Dreams of Christmas

by Barbara Miller

  Dreams of Christmas

  Barbara Miller

  Blush sensuality level: This is a sweet romance (kisses only, no sexual content).

  Sarah Pelham is led by the spirit of Christmas past to dream about her missing twin and sets out in a snowstorm to find her. Lord Vance is led by the same spirit to take shelter at the inn where Sarah arrives, and discovers she is the girl of his dreams. Vance is determined to help Sarah complete her mission so she can then marry him. The spirits of Christmases present and future also have a hand in ensuring the couple’s happy ending.

  Dreams of Christmas

  Barbara Miller

  Dedication

  For Charles Dickens, who inspired me to write Dreams of Christmas.

  Chapter One

  23 December, 1814

  A glowing light permeated Sarah’s bed curtains and she thought for a moment the house was on fire. But the light was white, not red, and when she had the courage to shove the curtains aside she saw the glow was coming from the window. That and the slight tic-ticking on the glass pane finally lured Sarah from her bed though she had the impression she had been hearing it a long time. The floor was freezing since her brother Jerome deemed it a waste of coal to heat bedrooms. She balanced on one cold foot then the other as she gazed out at the bright nighttime landscape.

  There was no moon but the glow seemed to emanate from the snow whirling in a magical dancing funnel like a water spout. She thought it looked more like an angel dancing. In spite of the sleet she raised her casement to see better and the clean sweet smell of snow washed over her with a flood of memories. Sliding on the frozen creek with Annabelle, playing hide and seek among the snow-laden holly bushes and feeding breadcrumbs to the song birds whose light feet danced on top of the frozen world.

  A musical childlike voice called to her from the swirling snow angel, “Wave goodbye now. You’ve nearly missed her. You should have gotten up when I woke you.”

  Coming around the house on the drive was a sleigh pulled by a dapple gray. The driver slowed the horse so that the woman snuggled with him under a lap robe could look back at the house. When she waved Sarah saw her red coat sleeve and realized it was her sister Annabelle. Where could they be going at night, even on such a bright night? The man clucked to the horse and it moved on, the sleigh making a sharp snick as it cut through the white softness. The snow angel danced between her and the sleigh, obscuring her view.

  “Wait, don’t leave without me,” Sarah called with a raised hand but they were growing dim and no matter how hard she tried she could not see them or even hear the sleigh runners. That’s when she realized the horse had no bells on. So this had been a clandestine departure.

  Sarah jerked awake with a gasp, dashed the bed curtains aside and ran to the window. The floor was indeed like ice as usual but the window was dark and strangely blank. All she could see was her reflection, long brown hair and empty brown eyes, but if she used her imagination she could think of it as her sister for they were identical twins. There was still the insistent tapping of ice crystals against her pane but there was now nothing magical about it. She put on her robe and slippers and crept downstairs to the dark sitting room, hoping the hearth there still held some warmth.

  Annabelle had been gone a whole year. She had in fact left the night of their eighteenth birthday. But the handsome man in the sleigh and the snow angel were part of the dream world and might not be real. Still, often Sarah’s dreams came true. But why dream of Annabelle leaving? She was already gone. What good was a dream about something in the past? Sarah was used to dreams about the future, ones that could come true. She lit the small stub of candle she had been sewing by earlier and unearthed her novel from under the chair cushion where she had hidden it from Jerome.

  The fireplace gave no warmth though a few embers still burned. She took the poker and meant to stoke the ashes to see if something would flame up and at least look more cheerful when she saw a scrap of unburned parchment on the hearth. What a waste of good paper. She fetched it out and shook off the ashes. It was part of a letter and the heading read King’s Arms, Thiston. The letter was dated a year ago today. The only other writing was Dearest Sarah. It was in Annabelle’s hand but the rest was gone, burned away like her twin’s existence. Jerome must have done this. So Annabelle had written and he’d withheld the letter. She’d teach him.

  The hall clock chimed midnight. Now it was Christmas Eve day which should be a time of happiness and good will. All she felt was resentment for a brother who thought he knew best. She’d put up with him her whole life, condemning her for being frivolous, riding roughshod over her with his superior faith. He had gotten even more managing when their father had died and the living at Muybridge devolved to him. But this last year had been unbearable and she’d felt like a prisoner in her own home. Now it was time to act. She just had to convince her companion, Miss Fetters, of the wisdom of her plan.

  * * * * *

  Vance never saw the girl’s face in his dreams, just her back. But he could tell she was the one. He was standing on a wintry street in some village, smelling the smoke from a hundred cooking fires, and hearing children laughing with that tremulous excitement that came only with Christmas. A girl in a green coat walked past him and he missed seeing her face. He watched her walk away and felt paralyzed to do anything about it. She was tall and poised but not haughty and she spoke to everyone. The most he had seen of her face was the side of her cheek. He had to imagine her lips and eyes and nose. If he listened carefully he could almost hear her laughter. He wondered if he was the only person who had lucid dreams, ones where you knew it was a dream and tried to make it come right.

