Dreaming of You Read online

  It was ridiculous, letting herself brood over a man like him. What had gone on between them was finished—and the episode had been so brief, really, it had all been like a dream. Perry was real, and so was her life in Greenwood Corners. She would content herself with family and friends, and embark on a future with a man who loved her.

  “I still can’t bring myself to believe our young Mr. Kingswood finally came up to scratch.” Mrs. Hodges shook her head with a smile, watching as Katie cleaned the grate for her and Sara piled kindling in her kitchen fireplace. Because Mr. and Mrs. Hodges were elderly and Mr. Hodges had bouts of rheumatism, they sometimes required help with their household chores. Dusting her prized kitchen dresser with its display of pewter and china, Mrs. Hodges spoke in jovial tones. “Heaven’s sake, I’m surprised his mother allowed it.” As she saw Katie and Sara’s guarded expressions, her smile faded and her round cheeks sagged with dismay. She had meant to make them laugh. Instead she seemed to have touched on a sore point.

  Sara broke the tension with a shrug. “Mrs. Kingswood had no choice in the matter. And she seems to have reconciled herself to the idea. After all, she can hardly fault me for loving Perry.”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Hodges agreed quickly. “It will do both the Kingswoods a world of good for Perry to take a wife of his own. Martha nearly ruined that boy with her spoiling, if you ask me.”

  Biting off a heartfelt agreement, Sara hung freshly scrubbed pots and kettles on the fireplace bracket. A frill of lace hovered just above her eyebrow, and she pushed it back irritably. At Perry’s urging she had gone back to wearing her lace caps, but they no longer seemed to fit the way they once had. She walked over to the stone-paved sink in order to wash her sooty hands and arms, shivering at the icy gush of water from the pump.

  “That girl isn’t afraid of work,” Mrs. Hodges said to Katie. “She’s nothing like the rest of these flighty village chits, with nary a thought in their heads but how to dress their hair and make eyes at the men.”

  “Sara has a pair of able hands and a quick mind,” Katie agreed. “She’ll be a good wife to Perry. And a blessing to his mother, if Martha will allow it.”

  Mrs. Hodges watched Sara closely. “Is she still insisting that you and Perry live with her after the marriage?”

  Sara’s back tensed. She continued to rinse her hands until they were white and numb. “I’m afraid so,” she said evenly. “We haven’t resolved the issue yet.”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Hodges turned to exchange a few quiet murmurs with Katie.

  Paying no attention to their exchange, Sara dried her frozen hands and thought about the past month. Martha Kingswood had received the news of the engagement with remarkable calmness. Sara and Perry had told her together. They had been astonished by her lack of protest. “If marrying Sara will bring you happiness,” Martha had said to Perry, holding his face in her narrow hands, “then I give my blessing to the both of you.” She had bent and pressed a brief kiss on her son’s lips, and then straightened to look at Sara with a slitted gaze.

  Since then, Martha had interfered with and criticized every decision they made. Perry seemed oblivious of his mother’s badgering, but it never failed to send Sara’s mood plummeting. She was afraid that her marriage would be an endless battleground. The last week, especially, had been a trying one. Martha was preoccupied with the idea that Perry was abandoning her. She had declared her intention of living with her son and his wife after the wedding.

  “It’s hardly an unorthodox idea,” Perry had told Sara. “Many couples reside with their parents— and grandparents, too. I don’t see that there’s any need for us to live in seclusion.”

  Sara had been aghast. “Perry, you’re not saying you want to share a home with her, are you?”

  A frown crept across his boyishly handsome face. “What if your mother were all alone and she asked us to live with her?”

  “It’s not the same. Mine isn’t demanding and impossible to please!”

  Perry looked hurt and sullen. He was not used to arguments from her. “Til thank you not to use such words about Mother, and to remember that she brought me up and took care of me with no help from anyone.”

  “I know that,” Sara said ruefully, trying to think of a solution. “Perry, you have some money of your own, don’t you? Some savings put away?”

  He bristled at the question, for it wasn’t a woman’s place to ask questions about money. “That not your concern.”

