The Baron Finds Happiness (Fairy Tales Across Time Book 3)

by Bess McBride

  Clara nodded, pushed herself out of the car with effort and followed Janie into the restaurant. Janie’s reminder about the loss of her mother had darkened her day. Upon reaching the counter, Clara stared unseeingly at the menu, and upon impatient prodding by the server, mumbled something innocuous about an order of fries.

  “Is that all you’re eating?” Janie asked.

  “I’m not hungry,” Clara muttered. She had lost her appetite.

  “Okay,” Janie said with a heavy sigh. A voracious eater despite her small frame, Janie ordered enough food for the both of them. Upon receiving their order and seating themselves in a booth, Janie pressed some of her sandwich on Clara.

  “No, thanks,” Clara said. She toyed with a fry, breaking it in half and then again into another half.

  “Clara, I’m so sorry,” Janie said again. “I’ll never understand how she chose to leave you.”

  “Oh, Janie, please let’s not talk about that. Please.”

  “Okay, enough. I won’t say anything else.” Janie applied herself to her food.

  When Clara’s fry was demolished beyond recognition, she dropped it and raised her eyes to survey the restaurant. A movement in bright pink caught her eye, and she spotted the flamboyantly dressed blue-haired lady sitting in a nearby booth, seeming to enjoy a sandwich with enthusiasm, given the squirrel-like puffiness of her stuffed cheeks.

  The lady looked up at that moment and caught Clara’s eyes, favoring her with a wide, if food-filled, smile. She raised a small hand and waggled her fingers in Clara’s direction in some semblance of a wave.

  Clara blinked and looked over her shoulder, wondering to whom the woman waved. Seeing no one behind her, Clara turned back to note that the woman had dropped her eyes to her food, taking another generous bite.

  “What are you staring at?” Janie asked, turning to follow Clara’s eyes.

  “Nothing,” Clara said. She simply wasn’t in the mood to talk—not about mothers, not about a lady in pink enjoying her food. Clara returned her attention to the next fry, mutilating it beyond recognition and wishing that Janie would hurry so they could leave—so that Clara didn’t have to sit there and think of all the Mother’s Days that hadn’t mattered.

  “Good day,” a singsong voice said from above.

  Clara looked up, startled to see the pink-swathed blue-haired lady standing at the end of their booth.

  “Hello,” Janie said.

  Clara couldn’t find her voice, didn’t really want to.

  “You must be Clara,” the lady said. “My name is Miss Hermione Hickstrom.”

  Clara blinked again—not only did the woman seem to know her, but she referred to herself in such an old-fashioned, formal way.

  “Yes, that’s Clara, and I’m Janie. Have we met?”

  Janie was not incorrect. So long had they been friends and worked together that Janie knew everyone Clara did.

  “No, I do not believe so,” Miss Hickstrom said. “You may call me Hickstrom. Everyone does.”

  Janie raised her hand as if to shake Hickstrom’s hand, but the older woman’s attention remained solely on Clara, much to her discomfort.

  “May I join you for a moment? I am most interested in you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Clara caught Janie looking at her, and she imperceptibly shook her head, but Janie ignored her.

  “Yes, of course. Do you need some cleaning done?” Janie slid over in the booth so that Hickstrom could sit down, but Hickstrom pointedly stared at the bench upon which Clara sat.

  “Clara, can you move so Miss Hickstrom can sit down?”

  Clara slid over, and the vision in pink seated herself. She turned to face Clara, forcing the younger woman to slide even farther toward the wall to protect her personal space, her bubble.

  “It is so nice to finally meet you,” Hickstrom said.

  “Finally?” Clara mumbled. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I am certain that you do not. But rest assured, you will.”

  “Clara?” Janie asked.

  Clara glanced at her friend and shook her head.

  “Did you want to book a crew to clean your house? Or business?” Clara asked.

  “That would be lovely!” Hickstrom replied. “If I had a house or place of business, but I lack either.”

  “I’m confused then. How do you know my name?”

