Page 19 of The Dreaming Beauty
Was it? What a shame Tansy did not appreciate his efforts as much as her elders. Perhaps she needed more viewing time. Marcus chuckled to himself, taking more time on the fence than was needed, giving the women their show. When he finished, Mrs. Wood brought out some lemonade, which was the perfect ratio of sugar to lemon.
“I finished two fairy houses this morning, Mr. Taylor. Would you like to see them?” the elder Miss White asked.
“That is exactly what I wanted to do before I left.” Mrs. Wood took his glass, and he put his arm out to Miss White. He caught Tansy’s eye. “You are joining us, aren’t you?”
“I would be happy to.”
Good. He had not yet come up with a way to ask her more about her dreams, but he was determined to do so. Tucked under the willows, he found the fairy houses. They were crude little lean-tos not more than few inches high.
“You did well, Miss White.” He did not even have to fake his congeniality. It was easy to be around them and want to please them.
“See?” Miss White said to Tansy. “Did I not tell you he would like them?”
“You did indeed.” Tansy caught his eye, and she shot him a grateful smile.
He cleared his throat, ready to work his reason for coming into the conversation. “Maybe itwasthe fairies who sent Miss Tansy sleepwalking to my house.”
Tansy shook her head much too quickly.
“I suspected that before, remember?” Miss White said. “I assumed you would have to kiss her to wake her.”
“He would have to do what?” Tansy sputtered, her cheeks growing pink.
Marcus shrugged, pleading innocence with his eyes.
Miss White hunched down by the houses. “Don’t get yourself in a dither, Tansy. I am sure he wanted to. It simply wasn’t needed.”
Tansy blanched, and he knew he had better clarify the situation. “I wanted to help, but I was never going to... you know.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. He tried again, needing her to trust him. “I would never! Not with you in my bed and... and an audience.” He closed his mouth, realizing what he’d just said. He cleared his throat. “Or if you were anywhere else and there were no audience.”
“I think I know exactly how you feel on the subject, Mr. Taylor. You can stop talking about it now.”
Marcus grimaced. “Yes, a different subject would be preferable.” This was his chance to ask about her dreams, even if he hadn’t set it up as well as he wanted to. “Have you had any unusual dreams since the storm? I know that night would have upended anyone.”
“Dreams?” Her eyes widened, but was it fear he saw there or simply wariness? Clearly, this topic was as forbidden as the subject of kissing. “No, I cannot say that I have. And what about you, Mr. Taylor. What areyourdreams like?”
“My dreams are insignificant, I assure you.” He glanced away. He hadn’t expected her to turn the question on him. It seemed terribly personal, too, once he thought about it—too personal to share with a mere acquaintance. He had only discussed it with Cadogen and not even his own brother. Tansy reminded him of himself. Someone who kept her vulnerability closely guarded. If he truly wanted to know what she was hiding, he needed to truly become her friend first.
“I had a dream last night,” Miss White said.
“Oh?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. I dreamed of fairies.”
He laughed at her predictable answer. A dream like that was simple metaphysics. If one reflected on something long enough, naturally it would show up in one’s dreams. He had seen it before in soldiers who dreamed of war and children who dreamed of toys. He had a feeling Tansy’s secrets were like his and not so easily explained. What he wouldn’t give to try to find them out though. He imagined they could learn a great deal from each other’s experiences. One more reason to become her friend, although he hardly needed another. Never had research been as appealing as it was when the subject was Tansy White.
Chapter 10
Tansy woke with a start,surprised to hear the pounding rain on the windows. The day hadn’t shown any signs of a storm, and usually she slept too deeply to be awoken by one. But the storm was not to blame for her racing heart and the tears stinging her tired eyes. She put her hand over her mouth to hold back the sob fueled by her distressing dream. Not wanting to wake Daisy, Tansy slipped from her covers and softly padded through the house until she reached the front door.
She slid outside and leaned tight against the door, letting the roof eaves protect her from the pouring rain. Her dreams about her mother were often pleasant, but not tonight. Too confused and upset to return inside, she let the rain dance against her feet and the bottom of her nightdress. This time her mother had been sick—very sick. Tansy knew her mother had died of an illness, but she remembered only being by her bedside, being read to, and taking naps together.
This dream had shown her a glimpse of her mother’s suffering, and Tansy’s stomach whirled at the very real pain her mother must have endured. Was this what coming to Rose Cottage meant? Reliving the painful moments she had suppressed? Mr. Taylor’s questions about dreams had her analyzing what everything meant. She wished she knew if there were some significance to it or if she had simply eaten something strange at dinner. She stared up at the sky, wishing to see some stars and glean perspective from them. After a few minutes, the cool night air and even rhythm of the rain calmed her worries. She was able to return to her room and in the dark change into a nightdress with a hem not already saturated with rainwater. Buried under her covers, sleep finally came. And this time, without any dreams at all.
* * *
Tansy woke later than usual, with the dream of her mother fresh in her mind. Stretching her arms, she forced herself out of bed before she could torture herself by rehearsing every part of it again. She knew better than to write off the dream completely, but it was not the sort of tangible clue she had hoped to get by coming to Rose Cottage.
It frustrated her not to feel any closer to learning more about her mother’s life. The house brought her memory close, as was evident by her dream, but there was no journal left behind on a shelf, and there were no letters in the small desk in her room. Aster had pointed out some pressed roses her mother had formed into a piece of art that hung framed in the corridor upstairs, but there was little more than that. There was so very much she longed to know, like why she bore the surname of her grandfather instead of her own father and why her parents’ marriage was not something to speak about.