  A melodious little voice hummed a Christmas carol but it was not his lady singing. It sounded more like a child. Then he saw it, twirling and dancing before him like a fairy in filmy white robes. The holly wreath the sprite wore on her head recalled his dreams of her when he was a child. He thought of her as the true spirit of Christmas. But that had been many years in the past when he was still a boy and all things seemed possible to him. His father’s death had vaulted him into manhood too early. Suddenly, he had no longer been called Marcus, but Vance, even by his mother. That had distanced him from his family. Eventually he thought of himself as Vance, the title, not Marcus the person.

  Why was this bright and untarnished spirit visiting his dream now after so many years of absence? Or was it he who had been absent from the spirit of Christmas?

  “You saw her once if you recall,” the spirit piped, “on the street in a village not far from here. It was just two years ago.”

  “I remember. I was trying to think of a reason to speak to her and she disappeared into a crowd. I have met many women but she was the only one I felt I could fall in love with.”

  “Like many good moments you let it pass you by and your time runs short. There will come a day when she is beyond your reach.”

  “But who is she? How can I find my true love if I don’t even know her name?”

  “In due time,” the Christmas spirit said. “Have the courage to speak at your next meeting.”

  A rough jostling jolted Vance awake when his head banged against the back of the seat and he realized from the position of the carriage that they must have run off the road. Wait ’til he got hold of his coachman. But where was his valet Fisk who had been sitting on the seat opposite him?

  Vance got out of the coach to let the team drag it out of the ditch. Old Fisk was tugging ineffectually on the halter of one of the leaders and looked more exhausted than the horse. Steam rose from the horses’ backs and noses. The coachman was shouting encouragement, but the nigh wheels just rolled along in the ditch making all the horses nervous as it dragged them closer to the edg
e of the road.

  “Wait, let me,” he shouted, then grabbed the spokes of the large hind wheel and put his shoulder to the rim, almost willing it to ride up out of the slurry of ice water that was penetrating even his well-oiled boots.

  When they were back on the road he went to the leaders’ heads and Fisk said, “I fear we’ll not make it to Vance Hall tonight, sir.”

  He looked around at the desolate highway in the dim fading day. “We can’t be so far from Thiston. We haven’t passed it have we, Sam Coachman?” he called.

  Whereas Fisk’s face was red with the cold Sam’s was bloodlessly white and it frightened Vance. The man shook his head and then the reins slid though his fingers. Only as Sam grabbed for them did Vance realize how very dangerous the situation was. Here he’d been luxuriating under a snug lap robe with a warm brick for his feet and his coachman might have frozen his fingers. When he looked at old Fisk he had his hands under his armpits.

  “You two are frozen. Get inside and I’ll ride one of the leaders. I have better gloves.”

  “I’ll not!” the coachman shouted with the last of his strength.

  “Would you rather lose your hands?” Vance gathered up the reins of the team of four and carried them back to the seat. “I’m knotting the reins about the whip and I’ll guide them. Get your hands inside your coat and thaw them. And you, Fisk, get in the coach. That’s an order.”

  “No quarrel from me,” Fisk said. “My old feet are as frozen as my fingers. But now you will freeze, my lord.”

  “Not on top of a horse. I shall be warmer than either of you.”

  Vance looked back to make sure Fisk got into the carriage and Sam had thrust his fingers inside his coat under his armpits. Sam was younger than Fisk and more used to the cold but his pallor startled Vance. At least they knew how to take orders. When his boots slid on the icy road Vance realized riding one of the team might result in a broken leg for either him or the horse or both. He got between the leaders and held onto the inside rein of each below the bits. Somehow they had confidence that he could keep to the road. As they began their slow progress it occurred to him that up until now he had worried more about a horse breaking a leg than either Fisk or his coachman freezing to death.

  With his father dying so young he and his brother had been coddled. That was the truth of it. At least Robert, his slightly younger but wiser twin, had broken away and joined the army. But here he was obeying his mother’s summons to come for Christmas when it really was quite insane to be traveling in this weather.

  Sometimes he thought he had no proper feelings. He’d never been required to worry about others so never picked up on their discomfort unless they complained. And for some reason his servants never complained.

  Fisk he had inherited from his father and the rough old valet had stood in place of a father to him all these years, giving admonishment that would have gotten him discharged by any other master. Sam Coachman had taught him to ride his first horse and here he had nearly let him freeze to death.

  He needed a guide, a compass to tell him when he was being stupid. He needed a wife and not one as spoiled as he was. He needed to find that girl in his dreams.

  His team was content with the slower pace and somehow his weight between them stabilized the whole group so that no one went down. As for staying on the road it was guesswork. He often found himself drifting off to one side as the swirling ice crystals pelting his face stung his eyes and made it hard to see. But a dancing snow ghost always appeared between the banks of snow, some trick of wind and ice funneling down the middle of the road, and he followed it, connecting it to the Christmas spirit in his dream who had been encouraging him to find his faceless lady.

  During his trek he had leisure to reflect on his own mortality. Vance could very well die out here just as Fisk and Sam could but his only fear was that Robert would think he had been incredibly stupid. He kept flexing his fingers so as not to lose feeling like Sam but his boots were wet and his toes growing numb. His greatcoat kept the rest of him warm enough though the sheer weight of the wool garment sapped his strength.

