Dreaming of You

The day after her return to Greenwood Corners, Sara walked a mile across the frozen cart trails and patches of woodland that separated her family’s cottage from the Kingswoods’ smaller village manor. Along the way she breathed deeply of the clean country air, crisp with the scents of pine and snow. “Miss Fielding!” She heard a boy’s high-pitched voice behind her. “How was London?”

Sara turned to smile at young Billy Evans, the miller’s son. “London was very exciting,” she replied. “Why aren’t you in school at this hour?” She gave him a mock-suspicious glance, for this wouldn’t be the first time Billy had been caught playing truant.

“Sent to borrow a book from the rectory,” he said cheerfully. “How’s your novel, Miss Fielding?”

“Barely begun,” Sara admitted. “I think I’ll have it finished by summer.”

“I’ll tell my mother. She loves your books—though she has to hide ’em from Pa.”

“Why is that?”

“He doesn’t like her to read. Says it might give her the notion to run off like Mathilda did.”

They both laughed, and Sara rumpled the boy’s red hair. “She would never do that, Billy. Besides, Mathilda ended up nearly jumping off a bridge—see what comes of running away?”

He gave her a sly, bucktoothed grin. “Guess you won’t be leaving Mr. Kingswood anymore, then.”

Sara leaned close to him. “Do you think he missed me?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. To her delight, Billy blushed until his face was bright pink underneath his carrot-colored hair.

“Ask ’im yourself!” he said, and scampered down the road.

“I intend to.” Resuming her walk at a leisurely pace, Sara sighed with a mixture of pleasure and sadness. This was where she belonged, in a place where everything was familiar to her. She knew the patterns of every path, meadow, and stream. She was acquainted with everyone in the village, and the histories of the families who lived there. Greenwood Corners was a lovely place. But this homecoming was different from her others. Instead of relief and joy, she felt hollow, as if she had left some vital part of herself behind. Not even her parents and their smiles of loving welcome had been able to take away her unease. She was eager to see Perry this morning, hoping he would provide the comfort she needed.

Her heart picked up a faster beat as she approached the Kingswood home. It was a charming village manor of classical design, with ivy creeping over its scored stucco front. Inside, the rooms were decorated with simple plasterwork and refined shades of ocher, brown, and pea-green. In the warm seasons Perry’s mother, Martha, was most often found in the kitchen garden at the back of the manor, tending to her herbs and vegetables. During the winter months she spent her time doing needlework in the parlor, close to the light and warmth offered by the fireplace. And Perry, of course, was in the library, poring over his beloved history and poetry books.

Sara knocked at the door and scraped her feet at the side of the step. After a minute or two Martha Kingswood appeared. She was an attractive woman with blue-gray eyes and hair that had once been blond but had faded to a pale vanilla color. Her welcoming expression melted as she recognized the visitor. “Back from your gallivanting, I see.”

Meeting the older woman’s sharp eyes, Sara smiled cheerfully. “Not gallivanting. Researching.” She couldn’t help thinking of the warning her own mother, Katie, had given her a few years ago. “Be careful of what you tell that woman, Sara. I’ve known Martha since she was a girl. She’ll encourage you to confide in her, and then find a way to use your words against you.”

“But I’ve never given her a reason to dislike me,” Sara had protested.

“You have Perry’s affection, dear. That’s reason enough.”

Since then Sara had come to realize that her mother was right. Widowed a few years after Perry was born, Martha had centered her life around her son. Whenever she was in the same room, she hovered over him with an indiscreet jealousy that made Sara uncomfortable. Perry had resigned himself to his mother’s possessiveness, knowing that she disliked anyone who took his attention away from her. But he claimed that after he was married, Martha would soften her tightly controlling grip. “We’ll all be able to come to an understanding,” he had told Sara countless times. “Remember not to take anything she says personally. She would behave like this with any girl I chose to court.”

Martha blocked the doorway with her sticklike figure, as if she wished to prevent Sara from entering. “When did you return?”

“Last evening.”

“I suppose you’re here to see my son.” Martha’s tone was smooth, but it carried an edge of hostility that made Sara wince.

“Yes, Mrs. Kingswood.”

