Page 77 of The Dreaming Beauty
Words taunted Marcus from theother side of a dark room, confusing him, belittling him.
“Why won’t you believe me?” he cried. His voice was young and small and swallowed up by obscure blackness.
“There is nothing to believe. You are only imagining it.”
He tried to defend himself. “It’s real. I promise I am not lying.”
Laughter grated against his ears. “The life you remember is but a dream.”
Marcus woke with a start, drenched in sweat. He pulled himself up on his elbows and blinked the sleep from his eyes, taking in the dim, unfamiliar surroundings. Where was he? Oh, the inn. Running his hands through his hair, he groaned and crashed back against his pillow. That man had come back to haunt him again. And then Nurse Jones had taken a turn. Her singing had been so comforting, until she had gone farther and farther away from him, leaving him alone in a dark, empty room. The walls had started to close in on him, suffocating him. And then the voices had started. Why was being a child such a frightening thing?
Knowing he would not fall back asleep, he forced himself from the bed and dressed. He might as well get an early start on his visit to Melbourne Meadows. He only hoped the caretaker would let him in. It had been far too long since any of them had been to the property. Within the hour, shortly after sunrise, he had reached his destination on horseback.
Melbourne Meadows was nothing in comparison to the beauty of Ashbury Court, but it held its own. The brownstone scaled two stories high, with matching wings on both sides that jutted forward off the main house. A dozen stairs led up to the double doors, and he took them by two. Reaching for the metal knocker, he clanged it several times with the force he hoped would wake a man inside, if perchance he was still abed.
After a few minutes without answer, he knocked again. This time, a man did answer.
Marcus removed his hat. “I am Mr. Marcus Taylor, brother to the Duke of Westmorland. I have had some communication with the steward here in the past year about this holding.”
“That would be me. I am Mr. Griever.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you in person. I have not come to stay, but I am here to see the house.”
Mr. Griever let him in. “It is not what it used to be when it was fully staffed.”
“I don’t mind. I won’t be but an hour or so. You can go about your business while I walk around.”
“Yes, sir. I will be in the kitchen if you have need of me. With the family gone, we keep things informal.”
“Of course. I will find you when I am through.”
Mr. Griever left him, allowing Marcus to see the interior for what felt like the first time. The entrance hall had two fireplaces and a door in the direct center, with matching side doors just off the room, perpendicular to the front door. He went to the center first and pulled it open. Ah, a drawing room—or a ghost room, to be more specific, since all the furnishings were draped in holland covers. The left door led to a library. The shelves were half empty, and a quick perusal of it showed him nothing specific.
What was he doing here? Simon had no memory of Nurse Jones. It was still possible she could be abusing Marcus’s trust and lying about her connections to the family. He went back through the entrance hall to the right-side door. It opened and revealed a staircase and a corridor with more rooms. Finally, something he remembered. He ran his hand along the bannister, some of the regret he had for coming leaving him. He and Simon used to slide down this very thing. He could almost hear Nurse Philips scolding them. The pleasant memory lessened some of the tension pulling at his muscles.
His feet moved up the stairs of their own accord, tracing a path he had once known so well and now barely recalled. He stopped at a door at the very end of the corridor, and his pulse began to accelerate. Why was he nervous? With a quick turn of the handle, the door opened, and Marcus stilled. The nursery.
Blocks, books, and wooden soldiers neatly lined two shelves, but a thin layer of dust covered nearly everything. Without a fire, the cold morning air brought a shiver down his back. He waited for more memories to flood over him, but he grasped only one or two fleeting ones of playing with Simon.
With a prayer in his heart for answers, he made his way to the back of the room to the bedchamber. The door stuck a little as he pushed it open. Two tiny beds flanked each side of the room with a crib under the window at the center. Many of his dreams took place in his nursery bed, where the walls had closed in on him. He went to a bed and removed the holland cover. Before he could overthink it, he laid down on the little thing and stared at the plaster ceiling.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes, and thoughts of Tansy flooded over him. He hoped Simon’s words had made her birthday everything she’d wanted it to be. He hated his role in it, but it had to be done. The long ride from the day before, his late arrival to the inn, and his few hours of haunted sleep seemed to overwhelm him with exhaustion. He let his limbs relax, and before he knew it, sleep overtook him once more.
Mother stood over him, her face so very young, her eyes red-rimmed, a candle in her hand. “Time for bed, Marcus.”
He resisted, shaking his head. “Stop calling me that.”
“You’re confused. Everything has been quite upsetting. You are not Simon, you are Marcus.”
“I’m Simon! I am.”
“Hush, child. It was just a dream. We will talk about it again tomorrow. Nurse Philips will read you a story, and then tonight, please try not to scream out.”
“I want Nurse Jones! Where is Nurse Jones?” he cried.
“There is no Nurse Jones anymore; it is Nurse Philips now.”