  Hickstrom smiled broadly. Blue eyes twinkled engagingly. “This establishment is far too noisy to engage in proper conversation, especially that of a delicate nature. I can only say that you shall find something at your next cleaning assignment. Open it. Read from it. We will meet again soon.”

  With that, the lady in pink rose and nodded.

  “It was so lovely to meet you in person, Clara. And you as well, Janie. Goodbye.”

  “Wait!” Janie called out, but Hickstrom walked off, seemingly vanishing into a group of people lining up at the counter to order food.

  “What on earth was that about?” Janie asked, as if Clara had a clue.

  “I have no idea,” Clara murmured, looking over her shoulder once again. “What was this about the next house? Who’s on the schedule?”

  “It’s a new place. A one-time clean.”

  “I knew it was a new job. I wonder if it belongs to this lady, Hickstrom. What did she say about it?”

  “That we should open something and read it,” Janie said.

  “Both of us?” Clara couldn’t remember Hickstrom’s exact words, but she felt they had been directed toward her more than Janie.

  “I’m not sure. I doubt if it matters. I wonder what she’s selling.” Janie’s voice had taken on a skeptical note. Since they had established their business, they often received unsolicited marketing phone calls and emails for cleaning supplies and equipment.

  “Oh, you think she’s a marketer?”

  “Probably. We should get going though, or we’re going to be late.”

  They rose, disposed of their trash and left the building to reenter the car. Ten minutes later, they pulled into the curved driveway of a stunning gray Victorian-style home with fanciful dormers, two witches’ caps and a widow’s walk on the roof.

  “Goodness! How big is this house?” Janie asked. “You looked at the booking, right?”

  “Five thousand square feet, but whoever booked it said that it was empty. At least, that’s what Mandy said when she took the reservation.”

  “Empty? You mean no one lives here?”

  “No, I guess not. I assumed they wanted it ready for market.”

  “Well, this is a step up for us! How did they hear about us?”

  “Mandy didn’t say.”

  “She’s supposed to ask,” Janie said.

  “I know. You’ve got the sheet there. Who’s the owner?”

  Janie looked down at her clipboard.

  “Well, there it is. Miss Hermione Hickstrom.” Janie glanced up. “I don’t see a car, though there could be one in the parking lot. Do you think she’s here?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Clara said. She climbed out of the car and retrieved her supplies from the trunk. Janie did the same, and together they approached the front door.

  With a practiced eye, Clara noted that the brass knocker on the large white painted door was free of tarnish. The front steps were immaculately swept, the two large potted ferns were free of wilt or browning, and the stained glass windows flanking the front door shone, without evidence of dust or cobwebs. Quite clearly the outside of the house had been tended to. She assumed that the inside might match the condition of the front porch.

  Clara lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. With a glance at Janie, she stepped back and waited for the occupant to open the door. After a minute, she lifted the knocker again.

  “I don’t see a doorbell. Did Miss Hickstrom say she wasn’t going to be here? Did she leave any instructions to find a key if she wasn’t here?”

  Janie consulted the clipboard. “It says the door is unlocked.”


  “Unlocked?” Clara said incredulously. She pressed down on the latch of the gleaming brass door handle, and it gave way. The door swung open to reveal a foyer featuring dark oak flooring. She wasn’t surprised to find an absence of dust, but the absolute lack of furnishings in the foyer did seem a bit stark.

  “Well, I guess we go in,” Janie said. She picked up her gear and hauled it inside, setting it down with care, in the absence of carpeting.

  Clara followed her in. She spied what looked like a living room through a set of open double doors on the right. Stepping through the doors, Clara saw another room completely devoid of furnishings.

  A beautiful oak fireplace dominated one wall of the room, but beyond that, there was no furniture, no curtains, no carpets. Blinds covered the windows, tilted to allow a modicum of light to enter the room.

  “Well, this should be an easy job!” Clara exclaimed. “I take it this Miss Hickstrom has already moved out.”

  “I told you the house was empty,” Janie said.