“Perhaps next time you could arrange your visit so as not to disturb his midmorning studies.” Martha’s tone implied that it was the height of inconsideration to have called at such an hour. Before Sara could reply, Martha opened the door wider and motioned her into the house.

Hoping Martha was not following her, Sara quickened her step through the hallway. It would be nice, she thought wryly, if her reunion with Perry was private, at least for a minute or two. Thankfully she didn’t hear Martha’s footsteps behind her. She reached the library, a comfortable room decorated with papered panels of pink, red, and brown birds, and fitted with rows of mahogany bookshelves.

The young man seated at the rosewood desk by one of the windows stood up and smiled at her.

“Perry!” she cried, and ran to him.

Chuckling at her impulsiveness, Perry caught her in his arms. He was slender and of moderate height, with the most elegant hands Sara had ever seen on a man. His every gesture was infused with grace. She had always loved to watch him write, play the piano, or merely turn the pages of a book. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of his cologne and smiled in contentment. “Oh, Perry.” The feel of his compact body was familiar and comfortable, making it seem that the past days in London had never happened.

But all at once a memory blazed across her mind…Derek Craven’s powerful arms crushing her close, his softly growling voice in her ear. “I want to hold you like this until your skin melts into mine…I want you in my bed, the smell of you on my sheets…”

Startled, Sara drew her head back.

“Darling?” Perry murmured. “What is it?”

She blinked hard, while a shiver crossed her shoulders. “Just…a chill from outside.” Staring at him, she tried to blot out the memory with the sight of Perry’s face. “You’re so handsome,” she said sincerely, and he laughed, pleased.

Everyone acknowledged that Perry was the best-looking man in Greenwood Corners. His hair, a little too long at the moment, was a coppery shade of gold. The rich jewel-blue of his eyes was far more striking than her own. His nose was small and straight, his lips fine, his forehead high and pale, all in the mode of a romantic Byronic hero.

After glancing around to make certain they were unobserved, Perry leaned forward to kiss her. Sara lifted her chin willingly. But suddenly all she could think of was a scarred face close to hers, the gleam of wicked green eyes, a hard mouth that searched and plundered ruthlessly…so different from Perry’s gentle lips. Closing her eyes tightly, she willed herself to respond.

Finishing the kiss with a slight smacking noise, Perry lifted his head and smiled at her. “Where is your cap?” he asked. “It always looks so pretty with the lace framing your cheeks.”

“I decided not to wear it today,” Sara frowned as his arms loosened from around her. “No…don’t let go just yet.”

“Mother will interrupt us soon,” he warned.

“I know.” Sara sighed and stood back from him reluctantly. “It’s just that I missed you so.”

“As I missed you,” Perry replied gallantly, gesturing to the painted beechwood settee. “Let’s sit down and talk, darling. I believe Mother means to bring in some tea—I hear her stirring about in the kitchen.”

“Couldn’t we have some time alone?” she whispered, mindful of Martha’s acute hearing. “I have some things to tell you privately.”

“We’ll have a lifetime of privacy, you and I,” Perry promised, his blue eyes twinkling. “Surely an hour here and there spent with my mother isn’t too much to endure?”

“I suppose not,” she said reluctantly.

“That’s my darling girl.”

Glowing at his praise, Sara allowed him to take her cloak. She seated herself on the heavily embroidered cushions of the settee. Perry took her hands, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles. “Well,” he said fondly, “it appears your visit to London did you no harm.” His lips parted in a teasing smile. “Mother has some absurd notions about your research trips. ‘How does that girl know all about such indecent things as harlots and thieves?’ she asks. I’ve had a difficult time convincing her that you haven’t been roving through back-street gin shops and bordellos! Mother simply doesn’t understand what a marvelous imagination you have.”

“Thank you,” Sara said uncomfortably, fixing her gaze on the pair of black and gilt sconces on the opposite wall. Although she had never lied to him about her research in the city, she had gently misled him, glossing over most of her dangerous activities and making it all sound rather dry and dull. Perry had always accepted her descriptions without question, but his mother had a suspicious nature.

“After all,” Perry continued, “my darling Sara spends most of her time sorting through book collections and touring old buildings. Isn’t that so?” He beamed at her, while Sara felt heat creeping up from her neckline.

