No one came for the bath. Bernie waited quietly, with Simon snoring lightly in the big bed and the nearly dry letter in her lap.
She had no fear of being caught with it. After all, it was only a few sheets of paper that could be anything at all. Moreover, she’d practiced folding it lengthwise and sliding it into her sleeve so many times that she was quite confident she could do so at the merest turn of the latch.
I am becoming sadly deceptive.
Part of her was ashamed. That was the part that took all Aunt Sarah’s admonitions to heart. The part that believed in fair play, honesty and high virtue.
The other part, the one that kept all of Lord Matthias’s letters in the bottom of her sewing case, the one that read and re-read them long after Simon had fallen asleep, the part that had wanted to come to Haven even after learning of the author’s high rank and tragic loss.
She didn’t mean to be conniving. There was simply some part of her that clung to the outlandish notion that those letters had been meant for her to find, that upriver was a man who needed a friend, and that possibly, just possibly, that friend might be her.
This was the fantasy that had kept her warm during the harsh winters at the vicarage, had made it easier to smile at her brother when loss and responsibility threatened to weigh her down, had given her something to look forward to year after year when her unchanging life seemed likely to remain yet the same forevermore.
I need answers, my darling.
A bolt of restlessness shot through her at the thought. She stood to pace before the hearth, folding and unfolding the pages in her hands.
She needed to get out of this room.
Simon would be fine. It was a grand house, full of earnestly helpful staff. If anything, the manor should fear Simon and his ambition to see and know everything there was to know about everything.
For a second, she savored this relative lack of responsibility. Simon was safe. He was clean and dry and asleep. There was even a tray of buttered bread and pickles laid out for him when he awoke.
Mentally dusting her hands, Bernie opened the door as silently as possible and set out to explore the manor.
One end of the long hallway led to another hall which led to the grand staircase. Since Bernie had no desire to see the front hall again, she went in the other direction.
This led to a grand gallery. One side of the long wide room seemed made of light. The windows were wide and high, larger than even the glass in the Green Dell chapel.
At first she found her gaze drawn by the magnificent views of the estate grounds. She faced the drive, a long gravel lane that looped on itself in front of the great doorway, so visiting carriage could turn easily.
Stretching out before the house were long beds of flowers—or at least, they would bloom come spring. Now they were like the straight bones of some giant creature slumbering just under the snow. Only the dormant branches of the maze stretched high enough to pierce the fallen snow, reaching up like a gray-brown memory of the green walls of summer.
It was austere and chilling to see, yet Bernie could imagine the life just below the surface, ready to burst forth once the season turned, pulling off the still white blanket of winter.
“I fear it looks a bit grim now,” said a voice over Bernie’s shoulder.
She jumped a little, then turned to see the line face of the Havensbeck butler.
“Jasper—I mean, Mr. Jasper—“
“Jasper is fine, Miss Goodrich.”
It wasn’t fine, not really. But she was in the awkward position of not-quite-guest so she took the nice man at his word.
“Thank you, Jasper.” She waved a hand at the window. “I was just thinking about,” she was going to sound odd but the words just kept coming, “blankets.”
But Jasper’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Yes, miss. I quite see what you mean. Everything is caught in a spell of slumber, so to speak.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “Precisely!”
“Is young Master Simon resting well?”
Bernie nodded. “He’s a terror to put to bed, but once there he falls like a sawn tree. There’ll be no waking him until he’s ready.”
Oh dear. She sounded as if she were fishing for an invitation to stay the night. “But I’m sure it won’t be long until he’s up and about,” she assured the kindly butler. “And we’ll be on our way.” And out of yours.
“I hope the staff took good care of your needs,” he said as he turned her from the end of the hall back toward the gallery. She wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, for he didn’t so much as touch her elbow, but suddenly they were perusing the paintings instead of the view.
“The lords of Havensbeck make up quite a roguish band,” Jasper said. Bernie had the impression he was continuing a conversation they’d never actually held. Odd, but reassuring. She wasn’t the only pudding-head about the place.
She gazed obediently at the first painting. It was a life-size portrait of a man in a suit of armor. She squinted at it. “Didn’t they weave tapestries back then, not paint canvas?”
