Where Dreams Begin(23)

Although Holly always awakened gladly to the sight of her daughter bouncing into bed for a good-morning kiss, today she resisted being pulled from slumber. Mumbling drowsily, she burrowed further into her pillow, while Rose cavorted around her.

“Mama,” the little girl called, climbing beneath the warm covers, “Mama, wake up! The sun is out, and it's a lovely day. I want to play in the gardens. And visit the stables. Mr. Bronson has lots of horses, did you know that?”

Maude chose just that moment to enter the room. “Mr. Bronson has lots of everything,” came the maid's wry observation, and Holly emerged from her pillow with a smothered laugh. Busily Maude poured a hot basin of water at the marble-topped washstand and set out Holly's silver-backed brush and comb set, along with various toiletries.

“Good morning, Maude,” Holly said, feeling unaccountably cheerful. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, and so did our Rose. I suspect she exhausted herself playing with all those toys. How did ye fare, milady?”

“I had the most wonderful rest.” After the past several nights of tossing and turning, waking up in the middle of each night beset with doubt, Holly had finally succumbed to a deep slumber. She supposed it was only natural that she would relax, now that they were under Mr. Bronson's roof and there was no more opportunity for second-guessing. And they had been given a lovely suite of rooms, large and airy, decorated in beige and rose and gleaming white paneling. The windows were swathed in frothy Brussels lace, and the French armchairs had been covered with Gobelin tapestry. The bed had been carved with a curling shell motif that matched the huge armoire on the other side of the room.

It pleased Holly that Rose's room was located right next to hers, instead of being relegated to an upper floor where nurseries were usually located. The little girl's room had been filled with child-sized cherrywood furniture, and bookshelves filled with beautifully illustrated volumes, and a mahogany table loaded with the largest doll house Holly had ever seen. Every detail of the toy was astonishingly perfect, from the tiny Aubusson rugs on its floors to the thumbnail-sized wooden hams and chickens hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

“I had a splendid dream last night,” Holly remarked, yawning and rubbing her eyes. She sat up and began to stack a pile of downy pillows. “I was walking in a garden filled with red roses…they were so large, with velvety petals, and they seemed so real that I could actually smell them. And the most remarkable thing was, I could gather as many armfuls as I wished, and there were no thorns.”

“Red roses, ye say?” Maude glanced at her, eyes bright with interest. “They say to dream of red roses means ye'll soon have luck in love.”

Holly gave her a startled glance, then shook her head with a wistful smile. “I've already had that.” Glancing at the child cuddling by her side, she kissed the top of Rose's curly dark head. “All my love is for you and your papa,” she murmured.

“Can you still love Papa when he's in heaven?” Rose asked, reaching across the embroidered silk counterpane for the doll she had brought into the room with her.

“Of course I can. You and I still love each other even when we're not together, don't we?”

“Yes, Mama.” Rose beamed at her and brought the doll forth. “Look—one of my new dolls. This is my favorite.”

Holly regarded the doll with an admiring smile. Its head, arms and feet were made of china covered in a high-gloss finish, and the delicately painted features glowed beneath a cap of real hair that had been attached a strand at a time. The doll was dressed in a lavish silk gown adorned with buttons, bows and ruffles, and little red shoes had been painted on her feet.

“How lovely,” Holly said sincerely. “What is her name, darling?”

“Miss Crumpet.”

Holly laughed. “I have a feeling you and she will enjoy many tea parties together.”

Rose hugged the doll and regarded Holly over its little head. “May we invite Mr. Bronson to one of our tea parties, Mama?”

Holly's smile faded as she replied, “I don't think that will be possible, Rose. Mr. Bronson is a very busy man.”

“Oh.”

“That Mr. Bronson is a strange one,” Maude chatted, bringing a ruffled white pelisse from the armoire and holding it as Holly slipped her arms through the sleeves. “I was talking with some of the servants this morning—I had to fetch the hot water myself, as no one ever seems to come when the bell is pulled—and they had a few things to say about him.”

“Such as?” Holly asked idly, concealing a flare of curiosity.

Gesturing for Rose to come to her, Maude dressed the little girl in a fresh white chemise and underdrawers, and thick cotton stockings. “They say he's a good master and that no one wants for anything here. But the house isn't run well. The housekeeper, Mrs. Burney, and all the servants know that Mr. Bronson hasn't the slightest idea of what goes on in real gentlefolks' households.”

“And so they take advantage of his lack of knowledge in this area,” Holly concluded, shaking her head in disapproval. Instantly she made up her mind that if she accomplished nothing else during her time here, she would at least ensure that the servants received some instruction. Zachary Bronson certainly deserved proper service from his own employees.

However, Maude's next words dispelled all trace of charitable feeling. Settling a ruffled white dress over Rose's head, the maid ensured that the child's ears were covered before she continued. “They say, milady, that Mr. Bronson is quite wild. He's given parties here sometimes, with drinking and gambling and harlots in every corner, and the guests were all very bad ton. After the goings-on at one of these evenings, they even had to replace carpets and furniture in some of the rooms—”