“Yes, indeed. Er…Perry…there’s something I must tell you. During my stay in London, there was a night or two when I came in very late. Mrs. Goodman threatened to write to my mother and her other friends in Greenwood Corners that I’m a ‘reckless hoyden.’ ”

Perry collapsed with amusement at the notion. “Sara Fielding, a reckless hoyden! Anyone who knows you would laugh at that.”

She smiled in relief. “I’m glad you won’t pay attention to anything Mrs. Goodman might say.”

Perry squeezed her hands. “Perhaps some old biddy might spread gossip about you because you’ve written some foolish story about Mathilda. But I know you better than anyone, darling. I know the fondest wishes of your heart—and I’m going to make them come true. After that, there’ll be no need for you to worry with all your daydreaming and scribbling. You’ll have me and a houseful of your own children to occupy your time with. All a woman could want.”

Sara looked at him in surprise. “Are you saying you would want me to stop writing?”

“I’ve brought tea,” came Martha’s voice from the doorway. She entered the room bearing an engraved silver tray and a tea service that had been in the Kingswood family for three generations.

“Mother,” Perry said with a brilliant smile. “How did you know that was exactly what we wanted? Come join us while Sara regales us with an account of her visit to the wicked city.”

Prodded by Martha’s disapproving gaze, Sara inched away from Perry until they were seated at a more circumspect distance from each other.

Martha placed the tray on the round boulle table in front of them. She settled into a nearby chair. “Why don’t you pour, Sara?” Martha invited, in a tone that implied she was bestowing an honor on a favored guest. But somehow Sara had the feeling she was undergoing a test. Carefully she strained the tea into one of the delicate china cups, and added milk and sugar. Her suspicion that she was being tested was confirmed by Martha’s sourly pleased expression. “That is not how Perry likes it,” Martha said.

Sara turned a questioning gaze to Perry. “You take milk and sugar, don’t you?”

He shrugged slightly. “Yes, but—”

“You poured the milk in last,” Martha interrupted, before Perry could enlighten her. “My son prefers the milk first and tea added second. It makes a distinct difference in the flavor.”

Thinking that perhaps she was joking, Sara looked back at Perry. He gave her a helpless smile. Sara forced herself to shrug prosaically. “Well,” she said with a faint tremor of laughter in her voice, “I shall try to remember that, Mrs. Kingswood. I can’t think why it has escaped my notice all these years.”

“Perhaps you should try to be more observant of my son’s needs.” Martha nodded in satisfaction at the lesson she had just delivered. “You might remember that I prefer mine the same way, but without the sugar.”

Obediently Sara prepared the beverages the proper way, and settled back with her own cup of tea—no milk, extra sugar. After she took the first sip, she met Martha’s inquisitive gaze. The older woman’s lips compressed until thin vertical lines were scored all along the edges. “I assume you attended church when you were in London, Sara?”

The temptation to lie was strong. Sara gulped more tea and shook her head apologetically. “There wasn’t time.”

“There wasn’t time,” Martha repeated softly. “Hmph. I’m certainly grateful the Lord doesn’t give us such excuses when we entreat Him with our prayers. As busy as He is, He always finds the time for us. I should think we would all be willing to do the same for Him.”

Sara nodded ruefully, reflecting that Martha Kingswood’s record for regular church attendance was unmatched by anyone. Martha always arrived fifteen minutes early and sat in the front row. It was also her habit to leave fifteen minutes after everyone else, for she felt it was her special responsibility to give Reverend Crawford her opinions on how the sermon could have been improved. “Neither Perry nor I has ever missed a Sunday for any reason,” Martha was saying. “And neither did Mr. Kingswood when he was alive. ‘I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.’ Do you know where that quote comes from, Sara?”

“Job?” Sara guessed.

“Psalms,” Martha replied with a frown. “No woman aspiring to be Perry’s wife would ever consider missing a service, unless it was for some unavoidable reason.”

“Death? Natural disasters?” Sara suggested innocently, feeling Perry’s knee shove against hers in warning.

“Precisely so,” Martha said.

Sara was silent, all of her exuberance at being with Perry fading. She had come here to be with him, not to receive a lecture from his mother, no matter how well-intentioned. Why was Perry allowing it without a word? He was being complacent while his mother dominated their time together. Ignoring a twinge of resentment, Sara tried to steer the conversation in a new direction. “Tell me what happened in Greenwood Corners while I was away. How is old Mr. Dawson’s gout?”

