Eleanor: A Regency Retelling 0f Peter Pan (Regency Romance)

by Martha Keyes

  Mr. Debenham waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You owe me nothing at all.” He looked around the room and then back at Eleanor. “Is there anything I’ve forgotten? I don’t wish you to be uncomfortable.”

  Eleanor shook her head quickly as she thought of the type of night she and John would have faced without Mr. Debenham’s assistance. “No, we shall do very well. Much better, mind you, than if we had been obliged to seek accommodation at The Black Boar.”

  Mr. Debenham’s side smile appeared. “I certainly hope so.”

  “I can’t seem to fall asleep,” came John’s small voice. He still lay staring up at the ceiling, but his eyes held a glint of fear in them. His arms were on top of the blanket, his clasped fingers twiddling.

  Eleanor’s mouth twisted to the side. “John, my dear, you haven’t been in bed above two minutes. Of course you haven’t been able to fall asleep yet. Once I snuff the candle, I’m sure you will do just fine.”

  “No,” cried out John, sitting up straight with wide eyes.

  Mr. Debenham had been moving toward the door but stopped in his tracks at the outburst. His head tilted to the side, and he looked at Eleanor with a question in his eyes.

  She returned his glance with her own confused expression then walked over to her brother, crouching down next to him. “What is it?”

  He eyed the candle dubiously. “Don’t snuff it out, please.” His eyes flitted to Mr. Debenham, and he spoke in a whisper when he said, “It’s too dark.”

  Eleanor sighed. If John refused to fall asleep without candlelight, she would be obliged to wait to snuff it until he was soundly asleep, putting off her own rest even longer when she was already exhausted.

  “Shall I tell you a story, then?” Eleanor said. Their mother had been a wonderful storyteller, and though John had been very young when she had died, he still spoke from time to time of the stories she told. Neither Eleanor nor her father had the same knack for weaving tales, and with time, John seemed to accept that his bedtime would no longer include anything but a few stories Eleanor had memorized.

  “I hate your stories,” John said, folding his arms obstinately. “You always tell the same ones over and over.”

  Mr. Debenham was standing near the door, and he seemed to be torn between staying and leaving. John looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and his shoulders suddenly relaxed.

  “Lawrie,” he said. “Will you tell me a story?”

  Mr. Debenham’s mouth opened and then shut, and he looked at Eleanor who felt her cheeks heating up. John seemed determined to make Mr. Debenham regret bringing them into his home.

  The muted sound of laughter met their ears, and Mr. Debenham glanced at the door.

  “John,” Eleanor said, “Mr. Debenham is entertaining guests. He can’t possibly leave them to fend for themselves just to tell you a story, love. Tell him thank you and good night.”

  Eleanor watched as John’s eyes moved to Mr. Debenham. They were round and so pathetic as to be endearing. “Thank you, Lawrie. And good night.” His words were just as she had asked them to be, but his eyes begged Mr. Debenham.

  Mr. Debenham didn’t move, staring at John with his lips working for a moment. “Once upon a time,” he finally said, walking from the door toward John’s makeshift bed. He sat down on the floor next to the dog, leaning his back against the large, wooden bed frame, one hand in his lap, the other lost in Anne’s fur. John propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

  Eleanor tried to catch Mr. Debenham’s eye—to send him a look of gratitude, since that was all she could do to thank him in the moment—but he wasn’t looking at her. How could she ever thank him for his generosity? And when would it peter out? For it surely would by the time they left in two days if John persisted in making a hero out of the man.

  “John,” Eleanor interrupted, “if Mr. Debenham is to tell you a story, you must lie down while you listen and promise to make no complaints when I snuff out the candle afterward.”

  John nodded solemnly and laid down on his side, resting his head on his hand with the pillow underneath.

  “Once upon a time,” Mr. Debenham continued, “there was an old, mossy ship, washed up on the shore off the coast of Cornwall. The wood was rotting, the sails were tattered, and the paint on the side had faded so that you could barely see the name of the vessel: Neverland.