“Oh, this isn’t a portrait of a medieval knight. It’s only Lord Burgess stuffed into some ancestral loot. His current lordship’s great-great-uncle, that is. He hated the fashion of the day, with those puffy pumpkin breeches—“
“Paned slops,” Bernie corrected him absently.
“Indeed. So he had the artist paint him in the armor instead. Claimed he wouldn’t be preserved for posterity with a—pardon me, miss, but it is a quote—‘fat arse’.”
Bernie smiled. “And is that why he is a ‘rogue’?”
“Oh no, Miss Goodrich. He was a rogue because he was a cattle thief, of sorts. Whenever he visited another household, he would bring his ‘pet’ cow. No one could protest such a little thing, no matter how odd it seemed. it wasn’t until years later that he confessed that it was a different cow every time and that he was simply avoiding breeding fees, while tucking into his victim’s banquets and courting their daughters.”
Bernie bit her lip against a laugh. Jasper was being rather salty but she supposed that came of having no lady about the house.
She moved on to the next portrait, a brooding fellow with a long dark wig and a thin mustache. His bulky black velvet coat was absolutely festooned with tatting. “And this one? Was he a secret highwayman or a rum smuggler?”
“Not rum. Lace,” Jasper responded promptly.
Bernie frowned. “He smuggled lace?”
“Oh yes. You see, at that time King Charles II was in the midst of a little tiff with the Flemish. To build England’s lace trade the monarchy placed an embargo on Brussels lace. Lord Kern didn’t wish to be without his frippery, so he shipped over a bit for himself and his friends. It became so lucrative that he rebuilt the family coffers twice over before the embargo was finally lifted.”
“And no one ever knew?”
“Of course they knew! How else would they get their lace? The king himself was a customer.”
Bernie shook her head. “Politics.”
Jasper nodded sagely. “Politics.”
Bernie’s gaze lingered on Lord Kern’s sleeves as they moved on. Aunt Sarah didn’t believe in bold ornamentation. Mama had liked it very well.
I miss lace.
"Berrrrniiiiie!" Simon's howl echoed through the upper halls of the great house.
Jasper's eyes widened. "Oh my. He must be hurt!" He turned to hurry toward the bedchamber.
Bernie let out a sigh as she followed him, brisk but not panicked. "No. That 'Bernie' sounds entirely different. This one leads me to think that some chambermaid has caught him in his altogether."
Clearly, this strange, intriguing glimpse into the life at Havensbeck Manor was over. It was time to get herself and her wee beastie back where they belonged. Bernie only hoped she and Simon could keep Aunt and Uncle from taking their adventures too much to heart and calling an end to their holiday altogether.
In this, she knew Simon would be a solid co-conspirator.
The next morning, even Aunt Sarah had been distracted from her previous evening's disapproval by the Christmas Eve Ball at Havensbeck Manor. She wasn't the only one. By the time Bernie had progressed from her room at the inn, down the stairs and into the dining room, no less than a dozen people had asked if they would see her there.
The chambermaid for her room told her all about the gown she planned to wear as she filled the coal scuttle by the hearth. An elderly guest in the upstairs hall begged a dance with a teasing twinkle in his eye. A trio of giggling young women on the stairs informed Bernie, although she'd not asked, that they would be happy to help her with her hair.
"Not that there's any little thing actually wrong with it, of course!"
"Oh, no! It's just that we have ideas!"
Bernie decided the correct response to all of the above was, "That sounds lovely."
At their table, where Uncle Isaiah, Aunt Sarah, and Simon had already taken their seats, Bernie found an large, embossed invitation placed at a graceful angle across her plate. Simon was a-wiggle with curiosity and even Aunt Sarah couldn't take her gaze from the heavy parchment square as she nibbled on her toast.
Bernie sat at her place and plucked her napkin from its folds to lay it painstakingly across her lap, as if she had no idea what they were waiting for. Then she smiled calmly at her family. "Good morning, everyone! My, the baking smells delicious today."
Uncle Isaiah twinkled at her playful torture, but Aunt Sarah huffed. "Oh, you impossible child!"
Bernie thought Simon would snicker at her little game, but his gaze was still riveted on the invitation. "Openit-openit-openit," he whispered under his breath.
