Once Upon A Dream (5 page)

"And the other conclusion?" she asked, setting her knife and fork side by side across her empty plate and picking up her wine glass.

"That perhaps it has been selfish of me to carry my mourning to the extreme of not providing my children with a new mother sooner," he said. "Georgette
does not remember Annette very clearly, more is the pity, and Robert, of course, has no memory at all of her. I tell them stories about her and I hope I
always will, but I do believe they have the need of a live woman to love and nurture them. I can give them a father's love, but I cannot be a mother too. I
have tried and have felt my inadequacy."

"It must be difficult," she said, kindness  softening her smile, "to choose someone who will suit both you and your children."

"Yes." He felt suddenly mortified to realize he was discussing his marital aspirations with a single lady whom he had invited to dine with him. An
attractive
single lady. "I do apologize yet again, Miss Thompson, for burdening you with my family concerns. You are altogether too good a
listener."

"But I love listening to people," she said. "Really listening, I mean, to the words that people say and to what they do not say aloud. It is something I
have learned at my school. Teachers tend to talk too much and understandably so because they have much knowledge to impart. But it is very important also
to listen and to hear thoughts and emotions and the language of the body as well as spoken words."

She must be a very good teacher, he thought. Perhaps, if he decided to send Georgette to a boarding school… But he did not want to pursue that
possibility any more tonight.

The innkeeper's wife and the maid brought in a steaming apple pudding and a jug of custard, and the innkeeper followed with coffee.

"I must commend you," Miss Thompson said, addressing the wife, "on the quality and abundance of the food, both this evening and at tea this afternoon. I do
not believe I have ever been so well fed at an inn. Thank you."

The woman curtsied and flushed with obvious pleasure. "My only regret, ma'am," she said, "is that we don't get guests stopping here more often. I do love
to cook and bake, I do." Her husband beamed at her with pride as they withdrew.

"You will be happy to see your family tomorrow," Michael said when they were alone again.

"I will," she agreed. "And we will all be there, Hazel and Charles and their children too. I have not seen any of them since Christmas and then it was for
just a few days. This time I have been persuaded to stay for a whole month. Not that I needed a great deal of coaxing. Are you traveling toward Devonshire
or away from it, Lord Staunton?"

"Away," he said. "But I am wondering if I have done the right thing. We spend the spring months in London because of my parliamentary duties, but I have
always liked to remain at home during the summer, for the children's sake. I was persuaded to accept an invitation to a house party this summer, though,
when I was assured that it is to include a large number of children of all ages. My own spend time with their cousins and a few neighbors at home, though
not nearly as often as I would wish. They are alone together for days, even weeks at a time. It will be good for them to have others to play with all day
every day for two weeks. But all the traveling is tedious, especially for them. May I offer you more wine?"

"No, thank you," she said. "I will have coffee instead."

They both relaxed back in their chairs, she with a cup of coffee in her hands, he with a fresh glass of wine, and talked upon other subjects—books,
music, politics, London, Bath, and on and on. The conversation flowed effortlessly from one subject to another without any awkward pauses. Michael had not
felt so relaxed and contented for a long while. Not in a woman's company, anyway.

He looked at her hands as they held and absently caressed her cup—slender hands with long, neatly manicured fingers. He looked at her dress, simply
but expertly designed, and at the costly pearl brooch at her throat, her only adornment. He looked at her fair hair, prettily but not elaborately styled.
And he looked into her smiling eyes with the laugh lines beginning to form at their outer corners and at her elegantly sculpted cheeks and rather wide
mouth. At a mere glance he would not have considered her a beauty, and there was certainly nothing youthful about her appearance. He liked to look at her
nevertheless. He guessed that she had never been extraordinarily pretty, but she had the sort of face and figure that had aged well and would probably
continue to do so.

And why were such thoughts going through his head, interspersed with thoughts about the various topics of their conversation? Was it inevitable when one
dined alone with a lady? How was she seeing him?

When she finally set down her empty cup and got to her feet, prompting him to do likewise, he felt regretful. Was the evening over so soon?

"It must be very late," she said. "There is no clock in here. And you have promised to look in on your children. I do hope neither of them is lying awake
waiting for you."

"What a very pleasant evening it has been," he said, moving toward the door to open it for her. "I am actually glad we were both stranded here, Miss
Thompson, though I was not at all glad when the storm forced me to stop at what looked like a sad apology for an inn."

"It has indeed been pleasant," she agreed, extending her right hand. "Thank you so much for inviting me to dine here with you. Good night, Lord Staunton."

"Good night, Miss Thompson," he said, taking her hand in his. But instead of shaking it, which seemed rather too formal a way to end the evening, and
instead of raising it to his lips, as he might well have done, he covered it with his other hand and leaned across it to kiss her cheek.

She must have guessed his intent and turned her cheek to him. But while she was turning her head one way, he went the other and ended up kissing her on the
lips. It could have—should have—been an extraordinarily embarrassing moment. If either of them had jerked away, it would have been. But neither
of them did. He pressed his lips more firmly to hers, and she kissed him back while her fingers curled about one of his hands.

It was neither a long nor a lascivious kiss. He raised his head after a few moments, squeezed her hand, and released it.

"I do beg your pardon," they said simultaneously, and her cheeks grew rosy. They both smiled.

"I meant no disrespect," he told her. "I have enjoyed meeting you, Miss Thompson."

"And I you," she said as he turned to open the door. "Good night."

He was left feeling slightly hot under the cravat and a bit flustered and wondering if he owed her more of an apology than he had already expressed. But
that would merely draw attention to what had surely been nothing of any great note.

