Page 102 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Asudden jolt ripped Cornelius from sleep.

He could’ve sworn he’d just gone to bed after ensuring that Emmy was indeed fast asleep.

Most nights, she had difficulty sleeping, and he often found himself drifting to sleep in the old rocking chair with her in his arms. Last night, after the strange and beautiful encounter with Imogen St. Croix, he had returned to the nursery to find Emmy fretting over reassuring Dolly, that she wouldn’t replace her with a new doll.

It would’ve been a comical sight, if she wasn’t meant to be in bed.

He spent the remainder of the evening, putting her to sleep, story after story.

Now, in his own bed, he tried to enjoy a few more moments of peace, his eyes drifting blissfully close.

A slight breeze tickled his skin, startling him.

Had he left the terrace doors open?

Low, solemn voices weaved with distant cries jerked him awake. Cornelius’s eyes flew open, his head swinging left to right in utter confusion.

Instead of being safely ensconced in his own bed, he was sitting beneath an ancient tree on the cursed grounds of Latchwood Manor. He was perched high on the hill that overlooked the entire estate. He took several deep breaths. Now was not the time to panic.

Awaking to the one place at Latchwood Manor that had belonged to him and Marcus was a bit of a shock.

As children, the tall hill on the edge of the estate was their favorite place in the world.

There, they would slay dragons, rescue princesses, and in the winter, they would slide down the hill to the frozen lake.

Their older brothers were always too busy to be bothered with either one of them.

“Hello, Cornelius,” Imogen greeted him, her mellifluous voice floating through the wind.

He stared at her for a long moment, trying to blink away his confusion. It wasn’t unheard of for others to join his dreams; however, it did not seem as if he was dreaming at all.

Rising to his feet, he took in the scene below him, a memorial service just outside the Harcourt crypt. Centuries of Harcourts, his father, and all three of his brothers were buried deep in its ancient walls.

Unable to ascertain the details of who was in attendance at the memorial, he faced Imogen, noticing the pale white gown she wore. Her hair was pinned in an intricate hairstyle that barely contained her beautiful curls.

He had not forgotten how breathtaking she was, but here, in his dream, she was simply angelic.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked.

That was the only logical reason as to why they both were there.

She tilted her head in a way he was quickly learning meant she was thinking.

“Perhaps,” Imogen said, before she walked down the hill toward the small gathering of people.

Cornelius pinched himself several times, trying to force himself to wake, but still he stood on the top of the hill.

“Are you coming?” she called after him, nearly at the bottom of the hill.

Still very much confused, he followed her down, knowing every dip and curve of the hill. It was one of the few places he went to clear his mind. When he was there, he didn’t worry about the curse or providing for his nieces.

Before he inherited, he would spend hours atop the hill, dreaming of all the places he would travel. He had dreams once, dreams that had nothing to do with being saddled to a cursed earldom.

“We lay to rest beloved father and husband, Henry Harcourt, the sixth Earl of Latchwood—”

“Bloody Hell!” Cornelius shouted, but was shocked to discover that no one heard his outburst.

He was at his father’s burial. How extraordinary the dream he was currently stuck in was. He’d attended the burial as an infant according to his mother.

His eyes searched for his younger self, thinking it extremely odd that he was dreaming of the past. It was a first for Cornelius. Usually his dreams weren’t so memorable, but every detail was vivid and realistic.

He found his mother in the center of the small gathering. Behind her stood their nanny with his brothers, but there was no sight of a ten-month-old Cornelius.

“Henry leaves behind a wife and three sons,” the vicar said solemnly.

“Three sons?” Cornelius asked bewildered. “My father had four sons at his death.”

He had been born in seventeen eighty-one. His father perished in October of seventeen eighty-two. Cornelius would’ve been there among his family, and surely, a vicar would not forget a fourth child.

How very peculiar this dream was becoming.

“Your father had four sons in your life,” Imogen said, waving her hand toward where his brothers stood, small and as helpless as his nieces. “But what you’re about to witness is what life would be like for your family without you.”

Dread crept down his spine like a thousand tiny spiders. His body was suddenly cold, his breath coming out in pants. Before he could respond or form a single word, they were suddenly in the study at Latchwood Manor.