“Much better,” Martha replied. “He actually put his shoes on the other day and went for a stroll.”

“His niece Rachel became engaged to Johnny Chesterson the day before last,” Perry added.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Sara exclaimed. “The Chestersons are lucky to have such a nice girl in their family.”

Martha nodded primly. “Rachel is the kind of spiritual, self-effacing girl that Mr. Kingswood always hoped his son would marry. She would never dream of drawing attention to herself…as some young women do.”

“Are you referring to me?” Sara asked quietly.

“I am making a point about Rachel.”

Slowly Sara set her cup and saucer on the table and looked at Perry, who had colored at his mother’s rudeness. “It’s a wonder you never courted such a paragon,” Sara told him, smiling although her chest was tightening with anger.

Martha answered for her son. “Perry was never free to court her or any other girls in the village. Someone else was always taking up his time with her demanding possessiveness.”

Sara felt her face turn red. “Was that you or me, I wonder?” Standing abruptly, she snatched up her cloak. “Excuse me. I think it’s time I left.”

Behind her, Martha gave a sharp exclamation. “What a rude display. I was only making conversation!”

As Perry bent to soothe his mother, Sara strode out of the house. She had never been angry in front of Perry before—she had always tolerated his mother with patience and courtesy. For some reason she had finally reached her limit. Swearing under her breath, she began the walk home. Her spine stiffened as she became aware of Perry hurrying to catch up with her. He had rushed outside without even stopping to put on a coat.

“I can’t believe you would storm off in such a manner,” Perry exclaimed. “Sara, stop and let me talk to you for a minute!”

She continued without even breaking stride. “I don’t feel like talking.”

“Don’t be angry with Mother.”

“I’m not angry with her. I’m angry with you for not defending me!”

“Sara, I can hardly tell her she’s not free to express her own opinions in her own house! You’re making too much of this.”

“She was insufferable!”

Perry gave a harassed sigh and adjusted his pace to match hers. “Mother was in high dudgeon today,” he admitted. “I don’t know what put her in such a state.”

“I think it’s safe to say I did. I always do, Perry. Haven’t you ever realized how much she dislikes me and any other woman that you associate with?”

“What has made you so sensitive?” he asked in astonishment. “It’s not like you to take offense easily. I must say it’s not an attractive side of you, Sara, not at all!”

Now that she had begun to let the barricades down, she felt an immense relief at being able to speak her mind. “Oh? Well, I don’t find it attractive when you let your mother needle me like that. And what’s worse, you expect me to swallow it with a smile!”

Perry’s face turned sullen. “I don’t wish to argue with you, Sara. We never have before.”

Her eyes began to sting. “That’s because I thought if I was understanding and long-suffering enough, you would finally be moved to propose to me. I’ve had to wait four years, Perry, hanging all my hopes on your mother’s approval. Well, she’s never going to give her blessing to a marriage between you and me.” Impatiently she brushed away a few angry tears. “You’ve always asked me to wait, as if we had time in abundance. But time is too precious, Perry. We’ve wasted years, when we could have been with each other. Don’t you understand how much even one day of loving each other is worth? Some people are separated by distances they can never cross. All they can do is dream about each other for a lifetime, never having what they want most. How foolish, how wasteful to have love within your reach and not take it!” She damped her teeth on her trembling bottom lip to steady herself. “Let me tell you something, Perry Kingswood—it would be unwise of you to assume that I’ll be happy to wait forever!”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, stunned by her tirade.

She stopped and faced him squarely. “If you truly wanted me, you wouldn’t be able to stand being apart from me. You wouldn’t let anyone come between us. A-and you would have seduced me by now!”

“Sara,” he exclaimed, staring at her in disbelief. “I’ve never seen you like this. You’re not yourself. What happened to you in London?”

“Nothing. I’ve just been taking stock of things.” Regaining control of herself, she gazed at him with a mixture of resolve and longing. “I’ve made a decision, Perry.”

“Oh, you have,” he said, the sulky curve of his lips deepening. “Well, I won’t be dictated to, my girl!”

