by Caroline Lee
“Och, aye. I’m the best bloody applicant ye’ll ever get! I’m a decent cleaner, I cook like a goddess, and my tea-making ceremony is a treat! I dinnae do laundry, but I’ll take it into town for ye, where one of the lassies will do it for ye.”
Well…she sounded ideal, although Max wasn’t certain he’d get used to her “bloody” language.
She was still beaming as she continued, “But the fact of the matter is, I’m the only applicant ye’ve gotten.”
He hummed. “And who was in charge of spreading the word and collecting the applications?” He hadn’t even thought about it yet.
“Me!” she said cheerfully. “That’s why I kenned I was the best.”
Well, he couldn’t fault her reasoning, and she was showing quite an initiative. No reason to borrow trouble, at least not until she proved he’d made a mistake trusting her ability to hire his help. “Well, Mrs. Oliphant, welcome aboard.”
“Bless ye, sir. Call me Grisel!”
“Yes, Grisel.” He cocked his head to one side. “Actually, there is something you could help me with now, if you don’t mind.”
“Anything, sir. Anything.” She beamed.
“My friend, Roland, when I asked him, he told me about a group of women who met in town. Older ladies, mostly, who always seemed to know what was going on, and who was stepping out with who, and which ladies were looking for gentlemen, that sort of thing.”
“Ooh, ye mean matchmakers?”
Max cocked his head to one side. “Well, more like…professional meddlers.”
Grisel burst into laughter. “I’ve never heard that one before. But aye, I ken who ye mean. We’re the local chapter of the Guild of Godmothers, and I’m under strict orders no’ to tell ye about us, which of course I’m ignoring,” she said, as she pulled her apron over her head and reached for her bonnet, still hanging beside the front door. “Come along, dearie. I’ll introduce ye to the rest of the Godmothers.”
Max wasn’t quite sure what to expect when Grisel—he was still a little bemused she’d become his housekeeper so easily—knocked on the door of the cozy little cottage, then pushed her way inside without waiting for an invite. Would there be cobwebs and bats and cauldrons, or fairy wings and sparkles and butterflies?
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t a parlor which looked as if it had been decorated by someone’s elderly aunt, although maybe it should’ve been. The chairs were overstuffed and covered in plump pillows and doilies, and the wallpaper was a riot of colors.
“Cheerio, ladies! Just me!” Grisel called out. “Brought a visitor! Is the tea on?”
A tall, elegant woman stepped into the room; her lips thinned in disapproval. “What did you think I meant, Grisel Oliphant, when I said, ‘Under no circumstances should you allow him to know about the Guild?’ ”
Grisel waved dismissively. “I cannae be faulted for failing to understand ye, Evangeline, what with that ridiculous English accent.” She leaned closer to Max and mock-whispered, “I swear, it sounds like she’s gargling rocks sometimes.”
As Evangeline’s scowl deepened, three other women squeezed into the room. One was young, one was old, and one had permanent frown-lines etched around her mouth.
“Oh good, ye’re here,” the latter one snapped as she stomped over to the small table. “Willa, fetch the tea before Grisel has a chance to make more.” She tapped a strange ball which sat on the table and looked a bit like an old fishing buoy. “We’ve been expecting ye.”
The one Grisel had called Evangeline threw up her hands. “Are you just going to give away all our secrets? The Book is very clear on this fact: Our clients should not know of our—our—”
“Meddling?” Max suggested helpfully.
She nodded. “Our meddling— What? No!” Her glare rounded on him. “Young man—”
He figured he’d better take hold of the conversation before it ran too far in the wrong direction. “Look, ma’am—Mrs. Oliphant, I’m sorry—”
“I’m Miss Wellingham.”
His brows shot up. “You’re…you’re not a Mrs. Oliphant? I just assumed you were.”
Before Evangeline could answer, the oldest woman opened her mouth and a sound like chewing on gravel emerged. Max blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“She said she’s Mrs. Oliphant, Mr. DeVille,” the young one whispered shyly, standing by with a tray of tea. “And I’m Miss Willa Oliphant.”
