Once Upon A Dream (6 page)

"Soon now," Michael said—as he had said four or five times before.

Mrs. Harris had nodded off, her mouth agape, her cap slightly askew. Georgette, arms folded, unnaturally quiet, was staring through the window beside her,
sulking. She had wanted him to invite Miss Thompson to breakfast this morning but he had told her the lady must be left to start her day in peace. She had
wanted to go and see if Miss Thompson was in the dining room, but there were other people in there and he had told her they must not be disturbed. She had
wanted to find out which room was Miss Thompson's so that she could knock on the door to thank her for the tea and conversation yesterday. He had said no,
that she had thanked the lady at the time. She had wanted to find out where Miss Thompson lived so that she could write a thank you letter in order to
practice her penmanship—that last detail had been added hastily when she had suspected, quite rightly, that he was about to say no again. She had
darted downstairs when they were leaving and peered into the deserted dining room before dashing to the counter in the taproom to ask the innkeeper about
Miss Thompson's whereabouts.

"I just want to say goodbye, Papa," she had explained when she realized he had overheard.

But the lady had gone.

Perhaps, Michael thought now, he ought to have allowed her five minutes in which to say goodbye. She had been strangely taken with the lady, and Miss
Thompson had seemed to like her too. Had he forbidden it only because he did not want his daughter to intrude upon her privacy? If he were honest with
himself, must he not admit that he would have been embarrassed to see her himself this morning? That…kiss had grown in proportion during a night of
disturbed sleep. It had certainly spoiled what would have been memories of a thoroughly pleasant evening spent with a personable companion.

Robert climbed onto his lap and yawned. Did all five-year-old boys seek such comfort from a parent? Or girls for that matter? It seemed to him that
Georgette even as a toddler had squirmed and wanted to get down soon after either he or Annette had tried to cuddle her.

Perhaps he ought to have remained at home. But he had liked the Duchess of Bewcastle from the moment he first danced with her at a grand ball in London and
she tore the broad flounce off the bottom of her gown with a loud ripping sound as her foot stepped on the hem. She had laughed with what was clearly
genuine amusement, called herself  a clumsy clod, gathered up the sagging flounce in one hand, revealing a shocking length of silk-stockinged leg as
she did so, and made off for the ladies' withdrawing room as if such an embarrassment were a daily occurrence. When he had met her again at a private
concert, she had invited him to her house party after discovering that he had two young children and rarely left home with them during the summer. Lindsey
Hall would be positively teeming with children of all ages for two full weeks, she had told him, and they would all have enormous fun. He had accepted the
invitation.

It had been such a long journey, though, and ended during an unexpected rain shower. The duke and duchess greeted them in the great medieval hall, and
Georgette brightened somewhat at the sight of old banners and weapons displayed on the walls and an elaborately wrought wooden minstrel gallery at one end.
Robert, as usual, had burrowed inside Michael's coat. He took them up to the nursery floor himself rather than pass them off to their nurse. The duchess
accompanied them.

"The rain has driven the children all indoors," she said. "I believe it is just a shower, though, and not a return of yesterday's storms."

The large schoolroom on the nursery floor to which she led them did indeed teem with noisy, exuberant children, and Georgette brightened further. The
duchess began to identify them.

"Though you will be deserving of some sort of medal if you remember," she said before she had got very far. "Even I have to stop and think sometimes.
Perhaps I ought to have had name labels written for each of them and taped to their foreheads. There are my three and my sister's three and all of
Wulfric's brothers' and sisters' offspring, who numbered fifteen at the last count, though Rachel—Lord Alleyne Bedwyn's wife—will be adding to
that number before Christmas. And then there are the Marquess of Attingsborough's three though the eldest is not here at the moment. And there are the
children of our other guests, including your two."

"At least," he said, "I will remember two names."