“I hope that’s true. I’m afraid you’ll let your mother’s wishes guide you in this. You know as well as I that she has done her best to stand in our way. I have always tried to avoid making you choose between us, but I can’t see any other way to resolve this.” Sara took a long breath. “I want to marry you, Perry. I want to take care of you, and be a loving helpmate. But this ‘courtship,’ or whatever it is that has been going on for the past four years, must end one way or another. If you don’t propose to me soon—very soon—I will end our relationship for good.”

His face turned pallid. They stared at each other in silence, both of them amazed that such forceful words had come from her. Sara read the dawning anger and hurt in his eyes, but she continued to stare at him resolutely.

A breeze cut through Perry’s shirt and vest, and he shivered. “I’m cold,” he muttered. Without another word, he turned and left her, hurrying back to the manor where his mother waited.

As always Sara felt soothed by the sight of her family’s cottage, perched at the top of a gentle hill. There were four rooms in the little house, a privy with a thatched roof in the garden, and a combination stable and cart shed. Her elderly parents had lived there for nearly forty years, after inheriting it from Sara’s grandparents. No matter what troubles befell them in the outside world, home meant safety and peace.

As she approached the cottage, Sara saw that the small rectangular windows were glowing with light. The silhouettes of many heads showed plainly. Visitors. Her heart sank. Sometimes her parents’ elderly friends would stay for hours, socializing over countless cups of tea. Sara didn’t want to face a crowd at the moment, but there was no way to avoid it. Pulling her lips into a halfhearted smile, she opened the front door and walked in. As she had expected, every piece of worn furniture was filled with guests…the Hughes, the Brownes, and Archie Burrows, a recent widower.

“Sara, you’re back early,” her father, Isaac, exclaimed. He was a short man with broad shoulders and a shock of silver-gray hair. His leathery face creased with an infectious smile. He patted the cushioned footstool near his chair. “Have one of the delicious cakes Mrs. Hughes brought.”

“No, thank you,” Sara said while her mother helped to remove her cloak. “I believe I’ll have a rest after my walk.”

“Why, look,” Mrs. Browne exclaimed. “The poor girl’s cheeks are all red from the cold. The wind has a vicious bite today, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does,” Sara murmured, declining to explain that it was emotion, rather than cold, that had brought the color to her cheeks.

“How is young Mr. Kingswood?” one of the elderly ladies inquired, and they all watched her with great interest. “As handsome as ever, isn’t he?”

“Oh, very.” Sara managed to give the group a strained smile before she retreated to the privacy of her room.

Sitting on her narrow bed, she folded her hands in her lap and stared at the picture on the wall, a water-color landscape that had been painted by one of her friends years ago. The artist was Mary Marcum, a friend exactly her age who had married the local blacksmith and was now the mother of three children. A wave of self-pity came over Sara. She had never felt so much like a spinster. Gritting her teeth with frustration, she wiped her dampening eyes with her sleeve. At that moment her mother entered the room and closed the door.

“What happened?” Katie asked quietly, easing her plump body onto the bed and folding her hands on her lap. Although her skin was lined with age, her brown eyes were youthful and warm. A halo of soft white curls framed her face becomingly.

“What about your guests—” Sara began.

“Oh, they’re perfectly happy to listen to your father telling his ancient jokes. We’ve finally reached the age when they all sound new again.”

They chuckled together, and then Sara shook her head miserably. “I think I may have made a mistake,” she confessed, and told Katie about the scene with the Kingswoods and the ultimatum she had given Perry afterward.

Katie’s forehead was wreathed in concern. She held Sara’s hand comfortingly. “I don’t believe it was a mistake, Sara. You did what you felt was right. You won’t go wrong by listening to your heart.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sara said ruefully, dragging her sleeve across her wet face. “My heart was telling me some very strange things a few days ago.”

Her mother’s hand loosened slightly. “About your Mr. Craven.”

Sara glanced at her, startled. “How did you know?”

“It was the way you talked about him. There was something in your voice I’d never heard before.”

Although Sara had mentioned just a few scant details about the gambling club and the man who owned it, she should have known her mother would sense the things that were left unsaid. She lowered her head. “Mr. Craven is a wicked man, Mama,” she whispered. “He’s done terrible things in his life.”

