was just a poor vicar's daughter.
However, Simon was agog. "Lord Matthias? What's he lord of?"
"Why, he's the lord of Havensbeck Manor, he is! It's one of the oldest houses in the county." Mrs. Small announced proudly. "Some say that's what our river used to be called, back in Cromwell’s time. Haven's Beck."
Simon looked at Bernie, his eyes wide, practically jiggling with excitement. "Beck, that's another word for river, right? It's him, it has to be him! And he's a lord, Bernie! He's a lord and he needs a wife!"
Bernie clapped a firm hand right over Simon's mouth and smiled fixedly at Mrs. Small. "If there's nothing else you need, we'd best be on our way!"
She managed to keep Simon's exuberance suppressed until she'd gathered up her basket of jars of bone broth and dried herbs and shoved him out onto the walk outside of Mrs. Small's front door.
Then he turned on her, all coy sweetness stripped away. He folded his skinny arms and glared at her. "I found him. I found Lord Matthias! And you don't even care!"
She looked away, tugging her skirts out of the snow and picking her way down the lane. "I care. It's good to have it settled and done."
Simon ran in front of her and blocked her way with a challenging glare. "You need to write him back! You need to write a letter right now!"
Bernie drew back. "I need to do no such thing!" Except that she had thought about it, if she ever found out his identity. She would write a letter and he would write back to her and someday they would meet.
Her baby brother, her darling, the child who adored her above all others, stared at her with scorn. "Coward."
She lifted her chin. "You wouldn't understand," she said loftily, against the sting of his disapproval. "After all, you're just a little boy." And she picked up her skirts and whisked around him. It was time to finish her visits to the ailing and get back to the vicarage, where she belonged.