  “For years it sat on the rocky beach, but no one dared go in. Legend has it that it washed ashore in the middle of the night during a winter storm, full of pirates and their treasure—gold and jewels and pearls and silks—” his hands made grand gestures with each word “—the likes of which you and I have never seen.” He stopped, and John’s wide eyes stared, waiting for more. “Only one man witnessed the shipwreck, but he disappeared the day after, never to be heard of since. His name was William. This is his tale.”

  Eleanor blinked twice. She realized that she was leaning forward slightly, waiting upon Mr. Debenham’s words with almost as much anticipation as John. She smiled. Even when she herself had become too old for bedtime stories, she would often sit on the edge of John’s bed and listen as their mother created a new tale, night after night. She hadn’t realized how much she missed those evenings and the calming sound of her mother’s voice as she listened with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and the fire in the grate warming her back.

  She sat down on the floor, her back against the wall and her legs tucked to the side. Mr. Debenham’s story carried on, and Eleanor watched him—the boyish excitement in her brother’s eyes was reflected back at him in Mr. Debenham’s. A lock of his sandy hair had dropped onto his forehead. He looked every bit as youthful as John did. He was in his element.

  Eleanor watched with a small smile as John’s eyelids started to droop, only to fly open as he tried his hardest to stay awake. But his exhaustion won out in the end, attested to by the small drop of saliva pooling at the side of his mouth. Eleanor’s head tipped to the side, and she let out a breath of relief.

  Her eyes flitted to Mr. Debenham who was regarding her with a thoughtful expression. He put a shushing finger to his lips and gingerly raised himself off the ground, baring his teeth as he watched John for any sign of disturbance. The effort was met with success, though, and John remained as he had been for the last few minutes, except for the saliva which slid down his chin and dripped onto the pillow below.

  Eleanor stifled a laugh with her hand, raising herself from the ground as softly as she could manage. Mr. Debenham offered her his hand and helped her up. They walked to the door, and she was aware of a sudden shy feeling. With John asleep, she felt very much alone with her host.

  “You have been far too accommodating and kind,” she said in a whisper, keeping her eyes on John—to watch for any signs of waking, but also to avoid looking Mr. Debenham in the eye.

  Mr. Debenham leaned in closer, his ear toward her. “What was that?”

  She clenched her teeth, afraid to speak any louder. He grimaced his understanding and pulled the door open slowly, inviting her with a nod of his head to step out. She swallowed nervously, hesitant to follow, but she felt a pressing need to express her gratitude to him.

  He left the door ajar once they were out of the room, a fact which Eleanor noted and appreciated, as it allowed at least a few beams of candlelight into the otherwise-dark hallway.

  “I was only wishful to thank you,” she said, clearing her throat, “for your attention and kindness to us. You have gone above and beyond anything I expected or could have asked for. I wish I could find a way to repay you, and I am terribly sorry if you are already regretting your—”

  He put up a hand to silence her, and she stopped.

  A small smile appeared on his face, and he put his hand down awkwardly. “I apologize,” he said. “That was impolite of me. But I’m afraid I have never been very good at accepting thanks. I am only glad that I’ve been able to provide some assistance.”

  “Some assistance?” Her brows went up.
“That is a gross understatement, sir. But I shan’t continue with my thanks if it would make you uncomfortable.”

  “Thank you,” he said, with a sigh of relief.

  Her mouth curved up on one side. “Ah, so you are permitted to express your thanks but I am not? I see.” She nodded in teasing comprehension.

  He pursed his lips. “Touché.”

  She glanced through the crack in the door where she could see John lying peacefully. The Colonel was nestled in the crook of his arm.

  “Your story was precisely what John had hoped for. It has been a great while since he’s been able to enjoy such a well-crafted bedtime story.”

  Mr. Debenham shook his head with a pained expression. “It was a silly choice on my part. I made it far too exciting for a lad needing to fall asleep—I realized that about halfway through and made sure to dampen the excitement to a level more conducive to boredom.”