  “What’s that?” Clara asked. “Looks like she forgot something.” An oversized book lay on the mantel. She crossed the room and picked up the hardbound book. The woven cranberry cloth binding and gold stamping gave the book an antique look.

  “So just mopping and dusting windowsills in here, I think,” Janie mused from behind.

  “Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales,” Clara read aloud, admiring the cover. “So this Miss Hickstrom is a writer. Or was. This book looks quite old.”

  “Well, put it down and let’s get to work,” Janie said. “We have two more houses to do this afternoon.”

  “I wonder if this is what she meant we should read.”

  “Clara, we really don’t have time,” Janie insisted.

  Clara reluctantly returned the book to the mantel and withdrew a dusting cloth from her cleaning supplies.

  “You’re right. There’s really not much to do here though. I don’t even see any dust.”

  “I’ll go upstairs and start on the bathrooms,” Janie said, picking up her gear and leaving the room.

  Clara crossed the room to dust the windowsills, but saw nothing that needed attention. Even the hardwood floor showed no signs of dust, as if it had been freshly cleaned.

  She moved around the room searching for dust before finally returning to wipe down the mantel. The thick book beckoned her, and she picked it up again.

  “Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales,” Clara murmured once again. She set her cloth down on the mantel and lifted the front cover of the book. The first tale was titled The Earl Finds a Bride. Clara read the first few lines softly under her breath.

  “‘A very long time ago in a land far, far away there lived a fairy godmother with little to do but concern herself overly much with notions of love and lonely hearts and the lives of others. No solitary heart was safe where she was concerned. She must do everything within her power to ensure that love conquered all.

  “‘What follows is the tale of two such lonely hearts.’”

  Just as she was about to read on, a swoosh of wind blew the pages of the book, and she whirled around.

  “Janie?” Clara called out. “Did you open a window?”

  Janie didn’t respond, and Clara stepped out into the foyer to see that the front door remained closed. The hall was still, with no further sensation of a gust of wind. She returned to the living room with every intention of setting the book down and returning to work. The story of the earl and the fairy godmother had intrigued her though, and she promised herself that she would try to find the book online later that night.

  On the point of returning the volume to the mantel, Clara took one last look at the book.

  “‘The Baron Finds Happiness,’” she read aloud. “‘Roger Phelps, estate agent at Alvord Castle, closed the door of his small gatekeeper’s lodge behind him. On the verge of setting out down the lane toward the castle, a rare ray of sunshine caught his eye, and he looked up. Sunlight sparkled through the oak trees, and he closed his eyes, allowing the warmth to caress his face. The gentle caress of a female?

  “‘The sensation, so foreign to him, took his breath away for a moment, and he forced himself to draw in air. He touched his clean-shaven face with one hand. The skin was indeed warm though he had been chilled only moments before.’”

  A sudden intense wave of sleepiness overcame Clara, and her knees buckled as if she would fall asleep standing upright. She thrust the book onto the mantel and clutched at the wood to keep from falling, but she felt herself slowly sliding down to the floor in a heap.

  Chapter Three

  Clara opened her eyes and looked up into the face of a beautiful woman whose dark-brown eyes gazed into Clara’s as she leaned near. Frisky reddish-brown ringlets dangled from a glorious coif. Her dress of lavender satin rustled as she straightened.

  Beyond the petite woman, Clara saw two men watching her with varying expressions. One—tall, dark and handsome and dressed in historical costume complete with tan breeches, dark-brown tailcoat, stiff white cravat and wheat-colored satin waistcoat—watched her under dark eyebrows with a look of...exasperation?

  The other man, equally as tall as the first at over six feet, stared at Clara with an expression of what she could only describe as horror. Pale-blue eyes gawked, and his dimpled jaw hung slack. His skin was as pale as the white cravat meticulously knotted at his neck. He too sported period costume with gray breeches, a black coat and a pale-yellow waistcoat. His costume seemed more conservative than that of the dark-haired man. Both men were clean shaven.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, a small smile playing on her friendly face.