  They passed no one for what seemed hours but was probably no more than one. The silence except for the ring of shod hooves on ice was as pure as bells and for some reason caused him to stay connected to his task. The hoofbeats were more a measure of distance than time. So long as they continued he would eventually get them to the village safely. Finally the dancing, swirling snow cleared and he saw houses, then a street. They were in Thiston.

  Instead of climbing back inside the coach and arriving in style he was obdurate to his coachman’s admonitions and simply led the horses under the archway and into the yard of the King’s Arms. Who was there to impress here except a couple of ostlers who issued forth, hoping for largesse? Who was there to embarrass except himself? He found he was not at all embarrassed by doing something useful for a change. It felt good.

  Fisk bounded out of the coach and began unloading baggage so his hands and feet must have recovered. Vance was glad since his own fingers and toes were numb. Sam climbed down with difficulty and profuse apologies.

  “Sam, you should have told me how bad it was getting. Now come into the inn to warm yourself.”

  The coachman watched worriedly as the ostlers unhitched the team and led them to stalls, dropping the coach shafts where it stood in the yard. “I shall do better in the stable where I can keep an eye on the team. The ostlers always have a bit of fire going. But what about your mother? We should try to get word to her.”

  “Lady Vance will survive one holiday without me there and will guess we have stopped along the way. Besides, it’s a season not a day. Too bad your missus won’t have you with her.”

  “She won’t despair of me neither. Mayhap tomorrow we can get there. It’s not Christmas yet.”

  Ten minutes later Vance was thawing in front of a fire in a good bedchamber with a glass of brandy between his palms. He could not feel enough to hold the glass any other way and the tingling in his fingers and toes was excruciating. But it did feel good to have done something useful if not heroic. Perhaps that’s why his brother Robert liked the army so much. He belonged and they needed him. He envied Robert, born twenty minutes later into freedom rather than a life bounded by servants trying to keep him safe. He’d always hoped they’d been switched at birth and raised the possibility once to his nanny, but when the second son appeared the woman had been instructed to make note of all distinguishing marks of the firstborn and the catalogue of moles and blemishes was so embarrassing he never inquired again.

  Chapter Two

  It was nearly dark when Sarah Pelham got off the stage in the cobbled courtyard at the King’s Arms in Thiston and waded through the dirty snow to the door while her companion followed her from the vehicle. Sarah looked back when Miss Fetters stopped to cajole a servant into carrying their portmanteaus into the main hallway of the inn where the older woman plunked a penny into his hand after which he disappeared. The proprietor was just coming into the hallway from the dining room with a stack of dirty dishes and asked what he could do for them.

  “I am Miss Pelham. We’d like two rooms.”

  “I have no rooms left.” He started down the hallway to the back.

  “But that’s impossible. You always have rooms,” she said perhaps too loudly. But it was really difficult to be heard over the boisterous party in the closed parlor on the right and overmuch scraping of knives on plates in the common dining area to the left. The food, whatever it was, smelled wonderful and she realized they’d had nothing to eat all day except a few rolls her companion had stuffed in her sewing bag that morning.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed there is a snowstorm.” The man nodded to the door. “I cannot save rooms when the stage is this late.”

  “You have nothing for the stage passengers?” Miss Fetters asked in a panic.

  “There was no expectation of the stage even getting through in this weather.”

  “What are we sup
posed to do?” Sarah asked.

  “Go to another inn.” Once again he turned toward the back.

  Sarah was about to continue the argument when a gentleman came down the stairs looking in their direction. He was blond and brown-eyed, an unusual combination, and dressed in top boots, pantaloons and the well-cut coat of a dandy. He had looked away then but when she called to the proprietor the gentleman’s head snapped around in their direction. His gaze fastened on hers and he walked toward them as though he knew them.

  “Did you say these ladies need rooms?”

  The harried man turned again, the plates by now probably getting heavy for he had his teeth gritted. “They must go somewhere else. We have no vacancies.”

  “But you just rented me a bedchamber and sitting room.”

  “And glad you were to get them in this weather, weren’t you?”

  The gentleman turned to them. “Excuse me. I am Marcus Brooks, Earl of Vance. Perhaps there is some way I can help.”

  “I am Miss Sarah Pelham and this is Miss Fetters.”

  “Listen,” the innkeeper growled. “What none of you seem to understand is that I have no more rooms.”

  “Have my baggage moved from the bedchamber you just rented me.”

  Finally the landlord set the stack of dirty dishes on the floor with a clatter and wiped his large hands on his apron. “To where? I haven’t the smallest attic left. My wife and I are sleeping in the kitchen ourselves.”

  “There is a connecting door between my two rooms so they can be divided. I’ll sleep, if I sleep, on the divan in the sitting room.”

  “Very well. As soon as I have a free moment I’ll take care of that for you. Perhaps by tomorrow.”

  “Very funny, Groton.”

  The gentleman smiled at the jest until the innkeeper said, “Now as to payment.”