  Excited about her idea, Sara ignored his offended masculine pride. “Well, I have a little nest egg. And I’ll make enough from the sale of my next book to buy a cottage of our own. I’ll work my fingers to the bone if necessary, so that we can hire someone to keep your mother company and look after her.”

  “No,” he said instantly. “A housemaid would not care for her the way her own family would.”

  A vision of herself waiting hand and foot on Martha Kingswood, and giving up her writing forever, caused Sara to flush angrily. “Perry, you know how miserable I would be if she lived with us. She’ll complain about everything I do, how I cook, how I keep the house, how I teach my children. You’re asking too much of me. Please, we must find some other way—”

  “You are going to marry me for better or worse,” he said sharply. “I thought you understood what that meant.”

  “I didn’t realize it was going to be better for you and worse for me!”

  “If the worst thing that could ever happen to you is living with my mother—and I rather doubt that—you should love me enough to accept it.”

  They had parted company without making up, each of them refusing to listen to the other’s side. “You’re changing,” Perry had complained. “Day by day you’re becoming a different person. Why can’t you be the sweet, happy girl I fell in love with?”

  Sara hadn’t been able to answer. She knew better than he what the problem was. He wanted a wife who would never question his decisions. He wanted her to make difficult sacrifices in order to make his life pleasant. And she had been willing to do that for years, for the sake of love and companionship. But now ... sometimes ... love didn’t seem worth the price he demanded from her.

  He’s right, I have changed, she thought unhappily. The fault was with her, not him. Not long ago she had been the kind of woman who would have been able to make Perry happy. We should have married years ago, she thought. Why didn’t I stay in the village and earn money some other way than writing? Why did I have to go to London?

  During the evenings when she sat at her desk and labored over her novel, she sometimes found herself gripping the pen handle so tightly that her fingers ached with the strain. She would look down to find splotches of ink across the paper. It was difficult to summon Derek Craven’s face clearly now, but there were reminders of him everywhere. The timbre of someone’s voice, or the greenish color of someone’s eyes, sometimes gave her a jolt of recognition that reached to her very foundations. Whenever she was with Perry, she struggled to keep from comparing the two men, for it would be unfair to both of them. Besides, Perry wanted her as his wife, while Derek Craven had made it clear that he had no desire to be a candidate for her affections. “I will forget you,” he had assured her. She was certain that he had wiped his memory clean of her, and oh, how the thought stung ... for she longed to do the same.

  Pushing all negative thoughts aside, she tried to envision the home she would share with Perry.

  They would spend quiet evenings before the fire, and on Sundays they would attend church with friends and family. During the week Sara would linger over the produce at the marketplace, exchanging light gossip with friends, sharing small jokes about married life. It would be pleasant. Overall, Perry had the makings of a good husband. There was affection between them, and the comfort of common interests and shared beliefs. They might even have the kind of marriage her parents had.

  The thought should have brought her comfort. But inexplicably, Sara could find little joy in the prospect of what awaited her.


  The Christmas season passed in the same warm spirit it always did in Greenwood Corners. Sara enjoyed the caroling, the gathering of old friends, the exchanging of gifts, and all the rituals she remembered from childhood. She was busy with wreath-making, holiday baking, and the task of helping to sew costumes for the children’s pageant. There wasn’t much time to see Perry, but during the few hours they did spend with each other, they made a concerted effort to avoid arguing. On Christmas Eve, she gave Perry a box of six fine handkerchiefs she had embroidered with his initials, and he gave her a delicate gilt brooch engraved with the pattern of tiny birds. Sitting together before the fire, they linked hands and talked about fondly remembered moments of their pasts. No mention was made of Martha, or of Sara’s writing. In fact, neither of them dared to speak of the future at all, as if it were some dangerous and forbidden topic. Only later did Sara allow herself to think that it was very odd for a betrothed couple, this inability to talk about their plans for the life that awaited them.

  On a bright day in January when the air was dry and the ground hard-frozen, Katie and Isaac took the horse and cart to purchase supplies at the village market. Afterward they would pay a visit to Reverend Crawford and engage in a sociable chat. Remaining at home to do chores, Sara stood at the lead-lined kitchen sink and cleaned a large pewter pot. Energetically she scrubbed with a muslin bag filled with powdered whiting, until the dull pewter surface took on a new brightness. She paused in the middle of the task as she heard someone knocking at the front door.

