Call me John.
She shook off the spell of memory and forced a smile for the dewy Mrs. Feldon. “I’d like to buy something that the children of Haven favor especially.”
ACROSS THE SQUARE, John waited patiently for Lady Emmeline to purchase every green, blue-green, and yellow-green ribbon in the establishment. The milliner, Mrs. Corbin, was ecstatic.
“I bought up too many yards, Vicar,” she confessed to John quietly. “It right worried me with the ball tonight and me havin’ so much left unsold.”
“Well, Lady Emmeline is a keen patron of—of fashion, I’ve noticed.”
“Oh, aye! Isn’t she a grand picture? Like a princess come to our little village of Haven.” She gave John a wink. “A princess needs herself a knight in shining armor, Vicar, don’t ye reckon?”
It seemed a strange thing to say. John merely smiled benignly and wondered to where Miss Grey had disappeared.
When John and Emmeline left the milliner’s, with John toting an astonishingly large paper parcel packed with nothing but ribbon, they spotted Miss Grey leaving Felton’s sweet shop with an even larger bundle of something that could only be sweets. John smiled. Miss Grey did love her confections.
“Oh, we’re done already.” Lady Emmeline sighed. “It’s hours until we need to get ready for the ball. I don’t want to go back to the manor yet.”
Knowing that she’d spent much of the last week abed, John couldn’t blame Lady Emmeline for her resistance to returning.
Miss Grey looked as if she wouldn’t mind leaving half an hour ago, or even as if she hadn’t come at all. Something in John rose to the challenge of impressing her. “May I give you ladies a tour of the vicarage?”
Miss Grey bit her bottom lip. Lady Emmeline didn’t hesitate. “Yes! Excellent notion, sir! I’m absolutely perishing to see the vicarage!”
SOMEHOW VICAR JOHN Barton had tiptoed into Norah’s dreams and built the very house for which she had always wished. It was achingly familiar and simultaneously surprising, the way that the windows were wide and tall and the daylight fell just so upon the floors. How she would have arrange the parlor just the same, and how the graceful curve of the banister leading up the stairs fit beneath her hand as if she’d used it all her life.
Emmeline didn’t hesitate to peek into the mostly empty bedchambers, so Norah did as well. She saw the one meant to be a cozy nursery and she ached to see it filled. She glimpsed a single wide, curtained bed and blushed for the next ten minutes, for she would have chosen those very same rich blue jacquard draperies herself for the pleasure of seeing the firelight cast a glow of perfect evening light behind the privacy of their folds.
Emmeline was less impressed. “You’ll be painting all this wooden paneling, I assume?”
John’s voice was warm but firm. “I like the wood. I cut the paneling just that way to show off the grain.”
Emmeline was flabbergasted. “You. You cut the wood. Did you built this house? With your actual hands?”
Norah felt her heart beat faster yet. She stroked her fingertips over the silky finish of the warm oak doorframe and shivered slightly. She didn’t have to ask if he’d done it himself. He’d done it all with those strong, capable hands. She could see him everywhere, feel him in every square foot. It was part of him.
Emmeline’s voice broke the spell. “But she works for you! She should cook them!”
Norah tried to ignore her thudding heart and followed Emmeline’s voice—it was her irritated voice, oddly enough—down the back stairs to the cellar.
She found Emmeline and the vicar standing amid heaping bushel baskets of ... parsnips? Yes, parsnips. Hundreds of them, stored most improperly too, if she was not mistaken. Some would be rotting underneath, although at the moment the chill was keeping the cellar air sweet enough.
Emmeline turned to Norah, pulling her into what had clearly become a debate. “Nottie, his Higgins brings him raw parsnips and just leaves them that way!”
Vicar Barton looked amused and a little sheepish. He shrugged and smiled at Norah. “I’ve never had the heart to tell Mrs. Higgins that I don’t know how to cook. She’ll just want to do it for me, but she already works so hard. I’m sure it’s dead simple, but as I cannot yet brew a decent pot of tea, it is quite beyond me. I think I’m a little bit defective in the kitchen.”