Of course Bernie was more eager than anyone to find out what it was, but her nature could be a bit on the contrary side. It seemed she never wanted to something if someone else deeply wanted her to do it.
Besides, she knew who had sent the invitation. At least, she thought she knew. And if it was who she thought it was, it wasn't the one she wished it was.
I'm not contrary. I'm insane.
Her natural common sense reasserted itself with a snap. Without further play, she picked up the heavy folded sheet and carefully lifted the plain amber-colored wax seal from the paper without breaking it.
"Dear Miss Goodrich,
I hope this finds you in good health. I regret that I could not converse properly with you yesterday. It is my hope that you intend to grace with your presence the Christmas Eve Ball at Havensbeck tonight. Although your attendance will be reward enough, it is my dearest wish that you might charitably grant to me a waltz."
Bernie closed the invitation and slipped it discreetly to her lap beneath the table. Then she looked up at her companions.
Simon looked confused. Uncle Isaiah wore his raised brows like an unfamiliar hat. Aunt Sarah, on the other hand, gazed at Bernie with very wide eyes.
"My goodness," she breathed. Then she blinked and shook off her amazement, trying to look blasé. "I had no idea young John Barton was so articulate."
Eloquent. Gracious.
Romantic.
Bernie forced a light smile. "Neither had I."
Beneath the table, she slid her fingers across the simple seal. It was a simple mark, a shape really. Nothing but a trio of curved lines, as might denote something on a map. A road, perhaps. If one hadn't see the graceful calligraphy closure at the bottom of the letter, one might have no idea what it signified. A river.
In hope, your grateful host.
M.
Matthias ripped his cravat loose yet again. "Blasted thing!" He'd meant to roar the words. Instead, he sounded frantic to his own ears.
Jasper, who had just entered the master's bedchamber with a tray of coffee in his gloved hands and three freshly ironed cravats over his arm, gave Matthias a glance of veiled exasperation. At least, Matthias imagined that he did. He was certainly exasperated with himself.
He dropped his head and held out the snarled cravat in defeat. "I cannot do it. Rescue me."
"Certainly, my lord."
Jasper stepped before him and turned him away from the mirror. Matthias peered downward over his own nose, trying to see what his butler was doing.
"Stop trying to look, my lord. You're denting the folds."
"Oh, well. Haven forbid I dent the folds." But Matthias gazed at the ceiling obediently anyway.
It only took Jasper seconds to do what Matthias had been failing at for a quarter of an hour. Normally, Matthias had no trouble dressing himself, tying his day-to-day linen cravats with the simplest of knots. This independence had led his creatively-starved valet to seek other employment years ago.
The formal silk cravat was another story, it seemed. Matthias examined Jasper's handiwork in the mirror. "This looks intricate." It was snug and high and uncomfortable, that was for certain. Matthias felt as though he should continue to gaze at the ceiling if he wanted to breathe properly.
"It is the current mode, my lord. Right to the minute."
"Ah." Matthias backed down before Jasper's fashion sense. "As long as it isn't yesterday's style. You know I cannot bear to be twenty-four hours behind the latest fashion."
Jasper ignored Matthias's mockery. "Me neither, my lord."
He poured Matthias a cup of blisteringly hot coffee. Black and harsh, the way he'd learned to drink it in the West Indies.
That tropical place was a memory so distant that it seemed a fairytale in this wintry Sussex valley. Matthias gazed absently at the tracings of frost that clouded the glass of his bedchamber window, turning the view of white, mounded landscape into a crystalline outline.
"She laughs," he told Jasper without turning. "But she is an orphan. How does she laugh when she's lost so much?"
Jasper looked up from placing the fresh cravats in their proper drawer.
"Perchance it requires practice, my lord." Jasper never gave in to maudlin emotion, but Matthias heard the faint trace of compassion in his butler's cool tone.
"Yes, perchance it does." He couldn’t imagine ever feeling light enough to laugh. Laughter required some buoyancy of spirit, and Matthias's very feet felt as though they were made of lead. Most days it was all he could do to keep them moving forward.
Jasper turned as he left the bedchamber. "Like many things, my lord, perhaps the first time is the hardest."