Once Upon A Dream

When we wrote our novellas, we did so without intending to harmonize the stories beyond setting both at summer house parties. When it came time to think up
a title for the two-novella bundle, nothing memorable occurred to us. We turned to our readers for assistance, and Pat Elliot came up with "Once Upon a
Dream." That struck us as lovely and appropriate to our novellas, so thank you, Pat Elliot, and thanks to all the readers who jumped in with
suggestions. 

Mary Balogh

Grace Burrowes 

The sun was still shining down from a cloudless blue sky when one of the outriders rode up beside the carriage in which Eleanor Thompson was traveling and
bent to rap on the window. Eleanor looked up from her book, startled, and removed her spectacles as the maid who traveled with her lowered the window.

"Storm's coming up fast behind us, ma'am," the man said, removing his hat. "Tom Coachman was hoping to outpace it, but he says it can't be done even if he
springs the horses, which His Grace don't like his doing on account of it can lame them easy. We are betwixt and between posting houses and it makes more
sense to press on than to turn back. Tom says we will stop at the first inn we come to. You will be quite safe, ma'am, till then. She looks like a nasty
one, but Tom is the best. No one less than the best would do for the dook."

With which words of alarm and reassurance he pulled back to resume his place behind the carriage. Both he and the other outrider had been sent to Bath with
the carriage and the coachman and footman and maid to convey Eleanor from the girls' school she owned and at which she taught to Lindsey Hall in Hampshire,
country seat of the Duke of Bewcastle. Wulfric, the duke, was married to Eleanor's sister Christine. Traveling thus was undeniably luxurious though it
always amused Eleanor to be treated like a grand lady.

She pressed her face to the window and looked back. Oh, dear, yes. Thick, dark clouds were boiling up from the west, and even as she watched a jagged
streak of lightning sliced through them. A thunderstorm was frightening, even dangerous, when one was traveling. The rain alone could quickly turn the road
to a muddy quagmire. Even as she sat back in her seat Eleanor noticed that the wind was getting up. It was bending the long grass in the meadow beside the
road and slightly rocking the carriage. The thunder that succeeded the lightning was felt more than heard above the clopping of the horses' hooves and the
rumble of the carriage wheels.

She had left Bath early this morning for what was usually an easy day's journey. She had looked forward to being at Lindsey Hall in time to take tea with
Christine and Wulfric and her mother, who lived with them. It was possible too that Hazel, her other sister, would have arrived before her with Charles and
their children. It was a rare treat for their whole family to be together, but this summer Lindsey Hall was going to be filled to the rafters with family
and other guests for a two-week house party in celebration of Wulfric's fortieth birthday. It now seemed altogether possible that Eleanor would not get
there today at all. She might be forced to spend a night on the road. She could only hope that at least it would be at an inn.

"Don't worry, Miss," the maid said. "Tom Coachman is the very best, like Andy just said."

Eleanor smiled at her. "We must hope, Alma," she said, "for the sake of the men out there with only the brims of their hats to hide beneath, that the next
inn is not far off."

By the time they reached it, however, a squat, unremarkable building on the edge of an equally unremarkable village, the storm had caught up to them and
was raging about them in the form of torrential rain and a wind like a hurricane and unrelenting lightning and thunder. Alma was reciting the Lord's Prayer
with her lips though some of the words were audible—"…Thy will be done on earth…And forgive us our trespasses…But deliver us from
evil, oh please, please, Lord…" Eleanor was gripping the leather strap above her head and the edge of the seat cushion on her other side and had her
feet firmly braced on the floor as though by so doing she could stop the carriage from rocking dangerously in the wind and weaving and slipping over the
muddy surface of the road. The carriage somehow made the turn into the half flooded inn yard and came to a stop without being blown over.

"Amen," Alma said aloud and Eleanor repeated silently.

A few minutes later they were standing inside a low-ceilinged taproom that smelled of stale ale and was probably dark and dingy even when the sun was
shining outside. At the counter the innkeeper was dealing with a tall gentleman in a caped coat, who was bespeaking two rooms and a private parlor. Eleanor
doubted the inn boasted such a luxury as a parlor, but apparently it did. There were also two bedchambers available. She hoped fervently there was a third.
She did not imagine this place was often besieged by large numbers of travelers looking for lodging. Its main function was almost undoubtedly to provide
ale to slake the villagers' thirst.

Eleanor thought the gentleman was portly until he half turned and she saw that he had a child snuggled inside his coat—a child with a mop of unruly
blond hair. A girl of about nine or ten stood beside the gentleman. An older woman, dressed plainly in a black cloak with a white mob cap beneath her hood,
probably the children's nurse, stood a little apart from them.

"You don't have to be afraid any longer, Robbie," the girl said. "We are safe in here, are we not, Papa? I was not afraid at all, was I?"