“But you found something in him to care about, didn’t you?”

A few tears splashed into Sara’s lap. “If he’d had someone to teach him about right and wrong, someone to love and care for him as a child, he would have grown up to be a fine man. A very fine man.” She wondered what Derek Craven might have been like if he’d been born to one of the families in Greenwood Corners. He would have been a handsome little boy with innocent green eyes and a sturdy, well-nourished body, running through the meadows with the other village children. But the image dissolved, and she could only see him as a scrawny climbing boy, choking on soot as he crawled upward through chimney stacks. Sara twisted her fingers together in agitation. “The club factotum told me that Mr. Craven is a man of ruined potential. He was absolutely right.”

Katie watched her closely. “Sara, did this man admit to having feelings for you?”

“Oh, no,” Sara said hastily. “At least…not the kind of feelings you and Papa would approve of.”

She flushed, while her mother took unexpected amusement in the comment. “Of course I approve of those feelings,” Katie said, chuckling. “Within the bonds of matrimony.”

Sara dragged her fingers through her own hair, ruining the smooth coiffure and pulling out the pins that seemed to jab into her scalp. “There’s no point in talking about Mr. Craven,” she said dully. “Perry is the only man I want, and the only one I was likely to get, and it’s possible I’ve just ruined all chance of marrying him!”

“No one can know for certain,” Katie mused. “But I think you might have given him the prodding he needed. Deep in his heart, Perry doesn’t want to be alone with his mother forever. He can never really be a man until he leaves her and begins to make decisions for himself—and she’s made that well-nigh impossible. In a way she’s created a prison for him. What worries me, Sara, is that instead of escaping the prison, he may want you to join him there.”

“Oh, no.” Sara’s chin wobbled. “I couldn’t bear a lifetime of being under Martha Kingswood’s thumb!”

“It’s something you should think about,” Katie said gently. “Lord bless you both, it may be the only way you can have Perry.” Giving Sara’s arm a squeeze, she smiled warmly. “Dry your face, dear, and come out to visit with the guests. Mrs. Browne has been asking about Mathilda again, and I never remember what I’m supposed to tell her.”

Sara gave her a dark look and obediently followed her to the front room.

The following day was spent washing clothes and preparing a “pepper pot” for supper. Cutting carrots, turnips, and onions into small pieces for the stew, Sara talked and laughed with her mother. As they worked, they sang a selection of the love ballads with sweetly tragic endings that were so popular in the village. Finally Isaac called to them from the parlor, where he sat on the floor fixing the cracked leg of a chair. “Don’t the two of you know any songs in which no one dies or loses his sweetheart? I began the day in a happy mood, and now after these dirges I’m hard-pressed not to be wiping a tear from my eye!”

“Will hymns do?” Sara asked, scraping the vegetables into a pot of boiling water. Later they would add equal parts of mutton and fish, and season the whole with cayenne pepper.

“Aye, something to uplift the soul!”

They launched into a vigorous hymn, pausing to giggle as they heard Isaac’s off-kilter baritone join in. “Your father has his share of faults,” Katie murmured to Sara in the lull after the hymn was finished. “He gave me a trying time, to be sure, especially in his youth. He had a quick temper back then, and a tendency to brood.” A reminiscent smile curved her mouth. “But that dear man has loved me every day of his life. He’s been true to me all these forty years. And after all this time, he still makes me laugh. Marry a man like that, Sara…and if it pleases God, you’ll be as happy as I’ve been.”

* * *

Retiring early for the night, Sara lay very still in her bed and waited for her ice-cold toes to warm. Perry had been in her thoughts all day. Fervently she prayed that she hadn’t driven him away for good. She had loved him for so many years. He had always been a part of her life. When he was in one of his boyish moods, teasing her and pressing careless kisses on her lips, she sometimes feared she would expire of happiness. The afternoon picnics with him, long walks through the countryside, snuggling against his shoulder as he read aloud to her…the memories had brought her hours of pleasure as she recounted each golden moment. If by some miracle she became his wife, she would be able to wake up every morning and find him next to her, his blond hair softly tumbled, his sleepy blue eyes smiling at her.