Norah couldn’t help but find the secret cache of guilty parsnips adorable.
I’m so smitten that I would likely find a random roomful of badgers adorable.
“Of course you cannot cook! The very idea!” Emmeline was incensed at the notion. “That’s what Higgins is for!”
Norah saw John’s eyelids flicker at the way Emmeline said “Higgins” without the more respectful (and honestly less confusing within the territory of Haven) title of “Mrs.” It wasn’t Emmeline’s fault. In her world, no one called servants by anything but their surname.
Lord Bester found Norah’s habit of using “Miss” or “Mister” quaint and somewhat seditious. Still, he acknowledged Norah’s friendship with mere staff to be useful in certain situations, as when they needed to be cajoled into staying on without pay.
I do strive to be useful. Poor relations must always be useful if they wished to be tolerated.
Emmeline’s mood was shifting quickly and she squinted slightly at the brighter light in the kitchen when they climbed from the cellar. Norah saw John noticing it as well. By unspoken mutual agreement, they had Emmeline bundled up and back in John’s cart in a matter of minutes. It was a good time to head back to the manor, for the clouds had begun to mask the sun and the afternoon threatened to turn grim.
Vicar Barton kept the pace even on the way back, but he did not pause to point out any more of the village features. Norah rode silently on the other side of Emmeline, her thoughts occupied by light-filled rooms and curved banisters and solid, sandstone walls.
Norah wanted to stay there. She wanted to make tea in the spacious kitchen. She wanted to sit on the deep windowsills and dream.
It was if the house had always been waiting for her—this house that could never be hers.
Even strong wood can break, Miss Grey, if one does not take care.
Should she tell Em about her feelings for John? No. Emmeline might be many things, but Norah did not doubt her loyalty. Em would step aside immediately. Which would do very little to win John for Norah, for he clearly wanted a beautiful bride. If an “Emmeline” was what Vicar John Barton wanted, then a “Norah” would be disqualified before she even began.
Then naive, impulsive Em would still be out in the world, prey to the fortune-hunting jackals of the world. No, if Norah could do nothing else for these two people she loved so much, she could keep their way clear of such confusing side issues.
Her gaze wandered toward the vicar. He sat next to Emmeline, who was now a bit pale and uncharacteristically silent—but of course, still achingly beautiful!—and Norah could not help but see again how astonishing they looked as a couple.
She felt a leaden sadness take her over. Loving Vicar John Barton had changed everything. She’d thought she knew what her future held. She was only now realizing that her destiny was no longer so sure.
I will never be the same after coming to the manor and Haven. I don’t think I can ever be satisfied with simply being the dotty auntie to Emmeline’s children.
Then she realized something far, far worse.
I cannot live the rest of my days with Emmeline and her husband.
Her husband, John Barton.
The man I love.
The gray wintry day suddenly seemed endless, as if it would last for the rest of her life.
THAT AFTERNOON WHILE Emmeline rested, Norah busied herself with tying up little portions of sweets in squares of cheerful printed muslin provided by the ever-resourceful Miss Higgins. She used some of Emmeline’s extravagant ribbon purchase to make pretty bows, thinking that the girls could keep them as hair ribbons and the boys co
uld give them to their mothers or sisters, although Norah imagined there might be a few ribbon-bedecked puppies running about as well.
The thought made her lips curve in a wistful smile.
Emmeline woke up from her nap much refreshed and ready to dress for the ball. Norah was glad to see it and squelched the tiny voice that said it would have been nice to skip the ball entirely, as a dutiful cousin tending to poor Emmeline. However, Emmeline was getting better every day and an evening of dancing and enjoying herself would do her no harm. Em need not suffer even a jouncing carriage ride home, for the ball would take place only a few floors away from her bedchamber.
Having decided to utilize that very escape plan if she needed it for herself, Norah suddenly felt more able to face the evening’s festivities.