She laughed. " They will not be confined to the nursery floor for the next two weeks while the adults have the run of the park in which to enjoy a
carefree, child-free existence," she said. "Wulfric and I decided with our very first child that we would enjoy our family to the full before they grow up
and take flight. Our children have the run of the house for much of the time. When other people visit us with their children, the same rule
applies—or lack of a rule, if you will. A few of our guests may be dismayed, but they need not be. There are adults galore, not to mention nurses and
governesses, to entertain the children and keep an eye on them. The noise may be deafening at times, but it can be ignored."

He liked the lady. She was certainly as unlike his image of a duchess as it was possible to be. It was difficult to see her as the wife of the austere,
haughty Duke of Bewcastle with his cool silver eyes and ever-present quizzing glass. Bewcastle allowed his children to run riot about his house, did he?
That would have to be seen to be believed.

"Robert," the duchess said, addressing the back of his son's head, which was buried against his neck, "you are almost six years old, are you not? You may
be the very person I need. There is a four-year-old boy over there by the window who is looking very unhappy indeed because he knows no one and is too shy
to make himself known. I fear he will not enjoy his stay here if someone a little older does not befriend him. Could that older boy possibly be you? It
would be extremely kind of you though you must not feel obliged. His name is Tommy."

For a moment Robert did not respond. Then he lifted his head and looked across the crowded room to where a little ginger-haired boy was sitting on the
window seat, playing forlornly with a small sailing ship.

"I'll come with you, Robbie, if you like," Georgette offered.

But Robert seemed not to hear her. He did not protest when Michael set him down. He set off across the room without taking his eyes off the other child and
bent over him, his hands on his knees as he said something, just as though he were an octogenarian addressing an infant. Tommy tucked his chin against his
chest before looking up and extending the hand holding the toy ship toward Robert, who looked closely at it, touched it, and said something. He sat beside
Tommy, who was now gazing at him with the beginnings—surely—of hero worship.

"That was well done of you," Michael said. "He is abnormally shy."

"I can see that," the duchess said with a smile. "He needs someone younger than himself to protect. He will be fine, Lord Staunton. You must not worry. Ah,
here comes Eleanor with Lizzie."

He looked toward the door to see a young girl, who was leading—or being led by—a black and white border collie on a short leash. His daughter
shrieked before he had a chance to look at the woman who had entered the room with her.

"Miss Thompson!"
Georgette cried—and dashed across the room.

And good God, it was indeed she. Miss Thompson.
Eleanor.

"Your daughter knows my sister?" the duchess asked.

"We were stranded together at an inn yesterday," he said, gazing across the room. "Georgette escaped from her room and, before she was missed, talked Miss
Thompson's head off in the dining room while she was having her tea. The lady is your sister? She was very kind to my daughter."

He was absurdly delighted to see her again and only very slightly embarrassed.

She was looking startled at Georgette's approaching figure, and then her eyes met his for one moment before his daughter hurled herself into her arms and
almost bowled her over. He closed his eyes briefly.

The duchess laughed. "Do not discourage her enthusiasm," she said, correctly reading his expression. "There is sometimes a strange notion that perfect
ladies ought to be demure and that girls ought to be brought up to aspire to such perfection."

Miss Thompson, having been released from Georgette's clutches, was introducing her to her young companion, who looked a few years older than his daughter.

"She is Lizzie," the duchess explained, "the Marquess of Attingsborough's daughter. The marchioness used to teach with Eleanor in Bath. The dog is Horace.
He leads her about with only the occasional mishap. He has been trained since she first acquired him and he led her spectacularly astray one afternoon on
the estate next to ours when there were at least a dozen of us adults supposedly keeping an eye on her."

Michael looked more closely. "She is blind?" he asked.

"Since birth," she said. "But sometimes one almost forgets. Claudia and Joseph give her all the rein she needs to explore her world, and Claudia has found
a way of educating her so that she may live as rich a life as anyone else."

"It is not easy being a parent," he said with great lack of originality.

"It is not," she agreed, "and someone ought to warn us before we launch into the state with blissful ignorance. Shall we go down for tea before we are
deafened, and take Eleanor with us?"