He inclined his head. “It’s—it’s nice to meet you both. And you, ma’am,” he said politely to Miss Wellingham, then turned to the scowling lady with a raised brow.
“I’m Broca,” she said shortly, folding her arms and sitting back in the chair.
Grisel bustled forward, pulling Max toward the table. “Good, good, we’re all introduced properly! Evangeline, stop being such a stick in the mud and come sit down. I didnae tell him about the Guild; no’ outright, at least.”
Max pulled out of her hold and turned back to the stately woman who was obviously the leader of this chapter. With his hat held protectively in front of him, he took a deep breath and tried to find a way to explain.
“She’s right, ma’am. I asked her about you.”
“You did, did you?” Miss Wellingham took her time crossing her own arms and raising a brow in challenge. “And how in the world did you know how to do that, hmm?”
Here goes. “I’m from Everland, Wyoming, Miss Wellingham. I don’t know if you know where that is—”
“Oh, I do, Mr. DeVille.” The woman sighed and dropped her arms. “Please do call me Evangeline, and I’ll call you Maxwell, and we can both have some tea. Grisel didn’t make it, so there’s no eyes or tails.”
Before Max could ask what that meant, his new housekeeper snatched his hat from his hands and thrust a cup and saucer at him. “No newts or frogs,” she explained with a wink.
“Th-thank you?”
Evangeline settled herself at the table and nodded for him to sit down as well. “We are familiar with Everland, Maxwell—”
“Max, please.”
“Max.” She inclined her head again. “We are professional godmothers, and the head chapter of our guild is based in Everland. There’s something about the water there. Very magical.”
Lake Enchantment was magical? Well, he could believe it. Lord knows the rest of that corner of Wyoming looked almost like a desert, but Everland was a beautiful little oasis. And he couldn’t deny funny stuff always seemed to be happening.
“See, I’ve lived there for years, and in that time, I’ve watched my friends find love and get married and start their lives. Some of them even have little ones! I kept waiting for it to happen to me, but my friend—my employer—Andrew Prince, and his wife, suggested I come here to the Highlands. They figured I’d not only find happiness standing on my own feet, but I might meet a young lady I could love.”
“This wife of his, that wouldn’t be Christmas Harrington Prince, would it?” Grisel asked with a significant look at the other ladies.
“Um…yes? Do you know her?”
Broca reached for her tea. “She’s a godmother,” she said bluntly.
While Max was reeling from that casual comment, Evangeline peered at him over the lip of her cup. “What does all this have to do with us, Max?”
“Well…” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes, some of these friends of mine…well, they’d talk about these ladies who helped them—or their wives—find happy endings together. I guess you might say I’m a little more open than most to the possibility of there being a secret international cabal of old ladies who meddle in the affairs of the oblivious.”
Evangeline sipped her tea. “We’re not all old.”
Knowing he’d won a victory by the fact she wasn’t denying the rest, Max inclined his head. “Of course not.”
The woman carefully placed her cup down and sniffed. “Very well, young man. You are correct. We are…matchmakers.”
Time to see if his other guess was correct. “Since co
ming to the Highlands, I’ve been wined and dined like I’m one of the Princes myself. I know that’s not who I am, not really, but it’s been like a dream. And I’ve met someone. Someone I…”
Broca leaned forward. “Someone ye want to spend the rest of yer life with?”
Max stared into his murky tea. What was it with these people and their tea? Give him a good beer any day of the week.
“I love her,” he said simply. “I shouldn’t—I’ve only known her a little while—but I do love her, and I’d like to marry her.”
Build a future with her.
As one, all the godmothers sighed, although the oldest one somehow turned it into a coughing fit. As the young one pounded on her back, the wrinkled old lady pulled out what looked to be a pipe—or might’ve been some instrument of medieval torture; it was hard to tell with these Highlanders—and knocked it against the table as she waved the other one off.
“Willa! C’nyen ogle m’backbone fer gossakes?”