Miss Higgins arrived as lady’s maid to help Emmeline dress, but Emmeline sweetly insisted that Miss Higgins join them in their preparations. So they were a merry enough trio, oohing and ahhing over Emmeline’s dramatic purple silk ball gown strewn with amethyst beads and Norah’s simple but luxurious one made of a deep green velvet that threw coppery glints into her tawny hair and, according to Emmeline, her dressmaker and Miss Higgins’s experienced eye, made the most of Norah’s “assets.”
Miss Higgins proudly donned a very pretty woolen gown the exact color of autumnal leaves, trimmed with a twining-vine edging stitched in contrasting yellow-gold embroidery. Emmeline squeaked at the beautiful stitching and dashed for her jewel case. Returning with a choker of golden silk ribbon that held a single carved bit of coral as a centerpiece, she gifted it to Miss Higgins on the spot.
“Norah told me how you nursed me so compassionately while I slept. It is the least I can do to repay you.”
“But my lady! It is too fine!”
“I shall never wear it again now,” Emmeline said firmly at Miss Higgins’s protest. “For it shall always seem lacking without that particular gown to match with it!”
Norah encouraged Miss Higgins as well. “She’ll only slip it into your pocket later if you say no. It simply won’t do to refuse her.”
Miss Higgins bit her lip and accepted the choker, which was very pretty but a mere trinket in comparison to Emmeline’s vast collection. It did look divine on Miss Higgins, with her deep brown eyes and her shining dark hair in braids fancifully coiled in high loops.
Emmeline’s hairstyle was a complicated arrangement of curled, pinned and artistically loose locks that looked as if they’d tumbled free in effortlessly accidental perfection. Fortunately, it was one of Emmeline’s favorite displays, so Norah had a good bit of practice. Miss Higgins thought she might try something similar with her ladyship’s hair sometime, though it was “mightily unruly” and would likely “dance right down.”
Then Emmeline and Miss Higgins turned on Norah with speculative gazes. “Your turn, miss.”
Norah shook her head. “My hair is already done.” It was the same as always, her thick braid twisted into a bun and pinned down tight.
Miss Higgins narrowed her eyes. “Not by half, it ain’t. I’ve been itchin’ to get me hands on you.” She held out one hand to Emmeline. “The pins, my lady? We’re going to need all of ‘em, me thinks.”
“I’m ready.” Emmeline gave Norah a cheerfully diabolical grin. “I bought lots of ribbon!”
Chapter 15
J
OHN STOOD IN the vast dining room of Havensbeck Manor with most of the village and Matthias, waiting on the arrival of Lady Bernadette and her female guests.
They entered at last in sort of a grand procession. Their fun-loving smiles made it into a celebratory parade instead of a show of wealth and social stature. The inhabitants of Haven seemed very pleased to see “their” ladies put on an impressive spectacle.
To John, all the ladies looked very nice, as if the prospect of dancing gave them an additional shimmer of splendor in expectation. He’d been informed that women went to great lengths to look extra-special for balls, but other than the gowns being a bit richer and hairstyles being a little more elaborate, he’d never really figured out how they went about it.
Then his gaze found Miss Norah Grey and stayed there, riveted. She looked—well, she looked like Norah, only more so. More shine to her hair, more pink to her cheeks, more plumpness to her lips...
And definitely more bosom on display! John froze, half of him lost in dreamy contemplation of such shimmering, ivory-fleshed abundance and the other half of him desiring to stride over there and fling his coat over her shoulders so that no other people—no other men!—could lay eyes upon that lavishness!
Was he being prudish? Looking around her, he could see that several other ladies had necklines just as low, even Lady Blythe and Mrs. Grey.
Yet John felt no compulsion to whisk any of them safely away from view. So it was only Norah. With a firm effort, John reminded himself that he was merely feeling protective of his good friend, who might naively be unaware of the appeal of her generous figure and its impact upon a gentleman’s ... ah ... ability to concentrate.
She did look fine, though, didn’t she? Her hair seemed different, too, as if she had already danced it into glossy, tumbled disarray. It was piled high and then fell behind her, long and curling halfway down her back. John’s hand closed into a gentle fist, recalling the silken texture of her warm, heavy braid in his palm.