  Wiping her hands on the large cloth knotted around her waist, Sara went to greet the caller. Her eyes widened as she opened the door and saw the woman standing there. “Tabitha!” she exclaimed. A driver and one of the unmarked carriages used by Craven’s employees waited at the side of the road. Sara’s heart twisted painfully in her chest at the reminders of the gambling club.

  It was difficult to recognize the house wench, who was now dressed like a simple country maid. Gone were the gaudy spangled skirts and low-cut bodice she had always worn at Craven’s. Instead she was clad in a demure lavender gown not unlike those that Sara owned. The usual wanton disorder of her hair was tamed into a neat coif and topped off with a modest bonnet. The faint resemblance between them was more marked than usual, except that Tabitha’s face was still etched with the coarseness that betrayed her profession. Her mouth curled in an engaging grin, but there was a hesitancy in her posture, as if she feared Sara would turn her away. “Miss Fielding, I came to say ‘ello. I’m on the way to stay with my family a week or so. They lives in ‘Ampshire, see.”

  Sara gathered her scattered wits. “Tabitha, what a pleasant surprise it is to see you! Please come inside. I’ll make some tea. Perhaps the driver would like to sit in the kitchen—”

  “No time for all that,” Tabitha said, at once gratified and embarrassed by Sara’s welcoming manner. “I’ll be gone in a blink ow an eye—just stopped to ‘ave a bit ow a chat. Won’t stay but a minute.”

  Sara urged her inside the warm house and closed the door against a gust of wind. “Is everything all right at the club?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “How is Mr. Worthy?”

  “ ‘E’s fine.”

  “And Gill?”

  “Fine, as allus.”

  The urge to ask about Derek Craven was overwhelming. Somehow Sara held the words back. She motioned for Tabitha to join her on the settee in the front room and watched her without blinking, wondering why the house wench had taken it upon herself to visit.

  Tabitha took exaggerated pains to arrange her skirts and sit like a lady. She grinned at Sara as she smoothed the material of her gown. “My ma thinks I’m a maid for a grand lord in London, carrying coal an’ water, polishing silwer an’ such. It wouldn’t do for ‘er to know I works on my back at Crawen’s.”

  Sara nodded gravely. “I understand.”

  “Mr. Crawen would cull me good if ‘e knowed I’d come ‘ere today.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.” Sara promised, while her heart climbed up into her throat. She stared at Tabitha, who shrugged and glanced around the cottage as if she were waiting patiently for something. The house wench wanted her to ask about Craven, Sara realized. Agitatedly she tangled her hands in her makeshift apron. “Tabitha ... tell me how he is.”

  The house wench needed no further prompting. “Mr. Crawen’s short in temper these days. Doesn’t eat or sleep, acts like ‘e’s got a bee up ‘is arse. Yesterday ‘e went to the kitchen an’ told Monsieur Labarge ‘is soup tasted like bilgewater. Why, it took Gill an’ Worthy both to keep Labarge from gutting ‘im with a big knife!”

  “I-is that why you’ve come here, to tell me that? I’m very sorry to hear it, but ...” Sara paused awkwardly and lowered her head. “His mood has nothing to do with me.”

  “It ‘as everything to do with you, miss—an’ no one knows it better than me.”

  Sara’s fists knotted tighter in her apron. “What do you mean?”

  Tabitha leaned forward, speaking in a theatrical whisper. “Mr. Crawen came to my bed two—no, three—nights ago. You know ‘e newer does that. Not with the ‘ouse wenches.”

  Suddenly it was impossible to breathe. Sara remembered having felt like this long ago, when her horse Eppie had shied at some movement in the grass and thrown her to the ground. Sara had fallen flat on her stomach and had wheezed and gasped sickly for air. Oh, God, how could it matter this much to her that he had taken his pleasure within this woman’s body, held her and kissed her—

  “’Is eyes were so strange,” Tabitha continued, “like ‘e was looking through the gates of ‘ell. “I ‘as a special request ‘e says, ‘an’ if you tells anyone about it, I’ll ‘ave you skinned an’ gogged.’ So I says awright, an’ then—’

  “No.” Sara felt as if she would shatter to pieces if she heard one more word. “Don’t tell me. I—I don’t want to hear—”

  “It was about you, miss.”