Tense with anxious hope, Sara clenched her arms around her pillow. “Perry,” she said aloud, her voice muffled. “Perry, I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

She fell asleep with Perry’s name on her lips. But when she dreamed, it was of Derek Craven, his dark presence filtering through her sleep like a ghost.

She played a game of hide-and-seek with him, running through the empty club, giggling wildly as she sensed him drawing near. He followed her intently, closing in until she knew there was no chance of escape…except one. After finding a secret door, she disappeared into a tunnel of darkness, concealing herself. But suddenly she heard the sound of his breathing. He was with her in the shadows. He caught her easily and pinned her against the wall, laughing at her startled gasp. “You’ll never get away from me,” he whispered, his hands sliding roughly over her body. “You’re mine forever…only mine…”

Sara was awakened suddenly by a tapping on her door. Her father’s voice was groggy and tempered with annoyance. “Sara? Sara, we have company. Dress yourself, daughter, and come to the front room.”

She stirred heavily, wishing only to sink back into the dream. “Yes, Papa,” she mumbled, and dragged herself out of the cozy warmth of her bed. She found a heavy robe and tied it over her high-necked night rail. “Papa, who on earth is…” Her voice faded as she saw the visitor. Automatically her hand flew to her wild hair, smoothing back the tangled skeins. “Perry!”

Looking haggard and ill-at-ease, Perry stood by the front door, hat in hand. He kept his eyes on Sara as he spoke to her father quietly. “Sir, I know this has the appearance of impropriety, but if I could have a minute alone with your daughter—”

“A minute, no more,” Isaac said reluctantly. He gave Sara a meaningful glance just before he left the room. She nodded in answer to the silent warning to keep the interlude short.

Her heartbeat was heavy and fast. Clearing her throat, she wandered to a nearby chair and sat on the edge. “Why are you here at such a late hour, Perry? You know how unseemly it is.”

“I’ve been half-mad for the past two days.” His voice was strained. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I thought about everything you said. You hardly seemed like the same person yesterday morning—the way you looked and spoke—you should have told me how you truly felt long ago, Sara. It was a disservice to me every time you covered your thoughts with a smile.”

“I suppose it was,” she admitted, noticing that his eyes were smudged with the shadows of lost sleep.

“You were right about a few things,” Perry said, surprising her by dropping on his knees before her. Carefully he took her hands. “Mother will not approve of our union, not at first. But she’ll get used to it after a while. It’s possible you and she may even become friends someday.” Sara began to reply, but he gestured for her to wait. “You were right about something else, darling. It is wasteful not to take love when it’s within my grasp. I do want to be with you.” He held her hands tightly, looking into her flushed face. “I love you, Sara. And if you’ll have me, I would like for us to be married in the spring.”

“Yes, yes!” Sara left the chair and flung her arms around his neck, nearly toppling them both over in her excitement.

Laughing and kissing her, Perry tried to hush her exclamations. “Quiet, darling, or we’ll wake your parents.”

“They probably have their ears pressed to the door,” she said, tightening her arms in a stranglehold. “Oh, Perry, you’ve made me so happy.”

“You’ve made me even happier.” They grinned at each other, and Perry stroked the wild tendrils of her hair.

“Come back tomorrow morning and talk to my father,” Sara urged. “It’s only a formality, but it will please him.”

“Yes, and then you’ll come with me to break the news to my mother.”

“Ugh,” Sara couldn’t resist saying.

He gave her a reproving glance. “If you approach her in a spirit of love and goodwill, she’ll reciprocate in kind.”

“All right,” Sara said with a grin. “I’m so happy I’d be willing to kiss the devil hims—”

Perry didn’t seem to notice the odd catch of her voice. Nor could he know the cause of it.

They talked for another minute or two. After they exchanged a few hasty kisses, Perry left the cottage. Sara’s mind buzzed with strange, fearful notions all the while, but she concealed her turmoil until he was gone. Then she let herself think about the flashing memory…Derek Craven’s snarling grin, his dark head bending over hers. She exhaled unsteadily, feeling as if she were being haunted. It must not happen again. She must drive every thought of Craven out of her mind forever. He had said he would forget her. Bitterly she wondered how he intended to accomplish that, if it would be easy for him…if he would turn to another woman.

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. “I’ll 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, y’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 ewerything 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.