He gave her time to return to her room before making his way up to his children's, where he dutifully kissed their sleeping cheeks and smiled at their
nurse, who was sitting by the window in the light of a single candle, knitting. And suddenly he felt melancholy and very alone in the world despite these
precious two children.

Perhaps the Creator in his wisdom knew exactly what he was doing,
she had said. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Georgette was perfect just as she was. Perhaps Robert was perfect just as
he
was. Indeed, he knew
they both were. But ah, the responsibility of being a father, a single parent. He desperately wanted them to be happy. They desperately needed a mother.

It must be difficult to choose someone who will suit both you and your children,
she had said. He closed his eyes briefly before leaving the room to return to his own. Yes, indeed it was. He must always think first of what was best for
them, of course, but ah, sometimes it was difficult not to be selfish and long for someone to ease his loneliness, someone to love again.

And someone with whom he could relax in a late evening after the children were in bed, while they drank their wine and their coffee, and talk upon any
subject under the sun. Someone to kiss and take to bed afterward.

Good God,
did
he owe her a more proper apology?

The sun was shining, the road was firm beneath the wheels of the carriage, the journey was drawing to its end, there was excitement in the expectation of
seeing her family again soon, and…and Eleanor was feeling really rather depressed.

She knew why, of course. For she had almost made up her mind to have a talk with Wulfric, but it would take courage. He would be disappointed in her. He
would consider her a failure. Her mother and Hazel and Christine would be disappointed too—and upset for her. But the truth was—oh, horror of
horrors!—that she was not enjoying being owner and headmistress of Miss Thompson's School for Girls. She had had no idea when she took over from
Claudia with such eager delight how different it would be from simply teaching. It was not just all the extra work, though that seemed endless and was
wearying enough. It was more the distance the position somehow put between her and her teachers, much as she respected and even loved them all, and between
her and her girls, whom she adored and for whose lives she was fully responsible. She longed to be just a teacher again, all the burden of everything else
lifted from her shoulders.

She believed she had a prospective buyer. One of her best teachers had recently inherited a considerable and unexpected fortune from an aunt but had no
wish to live upon it in idle luxury. She had made Eleanor an offer for the school and then laughed at her own absurdity when of course Eleanor had no
thought of selling. Yet Eleanor suspected she had been more than half serious, and she had been sorely tempted to admit the truth there and then both to
her friend and to herself. She had been sorely tempted ever since. But would it be an admission of defeat to step down? It was not that she had failed,
though. Her school was thriving and it was a happy and productive place. It was just that
she
was not happy.

She stared sightlessly through the window and gave more thought to the lowness of her spirits. Was she being honest with herself about the cause? Could it
be that she had fallen a little in love yesterday? With two young children and their handsome father? How very silly if it were true. The father was
looking for a second wife and a new mother for the children, and he had mentioned a Miss Everly, whom he was surely courting if she and her mother were
already making suggestions for his daughter's future. And even if he was not courting the lady, he would certainly not consider courting her. Not that she
wanted him to do any such thing. Besides, she would very probably never see him again, and it was just as well if she was going to start behaving like the
stereotypical old maid, getting all fluttery and simpery over an evening spent in company with a personable stranger. Ah…and over a kiss that had not
really been a kiss at all. He had been intending to peck her on the cheek, as he might have done with a sister or a maiden aunt. It was just unfortunate
that she had turned her head the wrong way and his lips had brushed her own instead.

Oh, more than brushed, Eleanor,
she told herself. He had kissed her. And she had kissed him back. It was that second fact even more than the first that had sent her scurrying upstairs to
her room and an almost sleepless night while she had relived the kiss over and over, just like a giddy girl.

Eleanor put on her spectacles and directed her eyes, though not, alas, her attention to her book. If it had been upside down, she thought with some disgust
after a few minutes, she would probably not have noticed. But it was not. She read a whole sentence with concentrated attention and wondered if Georgette
Benning was reading
Robinson Crusoe
.

At last the carriage turned between familiar towering gateposts and proceeded up the long, straight driveway lined with elm trees standing to attention
like well-trained soldiers, until Lindsey Hall came into view. Eleanor closed her book and removed her spectacles. It was a magnificent mansion that melded
so many different architectural styles as a result of addition upon addition being added through the centuries, all somehow blending into a glorious whole,
that it would be impossible to describe it with a single label, like classical or Gothic or Elizabethan. It was all of those and more. The great fountain
in the courtyard before the front doors, surrounded by a circular flower garden, was spouting water high into the air and creating rainbows of color with
its spray.

The front doors stood open, and Wulfric and Christine, the Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle, were at the foot of the steps, Wulfric looking his usual austere
self, Christine almost bouncing with excitement just like a girl though she was approaching her middle thirties. Hazel and her husband, the Reverend
Charles Lofter, were coming down the steps with her mother.

Oh, it felt so very good to see them all. Anxiety and depression fled as Eleanor leaned forward and smiled.

"I would have laid a wager," Christine cried as Wulfric himself opened the carriage door, set down the steps, and reached up a hand to help Eleanor alight,
"that you were held up by those dreadful storms yesterday, but alas, no one would bet against me. Wulfric declared that only a bad thunderstorm or an
earthquake would prevail upon our servants to risk his wrath by stopping for a night on the road. Eleanor, how
good
it is to see you. And how
wretched that we had to wait a whole day longer than we expected. Charles said it was a lesson in patience."

And then Eleanor was caught up in hugs and exclamations and kisses and laughter and all the women talking at once while the two men looked on and she
wondered where they were now on the road—Georgette and Robert, that was. And their father. Michael Benning, Earl of Staunton.

"Are we almost there, Papa?" Robert asked for the fourth or fifth time, a toy horse clutched in each hand, the game of racing them and jumping them over
his legs having lost its appeal.