The study was vastly different from the gloomy decor and disarray he’d fled from the day the roof caved in around them. The wood gleamed, the sun shone brightly through the windows, paintings that had long been sold during Cornelius’s time hung proudly on the wall.

It was a different place than the one he was accustomed too. The weight of the curse did not linger over the manor like a dark cloud, consuming every room. It was lighter somehow. He could sense it.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” a younger Giles said from his seat behind the large black desk. “Everything is entailed to the earldom. There is a small account, but it is unfortunate that Lord Latchford’s debts are greater than the sum of your coffers.”

Thirty years younger, Giles looked very much the same. His hair was slightly darker, his pale skin smoother.

“I don’t understand. What am I to do with my three boys?” his mother asked in anger. “Howard is the new earl. Are we to starve to death?” Tears slid down her face.

The countess’s skin was ageless, her dark eyes rimmed with tears. Her black morning dress, familiar and haunting.

It seemed that the family was destined to wear black. Just when one mourning period ended, another began.

“I understand, my lady, but the estate has its own accounts, and you will be cared for as long as there are funds in the coffers.”

“What happens when the coffers are empty?” Her voice, filled with fear, was so unlike her. She had always been the pilar of strength for the four of them. They depended on her to love them, to care for them, and she never disappointed her children.

“Let’s not worry about that now,” Giles reassured her, shuffling the small pile of parchment on the desk. “Pray that one of your boys grows to know estate management.”

Cornelius exhaled, a quiet sound of relief.

Among his brothers, he’d been the one to learn to keep the estate afloat.

A fourth son had few prospects in their world, so he’d thrown himself into the work—tenant disputes, ledgers, and working the land.

He’d found enjoyment in being outside, speaking with the tenants, and ensuring that everything was well tended.

It was no easy feat, on such a small income, but he’d managed it for his family.

His own hopes and dreams had long since withered.

He’d sacrificed everything so that they could have a home, a future.

His brothers, carefree and living their own lives, had never had any inclination to work the land that their ancestors had lived on for over two hundred years.

His mother rose, smoothing out her black muslin dress. “And if they do not?” Her question filled the silent room like a stone into water.

Giles released a weary sigh before rising to his feet. “Then you will all be ruined.”

Cornelius’s blood turned to ice in his veins. The scene before him wavered, then shifted entirely within a blink of an eye.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she, Dolly?”

“I told you there was a lady here.”

“Is she the new governess?”

“I don’t want a new governess.”

The voices curled around her, sweet and innocent as Imogen drifted on the edge of wakefulness. She had not slept in a hundred years, yet the sweetness still clung to her like a pleasant scent. Her limbs were heavy, almost decadent, her mind still wrapped in the blissfulness of dreams.

After her experiment with Cornelius the previous evening, she’d found her very human body drained and weary. The moment she had sunk into the feather mattress, it had claimed her entirely. Sleep, deep and absolute, had stolen her.

“Is she dead?” A small voice asked, breaking the silence, followed by an insistent jab of a tiny finger at her arm.

“I am not dead.” Imogen yawned and opened her eyes to find four curious faces peering at her. Cornelius’s nieces stood on either side of the bed, inquisitors with rosy cheeks flushed from sleep, hair tumbling down their shoulders, still clad in dressing gowns.

They stared wide-eyed and unblinking as though she was a mythical creature from a story.

“Are you an angel?” asked Emmy, gripping a beautiful mahogany doll in her arms.

Imogen had learned every single detail about Cornelius and his family. How else was she to convince him that life was worth living if she did not know him?

The events of the previous evening still haunted her. The complete dread in his eyes after learning of his father’s death and seeing his family’s fate, nearly had Imogen abandoning her plan. But Cornelius needed to see what a blessing he was to his family.

“Angels aren’t real!” Clara shouted at Emmy from the left side of the bed.

“Perhaps she’s a ghost,” Penny said thoughtfully, her dark eyes held wisdom far beyond her years.

Imogen rose, sitting up against the array of pillows. The room was luxurious despite Mrs. Martin’s insistent apologies for the state of the rooms.

“Are those my only options?” Imogen tapped her lips with her index finger. “A governess, an angel, or a ghost, they all do sound very promising,” she teased, enjoying the light in their innocent eyes.