“Sorry, Grandmother.”
“Och, wic’n throwball or two, eh? It workened!”
Max blinked, but the other godmothers were nodding, beaming away.
“So…can I assume you all had a hand in that?” he asked hesitantly.
“Of course!” Grisel was practically bouncing in her seat. “It was Evangeline’s idea. She pointed out there’d be nae way ye could ignore a woman showing up at the ball dressed like that! The gown alone was worth hundreds of dollars, ye ken—good thing we still have our connections in the dressmaking industry, eh?” She winked at Broca. “And that mask was just perfect—a touch of whimsy, but not enough to confuse her with all the other be-feathered and be-sequined lassies.”
“Is that a word?” Broca growled.
“Be-sequined? I think ‘tis.”
Evangeline leaned forward. “Despite their bickering, they’re correct.”
“Be-sequined is a word?” Willa blurted.
The leader glared. “Don’t be silly. I meant they’re correct about the plan. Yes, young man. We were the ones to arrange for your mystery princess to attend the ball. Of course, she got there on her own—we can’t do all the work—but the gown and the mask were all thanks to us.”
They didn’t understand, did they?
“Not the shoes,” Max whispered.
“Oh, no, not the shoes.” Evangeline sat back in her chair. “Did that on her own. But we did arrange for her to lose one so you could be properly intrigued and carry it around to all the ladies in the land, searching for the right foot, until you found your True Love.” She nodded seriously. “It’s expected in these kinds of stories. Narrative causality, you know.”
All four of the other godmothers nodded together. “Narrative causality,” they intoned in unison, although the old one might’ve just been coughing.
Max shook his head and carefully placed the teacup on the table. “I’m sorry…but you think I’ve been traveling all over the Highlands with a shoe?”
“Searching for yer True Love,” Willa whispered. “Ye must find the lassie whose foot fits the shoe.”
“And then what? I’ll marry her based on her shoe size?” Max was thinking about that red shoe, tucked into the drawer of his desk at Oliphant Engraving. “Do you have any idea how many women live around here that wear the same size shoe? They’re not even standardized sizes, and I’ll bet I could find three dozen who could fit in that thing.”
“So ye do have it!” Broca declared triumphantly.
“Of course I still have it! I have to return it to her, don’t I?”
The same godmothers nodded seriously again. “Narrative causality,” they intoned creepily.
But Evangeline was peering suspiciously at him. “You’re saying that, despite having the shoe, you haven’t gone door to door, looking for its owner? How have you found the woman you want to marry then?”
“I found her— What does it matter? I got to know her, and I think she’s wonderful.”
“But she’s not the princess from the ball?” Evangeline threw her hands up in exasperation. “Look, young man, we did our part. You were supposed to fall in love with the princess.”
Max shook his head. “Why? I’m not a prince! I’m a simple man. Besides, it turns out I have fallen in love with the lass who lost her shoe.”
Grisel sucked in a breath and leaned forward, placing her hand on his arm. “The serving lass? Ye fell in love with the serving lass, and no’ the princess?”
“I fell in love with Ember,” Max said sternly, pulling his arm out from under hers and resting his palms on the table, glaring at each of the women in turn. “She’s not a princess, but she’s not just a serving lass either. She’s a brilliant inventor and artist, and she’s funny and talented, and she makes me happy.” And ridiculously aroused, but he wasn’t going to mention that here. “I like being around her, and I like learning about her skills. There’s absolutely no reason for me to have fallen in love so quickly, but I can’t stand the thought of not having her in my future. I figure that must mean there’s some magic in it, huh?”
Willa whispered, “The Highlands are a magical place.”
“And the godmothers helped.” Broca planted her elbows on the table. “But ye were supposed to fall in love with the princess.”
Why did they keep coming back to that? “I was intrigued by the lady in white at the ball, but I met Ember first. And she’s the one I fell in love with. I’m not exactly sure how I’ve botched her opinion of me, but I have, and I need help fixing it.”