As he came closer to the path of the procession that had begun to wind around the dining tables—because he seemed to feel compelled to approach—he saw that although she did seem to have done something to darken her eyebrows and lashes, she still mostly looked like Norah. His Norah, the one that only he had seen: the swift-acting Norah of the bridge rescue, the patient Norah who’d plunked down on the step with little Artie Tanner, and the vulnerable Norah who had shared her sorrowful past in a quiet, fire-lit room.
Most of the crowd seemed especially to enjoy the sight of Lady Emmeline. She was dazzling, of course, in shimmering purple with glimmering jewels.
“Like a princess,” someone near John uttered in awe.
“Nay, like a queen!” someone else proclaimed.
John thought Lady Emmeline looked absolutely stunning. Perfect. A budding goddess just stopping by the manor on her rise up to Mount Olympus. So very lovely, really.
Yet his gaze returned to Miss Grey.
She was smiling along with the other ladies, making a playful show with her tasseled silk fan, yet John could tell she was still troubled. The smile didn’t quite reach those woods-at-twilight eyes and that gaze that hinted at shadows like wandering mourners amid the trees.
The lord and lady of Havensbeck seated themselves at the high table with their guests. John could likely have qualified to join them but he found he wanted to sit down below with the people of Haven. The fact that it gave him a better view of the ladies did not occur to him at all, not even a little bit.
After the feast, which John was certain was delicious though he hardly recalled what he ate, Lord Matthias and Lady Bernadette rose to give a celebratory Christmas toast and a welcome speech. Soon they would lead the way into the ballroom.
Knowing he had only minutes, John dashed quickly out a side door. He had somewhere to be.
The children of his choir had been left in the ballroom under the dubious supervision of the eldest of them all. It couldn’t be helped, for John had not had the heart to ask any Haven adult to miss the dinner which they’d so anticipated. Therefore, there was a bit of hurried clearing up of mischief, wiping of faces and straightening of small cravats and pinafores. Cheerful red woolen scarves were draped across every pair of little shoulders in festive mimicry of the old-fashioned wassail, where a group of singers traveled from door to door in hopes of filling their tankards for a song.
He had just about managed to have the children tidied up and into formation when the large double doors opened and Havensbeck’s lord and lady entered at the head of the swarm of guests.
John was so proud of how
his previously restless and giggling group suddenly took on a dignified air of attentiveness and looked only at him, their director, instead of gawking at the grand assembly. Well, mostly anyway.
He waited until he knew that the last person had entered and the crowd took on an expectant silence. With his back to his audience, he raised his hands and gave the first motion, a wave to his tiny section of tenors.
“God rest ye, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay...”
Then he waved the entire choir to join. Their little voices swelled in the large hall. They’d learned how to fill the church with their song and now they projected beautifully in the vast ballroom.
Then it was little Arthur Tanner’s turn to step forward and sing. When John saw the child’s sickly pallor and wide eyes, he feared the evening might become another mortifying episode for the little chap.
However, Arthur fixed his terrified gaze on something off to one side of John and opened his mouth at the perfect moment. Artie’s pure soprano voice rang through the hall like a crystalline chime.
“In Bethlehem, in Israel,
This blessed Babe was born
And laid within a manger
Upon this blessed morn...”
John heard muffled gasps and cries of wonder from the audience and his heart swelled with pride in his choir. As Artie sang on, John cast a glance over his shoulder to see what held the boy’s attention so.
It was Miss Grey, standing at the front of the crowd with her gaze fixed on Artie and her lips moving, singing silently along with him.
Artie’s solo verse ended and John watched as Miss Grey clapped her hands and bestowed upon Artie a tender smile so full of pride and gentleness that John felt a stab of surprise deep in his chest.
He’d never seen that smile before. It was beautiful, that smile. He found he couldn’t look away.
Then he realized that silence had fallen where no silence belonged. He jerked himself back to the present and quickly motioned to the tenors again.
While You Were Dreaming Page 13