  “Whatever you did,” she said, “it worked. I was dreading the battle of getting him to sleep. He has struggled since our mother’s passing—she used to tell him bedtime stories every night. Wonderful creations, much like yours.”

  How many times had she wished for her mother’s presence on those late nights when John would toss and turn, refusing everyone but herself? John had been young enough when their mother died that not even he realized why he couldn’t sleep. But Eleanor knew. And yet she felt helpless.

  She turned to look at Mr. Debenham and smiled feebly. “Unlike you, I am not favored with a creative mind. John hasn’t hesitated to inform me that my repetitious, memorized stories leave much to be desired.”

  Mr. Debenham looked at her with a slight crease between his brows, his eyes staring into hers as if he were seeing her for the first time. “Everyone has a creative mind.”

  She laughed softly. “That you should say that is only more evidence of your imagination. Some of us are purely practical. You would believe me if you had heard me tell a story.”

  He shook his head. “You have simply forgotten how. A child's mind is always creating. It is only when we grow up that we forget how to create.”

  Eleanor stood in silence. She had indeed grown up quickly. There had been little choice in the matter. Her mother’s illness had started subtly. And just as subtly, it had begun to require more and more of Eleanor until her mother’s death had extinguished the last flicker of childhood.

  When she had donned her blacks, Eleanor had put away plans and hopes as if in the back of a drawer. She no longer had use for such things.

  “And what of you?” she said, coming out of her reverie. Who was this man who seemed to be free enough from sorrow that he could still create as a child does?

  Mr. Debenham’s gaze moved from her eyes into the inky hallway beyond. His jaw went hard. “There are enough adults in my life and to spare.”

  Eleanor blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone.

  He looked at her and blew out a laugh. “Have no fear. We will revive your imagination yet, Miss Renwick.”

  Eleanor swallowed, suddenly aware of the small distance between them despite the entire length of the vacant hallway available. Her impulse was to take a step back, but she feared giving offense.

  Mr. Debenham must have sensed her unease, as he bowed his head slightly and said, “I am sure you are exhausted from your journey, and here I am, keeping you from rest.”

  Eleanor shook her head quickly. “No, not at all. You have been nothing but helpful and kind to us.”

  “Well,” he said, glancing toward the dimly-lit form of John through the crack in the doorway, “please don’t hesitate to call upon me if you have any need at all.”

  He bowed again, turning on his heel and leaving her in the dark hallway where a thin column of flickering light reflected on the wall adjacent to the door. She stared at it for a few moments, wondering what to make of her host who had seemed to have not a care in the world until his cryptic comment.

  That she felt drawn to Mr. Debenham she ascribed to her exhaustion and to his having saved her from an undesirable fate. Now was no time to give in to silly romantic feelings—John needed her. Her father needed her.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Lawrence took long strides down the hall, his boots making a muffled but rhythmic noise as they hit the long, maroon rug lining the floor. His stomach growled, and his jaw tightened as he thought on the letter he had received. The steward his father had hired had conveyed in no uncertain terms that the estate demanded his immediate attention. He wanted to meet in person.

  If Lawrence wouldn't let his parents bully him into putting the estate in order, he certainly wouldn't let a stranger do so, steward or no. The fact that his father hadn't been able to let go of the reins enough to allow Lawrence himself the hiring of a steward was further evidence of his insistence on having control over all aspects of Lawrence’s life.

  He could only guess that his father was corresponding with the man, checking up on Lawrence and his progress. The whole gifting of the estate smelled strongly of a test. And Lawrence was not willing to be tested. He took in an irritated breath.

  As he approached the drawing room, he heard the sound of laughter float through the door which had been left ajar. One of those laughs was easily identified as belonging to Mr. Adley—loud and guttural. The other laugh was softer and decidedly feminine—surely the laugh of Miss Renwick.

  Lawrence’s lips pursed. He had assumed that Miss Renwick would stay abed later—he definitely hadn't intended for her to encounter Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower without him there to perform an introduction—and to perhaps prepare her for what to expect from them.