"Papa," Georgette shrieked as they approached the door. "Miss Thompson is here. Is it not the
best
surprise
ever
? And this is Lizzie, and
her dog is Horace and goes everywhere with her because she is blind and he acts as her eyes. Is that not clever? I am going to ask her a million questions
about being blind. I have never met a blind person before."

Michael winced, but Lizzie only laughed. "Neither have I," she said. "Is that not funny? I have never met anyone else who is blind. Shall we go to my room,
where it will be a little quieter?"

"Oh, yes, and perhaps we may be friends," Georgette said, and off they went, arm in arm, the dog trotting beside his mistress.

Robert was engrossed with the ship, which he and Tommy were sailing on the seat between them, their heads almost touching above it.

 "Miss Thompson." Michael smiled at the lady. "You told me you were on your way to spend the summer with your family. I told you I was on my way to a
house party. Neither of us mentioned any names or places, though, did we? I am delighted to see you again, and I think it possible my daughter is quite
pleased too though you may not have noticed."

She laughed and…blushed? "I am delighted too," she said. "Has Lord Staunton told you we found ourselves marooned at the same inn last night,
Christine? He was kind enough to invite me to dine with him in the only private parlor available."

Michael offered them each an arm and they made their way downstairs. He was still smiling when they stepped into the crowded drawing room a couple of
minutes later. Perhaps he had done the right thing after all in coming here. And really it had not felt awkward at all meeting Miss Thompson again. He had
refined too much on that accidental kiss and the attraction he had felt for her toward the end of last evening.

And then his eyes alit upon two fashionably dressed ladies across the room, the younger looking very fetching indeed in a pale primrose afternoon dress.

Lady Connaught and Miss Everly.

Good God!

His smile faded.

Lindsey Hall could accommodate a vast number of guests and had done so on several occasions since Christine married the Duke of Bewcastle. Wulfric's three
brothers and two sisters were here with their spouses and growing families. So was all of Christine's family. And there were several other guests,
relatives, and friends. She had invited the Earl of Staunton, Christine explained to Eleanor and Hazel and their mother while they were sitting over their
coffee in the cozy sitting room next to Mrs. Thompson's bedchamber the following morning, because he had kind eyes and she had heard he brought his
children with him to London each spring and devoted much of his free time to them, taking them to places that would interest and entertain them.

"But it sounded to me," she said, "as though the children were not often in the company of others, and that made me sad. Sad for them and sad for him, for
I believe he dotes on them. I have been told he doted on his late wife too, though I never knew her."

"Poor gentleman," their mother said.

Christine had not planned activities for every moment of the two weeks. Everyone must feel free to relax and enjoy the summer in good company, she had
explained at dinner last evening. Everyone must come and go as they pleased and not feel obliged to do anything they would rather avoid.

They did tend to move about in crowds, however. On the first afternoon, which was hot and sunny with not a cloud in the sky, someone—Christine? The
Marchioness of Hallmere, the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn, Wulfric's sister?—had suggested going out to the hill that descended in a long, wide slope
from the wilderness walk almost to the bank of the lake, and children and adults flocked there in the most exuberant of spirits though no one had explained
what was so delightful about a long, steep hill.

 Eleanor doubted Wulfric had opened his home to many house parties before he met her sister, and she had never observed him either to romp or to
frolic since then, or even to bend sufficiently to smile and relax and look as though he were enjoying himself. But, observing him as she walked from the
house to discover what the excitement was all about, it seemed to her that he was happy. He was standing at the foot of the hill, his hands clasped behind
his back, his booted feet slightly apart, an austere expression on his face, watching excited, shrieking children, including two of his own, rolling down
the hill from the very top.

The person he was really watching, though, Eleanor saw as she came up to him, was Christine, who was hurtling downward, her body straight, her arms
stretched above her head, her dress bunched up about her knees, shrieking. She was not the only adult thus engaged. Freyja and two of her brothers, Lord
Alleyne Bedwyn and Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, were also part of the action, to the huge amusement of their own children and other people's.