  “Me?” Sara asked faintly.

  “ ‘E came to my bed. ‘E told me not to say anyfing, no matter what ‘e did. No matter what ‘e said. Then Mr. Crawen turned the lamp down an’ took me against ‘im ...” Tabitha averted her gaze as she continued. Sara was frozen in place. “ ‘Let me hold you, Sara,’ ‘e says, ‘I need you, Sara’ ... all night long it was, ‘im pretending I was you. It’s because we look alike, you an’ me. That’s why ‘e did it.” She shrugged with a touch of embarrassment. “’E was gentle an’ sweet about it, too. In the morning ‘e left wivout a word, but there was still that terrible look in ‘is eyes—”

  “Stop,” Sara said sharply, her face ashen. “You shouldn’t have come here. You had no right to tell me.”

  Instead of being offended by Sara’s outburst, Tabitha looked sympathetic. “I says to myself ... it wouldn’t ‘urt no one if I told Miss Fielding. You ‘as the right to know. Mr. Crawen loves you, miss, like ‘e’s newer loved no one in ‘is blessed life. ‘E thinks you’re too good for ‘im—’e thinks you’re as fine as an angel. An’ you are, God’s truf.” Tabitha stared at her earnestly. “Miss Sara, if you only knew ... ‘e’s not as bad as they say.”

  “I know that,” Sara choked. “But there are things you don’t understand. I’m betrothed to another man, and even if I weren’t...” She stopped abruptly. There was no need to explain her feelings, or speculate on Derek Craven’s, in front of this woman. It was useless, not to mention painful.

  “Then you won’t go to ‘im?”

  The girl’s bewilderment caused Sara to smile in spite of her misery. Like the other house wenches, Tabitha felt inordinately proud and not a little possessive of Derek Craven, almost as if he were a favorite uncle or a kindly benefactor. If he wanted something, if something would please him, there was no question that he should have it.

  Woodenly Sara stood up and made her way to the door. “I know you came here with good intentions, Tabitha, but you must leave now. I ... I’m sorry.” Those were the only coherent words she could
form. Oh, God, she was sorry for things she couldn’t name or even admit to herself. She was consumed by loneliness, burning with it. She ached with grief for what she would never have.

  “I’m sorry too.” Tabitha murmured, her face reddening guiltily. “I won’t bother you again, miss. I swear it on my own life.” She left quickly, forbearing to say another word.

  Eight

  Stumbling to the fireplace, Sara sat down on the hard floor and buried her face against her knees. Wildly she tried to convince herself that she would be a fool to give away what happiness she might be able to find with Perry. She tried to imagine going to Derek Craven and telling him ... telling him what? A bubble of senseless laughter escaped her. “I want to see you one more time,” she whispered. She wanted to be near him again, if only for a few minutes. And he felt the same way, or he wouldn’t have made love to another woman and pretended it was she.

  “I will forget you, Sara fielding. No matter what it takes ...”

  What good would it do even if she were able to steal a few precious moments with him? He would not want to see her. What could she say to him, when she couldn’t explain her feelings even to herself?

  Resting her head on her forearm, she groaned in frustration. She was treading on the edge of disaster. She must forget her dangerous infatuation with Derek Craven and turn to the man she had loved ever since she was a girl. Suddenly it seemed as if Perry Kingswood had the power to save her from herself. She struggled to her feet. Quickly she banked the fire, snatched up her cloak and mittens, and bolted out the front door. She hurried to the Kingswood manor as fast as her feet would take her. During the long walk, the cold air drove deep into her lungs and seemed to freeze her bones. Her chest ached from a knot of pain that had settled in the center. “Perry, make it all go away,” she wanted to beg. “Make me feel safe and loved. Tell me we were meant to be together.”