  Clara caught a general impression of a glowing room done in ivory and gold. Gold wallpaper and accents set off the ivory satin upholstery.

  “Where am I?” Clara pushed herself upright from her prone position on an ivory brocade sofa. She slipped her feet down onto the floor, embarrassed that her athletic shoes had been on such an expensive-looking sofa. “I don’t understand.”

  The woman turned to the men.

  “Hickstrom has been at it again, I see. Roger! Why do you look so shocked? We should be getting used to this by now.” She turned back to Clara with an odd look of sympathy. “What is your name?”

  “Clara Bell. What’s going on?” Clara asked. “How did I get here...and where is here? Did you say Hickstrom? How do you know her?”

  The woman turned back to Clara. “Yes, Hickstrom. So you have met her, I take it?”

  “I did meet a Miss Hermione Hickstrom. In fact, I was cleaning her house when I fainted. Is this a room in the house? I thought it was unfurnished. Where is Janie? Have you seen my business partner, Janie Ferguson?”

  The woman lowered herself to sit beside Clara on the couch.

  “Some tea!” the man called Roger exclaimed. “I think some tea is in order. I will fetch some!”

  “No need, Roger. I already rang for tea,” the dark-haired man said. His expression was not unkind, but he presented an imposing, intimidating picture.

  The woman reached over and took hold of Clara’s hand.

  “I’ve been where you are, so trust me. My name is Mary St. John. This is my husband, St. John, a.k.a. the Earl of Alvord, and that is our estate agent, Roger Phelps. I could sugarcoat this, but there’s no point. You are at Alvord Castle in Hertfordshire, England. The year is 1807.”

  Clara watched Mary’s lips move but couldn’t really comprehend much after she said England.

  “If you met Hickstrom in the twenty-first century, she sent you back in time to the nineteenth century. She’s part fairy godmother, part matchmaker, and a hundred percent trouble.”

  “Perhaps we should seat ourselves, Roger,” St. John said. “We may appear menacing to the young lady, looming over her as we now do.”

  St. John gracefully lowered his long limbs into an easy chair, but the estate agent remained standing, his horrified gaze still focused on Clara.

  “Roger! Sit down,” St. John re
peated.

  Roger dragged his eyes from Clara and looked at his employer.

  “Yes, of course!” He took the chair opposite St. John, directly across from the sofa. His expression didn’t change.

  “Wait a minute!” Clara found her voice. “Just wait a minute! Are you guys serious with this? England? The nineteenth century? Sent me back in time? Are you suggesting that I’ve traveled through time?”

  She tried to pull her hand from Mary but found the small woman had a remarkably strong grip.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what has happened to you. Let me guess! You’re from the year 2017?”

  “2018,” Clara muttered. “It’s 2018.”

  “I came here from the year 2017.”

  Clara stared at Mary.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” The room spun slightly, and she found herself gripping Mary’s hand instead of pulling away.

  “I am. I know how hard this is to believe, but it’s true. You’re the third person—woman—that Hickstrom has sent through time, though we thought she was done with her shenanigans. We haven’t seen her since last year.”

  “Hickstrom,” Clara repeated. “You called her a ‘fairy godmother’? Oddly, I remember a book of fairy tales. I think she wrote them.”

  Mary nodded. Just then, a knock at the door brought a uniformed man into the room. Tall and redheaded, he carried a silver tea service that he set down on a marble oval table between the sofa and the chairs.

  “Thank you, Cedric. I will pour,” Mary said.

  Cedric bowed in her direction and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Yes, Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales, right?” Mary said, rising to pour tea.

  “That’s right!” Clara exclaimed. “How did you know?”

  “That’s how she gets us to travel through time.” She smiled wryly. “Sugar? Cream?”

  “No, thank you.” The situation was oddly surreal. She was being offered sugar and cream for her tea in the nineteenth century. “I don’t understand. What about the book?”

  St. John and Roger rose to accept the cups Mary offered them, then resumed their seats. Roger’s cup clattered in its saucer.