  He supposed he should have known Miss Renwick wasn't the type to keep late morning hours, though. She seemed more like his mother—awake with the rising sun, having accomplished most of her necessary tasks before breakfast. He sighed. Hopefully Miss Renwick was none the worse for her encounter with his friends.

  “We are talking of the same Mr. Lawrence Debenham, are we not?” Adley’s voice drifted into the hallway, full of incredulity.

  Lawrence slowed his gait, coming to a halt just shy of the door. What was Adley about?

  “Yes,” Miss Renwick’s voice said slowly. “That is, I assume so. I know only one gentleman by that name, but he is certainly the one who brought us here last night.”

  “Come now, Adley,” Bower said in his halting speech.

  The corner of Lawrence’s mouth lifted in a smile. Bower was not a man of many words, nor was he particularly skilled in speaking those few words, but Lawrence always paid close attention when the man spoke. There was often a streak of wisdom in his words that most people wrote off due to their poor delivery.

  “Stands to reason,” Bower continued, “she couldn’t be here talking with us in Deb’s drawing room if it wasn’t Deb she met last night.”

  “Hmph,” said Adley, clearly considering his friend’s words. “Well, stap me! Never knew Deb to be a dashed knight in shining armor before.”

  Lawrence thought it was time to step in. He opened the door, clearing his throat as he entered. His gaze flitted to Miss Renwick, curious for her response to Adley’s ridiculous words about knights in shining armor. There seemed to be a slight pink tinge to her cheeks, but she offered him a smile and a slight nod free of any reserve when their eyes met. With the full morning light coming through the room’s two windows, it was Lawrence’s first time seeing her in daylight.

  Gad, but she was prettier than he'd remembered.

  “Ah, Deb!” Adley said. “Wondered when we’d see you. We’ve just made Miss Renwick’s acquaintance.” He left the last word with an upward inflection, directing a significant glance at Lawrence as if to question why he even had such an opportunity.

  Lawrence pointedly avoided his gaze. “Ah, yes, my apologies, Miss Renwick.” He shot her a teasing smile. “I would never have left you to these fellows alone if I had known.” He looked around the room and then back to Miss Renwick. “Is John still abed, then?�
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  “John?” Mr. Adley said, pausing with his glass of ale mid-air. “Dash it, Deb! Should’ve told us if you planned to invite the entire county.”

  Bower shook his head rapidly with a finger wagging in the air as he finished swallowing a bite of his toast. “Couldn’t possibly invite the county. Deb’s not such a slow-top. He’s only got six beds.”

  Adley looked at Bower for a moment, his mouth hanging open as if he were deciding whether or not to reply. He seemed to decide against it, though, and turned back toward Lawrence. “Then who’s this John fellow keeping London hours in the country?”

  “John is my youngest brother,” Miss Renwick explained. “We were traveling together when the carriage wheel broke.”

  Lawrence could hear the apology in her voice. It had been apparent from his very first offer of aid that she felt no small degree of guilt for imposing upon him. And Mr. Adley’s thoughtless comments were clearly doing nothing to alleviate that.

  “She already said that, Adley,” Bower pointed out. “Must listen when a lady talks, you know.”

  Lawrence’s mouth twitched, and Adley looked stunned.

  He turned his head to Miss Renwick. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said in a chastised voice. “I have apparently been remiss in my attentions.”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I have been informed on more than one occasion by my younger brother Richard that one cannot be expected to retain any information before noon.”

  Mr. Adley looked very much struck at her comment, his head nodding slowly and then gaining speed. “I think I should like this brother of yours. Wise beyond his years, I should say!”

  Lawrence smiled, gratified to see that Miss Renwick and his friends seemed to be getting on well, and took his seat at the head of the table. He filled his cup with ale and began buttering his toast when the door opened once again.

  John appeared, his shirt rumpled, both fists rubbing at his eyes. The door opened wider, and Anne slid past John, heading straight for Adley.