This very room proves it’s a dream. It’s a child’s bedchamber, for one who is no longer a child. William would be Lord Thorne now, as Mrs. Shaw called him. His father died when he was ten, and his mother had been ill when I saw him at fifteen. His only sibling was Cordelia, five years his junior. As the lord of the manor, William would have the master bedroom, yet in my dream, I nonsensically see him in his old room.
I look back at the bed. If I crawl into it, will the dream end? Or will I then dream of being in it with him? Another shiver, delight mingled with dread again. That way lies madness. Best to keep this dream in the light of day. It will end soon enough.
I glance down at the dresser, the wood smooth under my hands. It’s more dressing table than modern dresser, with a wardrobe to one side and a washstand to the other, all in gorgeous gleaming mahogany. In less affluent families, furniture in a Victorian bedroom was recycled from lower rooms as it began to show wear, but the Thornes had the money to furnish their bedrooms new, and while this one is small, it’s well-appointed. Overdone, with more square footage allotted to furniture than is my taste, but that, too, was the Victorian way.
With no closets, most of the furniture is for storage, primarily clothing, and that includes the dressing table, topped with a horsehair brush, a pair of brown gloves, a pocket watch and several stickpins in an enamel tray.
I touch the washbasin pitcher. Without thinking, my fingers move to a crack in the handle, a rough spot under my fingertips. In my mind, I see my chubby five-year-old self demonstrating my ballet positions, and then executing a clumsy pirouette, hitting the pitcher and sending it tumbling to the floor. I wail in dismay as the handle snaps free and bounces over the hardwood, and I manage to clamp a hand over my mouth before anyone comes running. Tears stream from my eyes as I stare at the broken pitcher.
“I—I’m so—”
William catches me in a hug before I can get the apology out. “I’ll tell them I did it. Papa’s away, and Mama’s busy with the baby coming. I’ll hardly get in any trouble.”
“You shouldn’t get in any trouble at all. It’s my fault.” I pick up the handle and turn it over in my hands before spinning on him. “Do you have Super Glue?”
“Super glue . . . ?” His brow furrows in a way I know well. It’s the same expression I must make when he talks about an abacus or a Punch and Judy show.
“I’ll get some,” I say. “Uncle Stan keeps it in the cupboard.”
I brought a tube of Super Glue and fixed his pitcher, and it’s still here, with that barely noticeable repair. I run my fingers over the handle again and then look down, seeing my reflection in the water. When I touch the surface, it ripples.
The old pitcher is no family heirloom, just a cheap water jug, perfect for a child who might knock it over in the night. It’s out of place now among the lavish furnishings. As out of place as . . .
My gaze snags on what looks like a scrap of yarn tied to a post on William’s washbasin. It’s a bracelet. A braided one made of Chinese knotting cord.
Behind me, I imagine an echo of my voice saying, “I’ll be leaving soon.”
In my mind, I see myself at fifteen. I’m outside, perched on the pasture fence with William, watching his horse, his gaze moving between the horses and me. His eyes light up a little extra when they land on me, and that’s the secret reason I always suggest we hang out here. I know how much William loves his horses, and if his gaze brightens even more when it moves to me, that means something. It really does.
We’re sitting hip to hip, our hands clasped on my thigh. He’s been talking about horses—not surprisingly. He has his eye on a young stallion, and his mother says he should stick to geldings, but he’s trying to convince her the stallion would make good breeding stock.
When I say I’ll be leaving soon, his hand tightens on mine.
“You’ll be going soon, too,” I remind him. “Back to London.”
A grumble, one that sounds remarkably like the man who just stalked down the stairs.
I lean against his shoulder. “I’ll be back next summer. Mom can’t keep me away anymore. Dad won’t let her.”
A pause. A long one, and I smile as William’s new colt kicks up his heels and tears across the pasture to nudge a filly. William has been breeding horses since he was twelve, and he already has buyers for this colt and filly. They’ll go to their new homes before he leaves for London.
I’m about to ask whether it’s hard, parting with them, when he says, “I want to ask you to stay, but I know that’s wrong. You don’t belong here, so I shouldn’t ask . . .” His voice trails off. When I don’t reply, he straightens and says, “I wouldn’t. Ask, I mean. You have a life and a family there. I understand that. I’ll miss you, but I’ll see you next summer.”
“You will.”
He turns, face over mine. “In the meantime, perhaps I can have a little something to remember you by?” His lips twitch, eyes dancing.
“Of course, my lord.” I lift my mouth toward his. Then I tug off my braided bracelet and hold it out. “How about this?”
He laughs, plucks it from my hand and tucks it into a pocket. “I’ll take that, but I was hoping for something a little more like . . .” His fingers tuck under my chin, lifting it. The barest brush of his lips. “This?”
“Mmm, yes. I believe I can part with a few of those.”
“I may need more than a few. They have to keep me until you return.” His eyes turn serious for a second. “You will return, won’t you?”
“Always,” I say, as I lean over to kiss him.
The memory fades, and I’m back in his bedroom, staring at the bracelet hanging on his washstand.
You will return, won’t you?
Always.
I swallow.
A corner of my mind whispers that this is all a dream, but the reminder drifts past unheeded. Then a sound from the hallway has my head jerking up.
A cat’s meow, like the one that interrupted my night.
I push aside all other thoughts and follow the sound from the room.
I stand in the hall, listening. The cat has gone silent.
As I take another step, a reedy voice from downstairs says, “If you don’t intend to return to London, my lord, perhaps you should consider selling the townhouse.”
“Why? Do I need the money?” William replies. “Have the coffers mysteriously emptied since your last unnecessary visit, Phelps?”
“Of course not, sir. Your estate is in excellent financial health. I simply meant—”
“You meant to scold me into returning to London. Remind me of my responsibilities there. Responsibilities that I pay you very well to tend.”
“He isn’t scolding you, William,” says another man. “Phelps is suggesting, politely, that you are overdue for a return. Five years overdue. I won’t be nearly so polite about it. Get yourself home, old boy, and stop moping in the hinterlands.”
“Moping?” A short laugh. “Is that your plan, August? Insult me until, in proud indignation, I stride from my manor house, ordering my footman to prepare the coach for London.”
“That would work so much better if you had a coach,” August says dryly. “Or a footman.”