The oldest godmother knocked her pipe—or possibly agricultural implement—against the table and mumbled something which caused Evangeline to hum thoughtfully as she studied him.
“Have you told her this?”
“That I’ve bungled the whole thing?” Max nodded, then changed his mind and shook his head. “I’m not sure. She’s mad, but I don’t know if it’s me she’s mad at.”
“Well, figuring that out would be a good place to start,” Evangeline said dryly. “But I meant about being in love with her.”
“Oh.” Had he told her he loved her? “Not exactly. I only just figured it out myself.”
“Well then, I think you know your path, young man.”
“What?” He sat forward, panicking. “No I don’t! What do you mean? You’re supposed to help me!”
“We did help you, you young idiot. We arranged for you to dance with the princess at the ball! It’s not our fault if you fell in love with the wrong woman!”
“I fell in love with the right woman!” he contested hotly.
“Then tell her that!”
Max and Evangeline sat glaring at each other, breathing heavily. Grisel sat forward suddenly. “Ooh and take her something special. Women like that sort of thing, ye ken.”
“No’ flowers,” grumbled Broca. “Too overdone.”
“Nothing alive either,” Willa offered quietly. “She might no’ like having more to care for.”
“Stew!” declared the oldest, although Max suspected she didn’t mean the food.
Blinking, he glanced around at all of them, then back to Evangeline, who nodded forcefully at him.
“There you have it, Mr. DeVille. Max. Take her something special. Something that shows you really understand her—not as a princess or a serving lass—but Ember. And tell her you love her, just as she is.”
He could feel his breaths slowing as he considered her words. “Take her something…” he whispered.
“Aye, do ye need suggestions?” Grisel offered hopefully.
“No…” He thought of his office drawer and the shoe which rested there, lonely for its mate. “I think I have an idea.”
Chapter 10
“Has…has that ever happened before?”
“That we became part of the story? No, it has not. And The Book isn’t particularly helpful on the matter either.”
“I think…”
“Yes, Willa?”
“I think ‘tis possible we’re venturing away from
The Book here, Evangeline. I think we’re in uncharted territories. If it doesnae say anything about what to do when a client no’ only kens about us, but seeks us out, then I think we have to figure it out ourselves.”
“Hmm. Well, I agree. I don’t think the story is going poorly. Just…differently from planned. Max is in love with Ember, which was the end goal.”
“Aye, but he was supposed to fall in love with the princess at the ball.”
“This is true, Broca, but as he pointed out, she’s not a princess, and he’s not a prince. They’re just two people.”
“In love.”
“Exactly, Grisel. And may I say you sound like a complete nincompoop when you sigh dreamily like that?”
“Oh, thank ye for that, Evangeline. Noted. And may I just say that ye sound as if ye’ve got a stick up yer arse?”
“…Stop laughing, Broca. Grisel, I’m sorry. The rest of you, focus on the crystal ball. Now that our young client knows what is necessary, surely we’re reaching the end of this story.”
Ember tilted her head back, staring up at the beautiful, old, brick building which housed Oliphant Engraving. Even when she was a wee lassie, when it was just her and her father, she used to think this was the most beautiful building in the Highlands. Of course, it was likely beautiful because Papa was in charge of it, but he’s been gone all these years, and she still thought it was lovely.
And it held so much possibility, all of which she’d lost when she’d pushed Mr. DeVille—Max—away.
With a sigh, Ember slung her bag over her shoulder. It was almost dark, and she likely shouldn’t have come. But after two days of moping around the inn, feeling sorry for herself—and occasionally sneaking into the linen closet for a good cry, which was embarrassing—she’d given herself a firm talking-to.
Her sisters had dragged her aside and demanded to know why she looked as if her favorite sheep had died. Well, Bonnie had, because Vanessa was too busy fretting over her complexion. Apparently, after all the excitement of Viscount Whatever-his-title-was’ visit, the man had acted cold and aloof. Vanessa was certain it was because she wasn’t beautiful enough and was now spending her evenings wearing cucumbers on her eyes and smearing curdled milk across her cheeks.
