Page 17 of The Dreaming Beauty
Her brow furrowed. “I suppose.”
He recorded her answer. “Have you ever had a recurring dream?”
“I... I am not sure.” She chewed on the side of her lip.
“Are your dreams more pleasant or frightening?”
“Not frightening, no.” She continued to gnaw at her beautiful mouth, distracting him. He wagered this was more a sign of nerves than of lying, as she had no known motivation to do so.
“I am happy to hear it.” He’d asked these same questions many times, but it was rare to find someone who had recurring dreams like his own. “Do you have dreams from your past?”
Tansy sipped her tea. “I sometimes dream of my mother.”
Since she lived with her aunts, he assumed her mother and her father had died. “How old were you when—”
“Five,” she said before he could finish. “I was but five years old.”
He wouldn’t pry about the specifics of her dream. At least, not yet. It already felt insensitive to ask at all. But still, the age seemed close to what he himself had to be in his own dream. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“They’re mostly good dreams,” Tansy said, as if recognizing his hesitation.
The sentiment eased his concern on her behalf. Some of the things he’d heard in his interviews had never left him. Thankfully, Tansy’s brief and undetailed answers wouldn’t keep him awake tonight. They also wouldn’t get him any closer to the answers he sought. His hopes fell. He had only one last question, and it was far rarer a possibility than the others.
“What aboutrevelatorydreams? Dreams that warn or predict?”
Tansy’s cup stilled on her lips. Her eyes went to the painting on the mantel, hesitating. “No, not those.” Her words were short and spoken too fast, followed by a long drink of tea. Was it a lie, or was she merely still uncomfortable?
“What about—” Mrs. Wood didn’t finish, and she pressed her lips into a semblance of a smile. “Never mind.”
This moment was terribly familiar. The same hesitation and rush of an answer mirrored the aunts’ claim about Tansy’s sleepwalking. The tip of Marcus’s pencil broke on his paper, snapping him from his reverie. He hadn’t meant to put so much pressure on it, but a revelatory dream was something indeed. He cleared his throat, knowing from experience that pushing too much too quickly would only throw up barriers between him and the answers he sought. “I suppose that concludes the interview, then. Unless, that is, you have other experiences that might add to the subject?” He waited, but Tansy and Mrs. Wood avoided his eyes.
What were they keeping from him? He had been a year now in Whitfield, studying dreams, but his recent time aiding Lord Cadogen reminded him that any secret could be his with patience. He’d brought more than a few men to justice and also helped a few honest ones go free, and if he played his cards carefully, surely he could apply what he had learned to these harmless women. He dearly needed a case similar to his own for him to make any progress in his studies. The question was not whether Tansy and her aunts were withholding information or even why. There was clearly more to the conversation. What he needed to know was how to get Tansy to trust him enough to confide in him.
Chapter 8
Aster took Tansy’s teacup andsaucer. “Tansy, why don’t you see Mr. Taylor out while I clean up in here.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Her heart still pounded in rapid percussion from Mr. Taylor’s questions. All her life she had strived to keep her dreams a secret, and now she had met someone determined to know everything about them. People had been locked away for lesser things, and the line between eccentric and insane seemed very fine these days.
She stood, and Aster said, “When you are through, see where Daisy and Iris have gone off to, won’t you?”
Tansy nodded and followed Mr. Taylor out of their small drawing room toward the front door. Four or five steps was all it took to pass through the vestibule to reach the door, whereas Ashbury Court could fit almost the entire cottage in its entrance hall. What did Mr. Taylor think of Rose Cottage—a humble little home without even a butler or footmen to get the door for them? And what did he make of her family? Did he think them all mad? If he did not already, he certainly would if she told him any more details about her dreams.
She handed Mr. Taylor his hat, and her ungloved fingers touched his, sending unwelcome warmth through her. She quickly removed a thin shawl off the hook, draping it in the crook of her elbows, and left her bonnet behind. Mr. Taylor held the door open, and she hurriedly stepped out into the warm sunshine, putting needed space between them.
It was a glorious day, and even though most of the rosebuds on the recently trimmed bushes were still too small to open, she could smell the fragrance in the air. She stepped aside and watched Mr. Taylor close the door. She shouldn’t be attracted to a man so soon after being mistreated by Mr. Robinson. She would do better to guard her heart from others.
“I appreciate you answering my questions,” Mr. Taylor said, settling his hat on his head. “I know they were of an unusual nature.”
“The topic was most unique.”
“Indeed, and I am sorry if you were wary to speak of it. You should ask something of your own to make me just as uncomfortable.”
She pondered for a moment. There was one thing she had wondered, and it seemed a safe enough topic. “How did you come to find a position in a stately mansion all by yourself?”
“Ah, an excellent question. The position sort of fell into my lap. My family relocated here seven years ago, so while I have loved my time at Oxford, this place will always be home. I’m quite fond of the area, and the townspeople are friendly, so working here is no great punishment.”
“Is your family still living in Whitfield?”
