Page 8 of The Dreaming Beauty
The other Miss White slapped her oldest sister’s shoulder. “You see? I knew Tansy did not run away.”
“Naturally.” Mrs. Wood gave Miss White an exaggerated visage of exasperation. “What a foolish notion for a respectable young lady like our niece. She was probably... she was probably sleepwalking.”
“Sleepwalking?” Marcus repeated. That would explain her nearly deathlike slumber, though her fever likely played a larger part. He was not one to jump to conclusions, but this was an idea he had to explore, as wild as it sounded.
Mrs. Palmer’s eyes widened, and she turned to Mrs. Wood, not possibly as curious as Marcus was to hear what her sister would say next. Before Mrs. Wood could open her mouth, Mrs. Palmer snapped her fingers and spoke for her sister. “Of course! Why else would she wander about in the middle of the night, traipsing around in her... uh, night things?”
Marcus twisted a curl that flipped out by his ear. “You are saying she sleepwalked over a mile from Rose Cottage in the middle of a storm?”
“Tansy does not sleep well.” Miss White, who seemed no older than thirty years, grew excited. “But when she does, she sleeps deeper than the nearby lakes.”
Interesting. The enthusiasm and inflections in Miss White’s voice bespoke of her natural naive and honest nature. He mulled over their words. The concept of a deep sleeper traveling so far intrigued him. His dreaming beauty was proving to be quite the anomaly. But then,hedid not sleep well either. Their commonality only solidified the fact that he would not soon forget her unusual trait.
A knock sounded, and Mrs. Kirk stuck her head inside. “Pardon me, sir, but Mr. Hobson said you needed me.”
“Yes, Mrs. Kirk, please join us.” He turned back to his guests. “This is our housekeeper, who has been by Miss Tansy’s side all night. How is our patient, Mrs. Kirk?”
“She is still asleep, sir. But she is not quite as warm to the touch as she was last night.”
“Might we see her?” Mrs. Wood asked.
When Marcus regarded Mrs. Kirk’s opinion, she gave him a nod. He trusted her judgment where the infirm were concerned. “It might be good for her to have a drink or some broth, sir, if her family can wake her.”
“An excellent idea. If you could see to the broth, I shall lead them to her room.” He stood. “Just this way, if you please.”
The sisters linked arms and stayed bunched together all the way up the stairs to Marcus’s room. He let them go inside first, then followed, stopping just inside the threshold.
“She looks very poorly indeed,” Mrs. Palmer grumbled.
Besides the flush in her cheeks, Marcus disagreed. Even sick she was lovely, but they knew her better.
Mrs. Wood went and gently shook her niece. “Tansy, dear, wake up.”
Miss Tansy groaned, but her eyes stayed shut. Mrs. Wood put her hand to her niece’s forehead, as Marcus had done just last night. “Far too warm. Has a doctor been sent for?”
“Yes, he came in the night, but he did not seem too alarmed.”
“My sister was right,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Tansy is a deep sleeper. How are we going to wake her?”
“She’s not sick,” Miss White said, pulling absently at her sleeve. “She’scursed.”
Mrs. Palmer tsked and pulled Miss White’s hand away from the sleeve she was abusing. “We’re all cursed, but this is different.”
“Not very.” Miss White leaned over her niece. “No one can predict what happens in Whitfield. I wouldn’t be surprised if we angered the fairies by coming here and they’ve put her into a deep sleep to punish us.”
“We have every right to be here,” Mrs. Palmer snapped, her voice low and gravelly.
Mrs. Wood clucked her tongue. “Good heavens, Daisy, Iris. Let us not speak of any of that here.”
Miss White shrugged. “I read a book once that told of a curse leading to a deathlike slumber. Only a kiss will wake her now. Mr. Taylor, you will help us, won’t you?”
“Help how?” His voice cracked. Kiss a stranger? Never. These women were the oddest he’d ever met—sleepwalkers, curses, fairies. On the rare occasion he’d hear a gaggle of women whispering in town about a superstition or two, but these three had to be as bad as the Irish. He would never expect to hear such talk to this extent in England, and certainly never in his own bedchamber. “I am sure if her aunts cannot wake her, a stranger would do no better,” he said.
“Hush, Daisy.” Mrs. Wood said, her laugh sheepish. “Mr. Taylor does not believe in such things.”
“You don’t?” Miss White’s eyes went wide, as if she begged for him to refute her sister’s claim.
“I...” His hand went to his cravat, but he hesitated before crumpling it. Why should he feel guilty for his rather normal perception? It was perfectly acceptable anywhere else not to believe such childishness.