"You were very brave," the gentleman said as he signed the register and the child inside his coat peeped at the girl with one eye until he spotted Eleanor
and covered the eye with his hand before ducking against his father again.

"There was nothing to be afraid of, was there, Papa?" the little girl asked. "Just a lot of flashes and cracks and mud. Is that not right, Papa?"

"It is always wise," the man thus addressed said, "to have a healthy respect for thunderstorms, Georgette. They can certainly do harm to man and beast,
though not when one is safely indoors."

"And woman too, Papa?" the child asked.

"Assuredly," he said with admirable patience. "To woman too and girls and boys and puppies and pigs and slugs. Thank you," he added as the innkeeper handed
him two large keys. "We will move out of the way now so that this lady can be served. I do beg your pardon for delaying you, ma'am."

He had turned to Eleanor and smiled, revealing himself to be a handsome as well as a patient gentleman. He had his hands full with the child, who had been
scared witless by the storm, poor little mite, and the girl, who seemed the sort to ask a million questions even when all she was really asking for was
reassurance. For who would not be frightened when caught out in such weather?

"That is quite all right," Eleanor assured him. "At least it is safe and dry in here." Though she had got more than half soaked just in the dash from the
carriage to the door.

Tom Coachman, drenched and dripping onto the floor, dealt with all the business of engaging a room for her and quarters for the servants after the
gentleman and his family had moved away. Tom was not wearing the ducal livery—that happened only when he was conveying the duke or the
duchess—but there was an air of authority about him that commanded respect. Before many more minutes had passed, Eleanor was in possession of another
of the large keys and was on her way upstairs with Alma while an elderly lady and gentleman took her place at the counter. There was, alas, no other
private parlor for her use. She would have to eat her dinner in the small public dining room with other stranded travelers. There would doubtless be more.
She was quite resigned to spending the night here, Even if the rain stopped at this very minute—and it showed no sign of abating—it was
doubtful the road would be safe for travel before nightfall.

Her room was small and stuffy. It looked clean, though, and there were two beds, one for her and one for Alma. But, oh, the tedium of being delayed. The
storm might have been kind enough to hold off for a few more hours.

"At least, Alma," she said, standing by the window and looking down through the rain at a water-logged stable yard, "the floor is steady beneath our feet."

The terror of the past hour had exhausted poor Alma. Eleanor persuaded her to lie down for a few minutes and then, when the girl was fast asleep and
snoring, she went downstairs to see if there was a cup of tea to be had in the taproom or, preferably, in the dining room.

She was ushered into the latter by the innkeeper and was pleasantly surprised when he quickly brought to her table a good-sized teapot with milk, sugar, a
cup and saucer, and a plate. He returned moments later, while she was still wondering about the plate, with a platter of cakes and pastries, all of which
looked freshly baked and smelled altogether too appetizing.

"The wife is in her element, ma'am," he explained, jerking a thumb back in the direction of the kitchen. "As soon as we heard the first rumble of thunder a
couple of hours or so ago, she says, 'Joe,' she says, 'we are going to get company before the afternoon is out, you mark my words,' she says, 'and that
company will be Quality,' she says. And she fired up the range and the oven and set to work. I haven't seen her this happy since it snowed sudden last
December and we squeezed eleven persons and two nippers in here for two days. You will have a dinner tonight that you will remember till next summer and
beyond, ma'am, and no mistake. She used to be head cook up at the big house, did the wife, and mighty put out they was when she married me and up and left
to come here."

"But how fortunate for travelers who find themselves stranded here," Eleanor said. "I expect you have a full house by now, do you?"

"Ten and two nippers," he told her. "Even the couple I thought I would be obliged to turn away on account of there being no rooms left ended up staying.
They were willing to sleep on the benches in the taproom if there was nothing else available, but when I mentioned the old attic room that is half full of
boxes and gets wet in one corner when it rains hard, they took it sight unseen. I did not charge them more than the cost of their dinner and breakfast,
though. It would not have been Christian, would it?"

"You are very kind," Eleanor assured him.

No one else had come down for tea. She had the dining room to herself. It had been dark to start with but had grown perceptibly darker in the few minutes
she had been here even though it was still only the middle of a July afternoon. Any hope that the storm had moved off for good dimmed with the light. It
was about to return for an encore.

The tea was piping hot and on the strong side, as she liked it. She eyed the platter of cakes and pastries. She must eat at least one or the innkeeper's
wife would be hurt. What a wonderful excuse to indulge her sweet tooth. She considered a piece of currant cake before taking a puff pastry oozing with
thick cream instead. Only her waistline would know. It was a good thing high-waisted dresses were still in fashion. She jumped slightly at a sudden rumble
of thunder followed almost immediately by the sound of a child's voice just behind her shoulder.