Enchanting Nicholette

by Dawn Crandall

  “Well, let’s hope you don’t get shot again in the next month and destroy your chances with her altogether.”

  Shot…again? What kind of life did Cal Hawthorne lead that he would have been shot? Or had the chance of being shot again?

  Suddenly, all my thoughts and hopes I’d had regarding him seemed incredibly off, and I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t want to think, in fact. Not if it resulted in facing such anxieties and reliving such painful memories.

  But without warning, images of blood-stained clothing, discarded suit jackets, wadded-up shirtsleeves, and the look on William’s face after he’d been mistakenly shot in the back bombarded my mind, and I felt ill. All of the compounding memories, the ones I’d so prayerfully kept away for the last two years, convalesced into one: William lying dead on the dining table, my ruined wedding dress, and the absolute nothingness my life had become for so many months afterward.

  Mr. Hawthorne put down the marble paperweight, reached inside his coat, and pulled out a pistol, laying it on the desk as he stood. “Not that I think she’d have anything against the cause, but it’s true...she probably wouldn’t approve of my being shot.”

  These last words pulled me from my memories, and instead of focusing on what was going on inside the room, I was only able to stare at the sliver of light shining through the crack between the doors.

  Danger. Everything they had discussed emanated danger.

  I felt sick. Contradicting emotions swirled through me—confusion, joy, anger, fear—and all together, they overwhelmed me. I hated the fact that I cared, that I wanted the same things he did…to pursue this evident connection between us. Only, how could I now?

  From inside the room, I heard Mr. Hawthorne sit in his desk chair, causing the wheels to squeak across the floor again. At the noise, Pumpkin jumped from the bed and jogged over to me in the semi-darkness.

  Meowing at the closed door, he hopped onto the dresser next to me, and then onto my shoulder. I reached up to him, brought him into my arms, and he began to purr.

  Mabel looked up at me holding the cat and whispered, “Traitor.”

  Pumpkin hissed, reached past my arm to swat at Mabel.

  Mabel and I had both taken our focus off the crack we’d been peeking through—off the men on the other side of the door—and too late I realized what a ruckus the cat had made, for as I turned away to keep Pumpkin from jumping at Mabel, the pocket doors opened and sunlight glared in on us from the library’s large bay window.

  “May! What are you—? Oh dear God, you brought—?”

  I swiveled around in time to see Mr. Hawthorne help his sister up from where she was crouched on the floor.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked, focused entirely on his sister.

  “I can explain, Cal—it’s all my fault,” Mabel said as she came to her feet.

  “How are you here?” he reiterated, as if it were the only thing he would allow himself to think upon for the moment.

  “You’ll never believe me, so I’d better just show you.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Mr. Hawthorne’s frustration at finding us there was etched into every angry line of his face, his blue eyes almost covered by his lowered brows. He hadn’t looked at me, at least not since I’d turned around to face the situation, keeping hold of his giant orange cat.

  As I remained motionless, Mabel walked from the doorway to the far corner, where the cabinet door we’d come through was located. Once beside it, she opened the door just as her brother threw back the curtains from the nearest window, filling the room with sunlight. He continued to ignore me as he followed Mabel to the open cabinet door and looked inside.

  He would likely never speak to me again after this.

  “I tore apart the wall between the built-in cabinets,” she explained, pointing to the hole she’d dug between the two houses, quite innocently. As if she knew he would forgive her.

  Mr. Hawthorne combed his fingers through his hair. He didn’t look to be in a very forgiving mood to me.

  “You will go back through right now, May, and we will discuss this in more detail later.”

  For the first time since I’d turned around and found him in the doorway, Mr. Hawthorne acknowledged my presence. As he looked me in the eyes, I noticed a whole range of emotions flash behind his cool exterior: fear and embarrassment, but at the forefront of them all, worry.

  And of course all of those sentiments were raging through him. He knew. He knew I’d heard everything he’d confessed to his friend—everything about the case, about having been shot…everything about me.

  “I’m sorry May brought you into all of this.”

  I remained standing near the footboard of his bed, still holding Pumpkin, who now seemed quite content. I was glued to the floor, not knowing what to say or do.

  Mr. Hawthorne’s friend stood in the doorway of the library, silently inspecting the situation. He was a young gentleman, possibly nearing thirty or so. He looked from Mr. Hawthorne to me, and then back again. Then he looked to where Mabel was standing in the light shining in through the window.

  “Philip, you remember my sister.” Mr. Hawthorne stretched a hand to where Mabel stood beside him. “As you know, she continuously proves too venturesome for her own good. May, you recall meeting Officer Philip Underwood last summer?”

  “Yes, I recall,” was all Mabel answered, somewhat downcast.

  Officer Underwood gave Mabel a most genuine smile. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Hawthorne.”

  “And this,” Mr. Hawthorne took a few steps in my direction. He reached for his cat, who went to him willingly. He again looked me in the eyes, as if trying to read me. “Mrs. Everstone, this is my friend, Officer Philip Underwood. Philip, this is Mrs. Nicholette Everstone.”

  I blushed profusely. I still hadn’t said a single word since we’d been discovered. But what was there for me to say? There was nothing.

  “It’s a great pleasure, Mrs. Everstone,” Officer Underwood uttered politely.

  “And now, May, you’re going to take Mrs. Everstone back home now, the same way you came.”

  “But the plaster—”

  He swiped at the white dust covering her sleeve. It came off easily. “I’m sure you’ll be able to clean up just fine. The fact that you’re missing from the tea scheduled with Mother leads me to believe that no one will likely detect a few dust particles.”

  “You knew about the tea?”

  “Of course I did.” Still holding his cat, Pumpkin’s front paws happily spread over his shoulder, Mr. Hawthorne crossed the room to the cabinet door and held it open. “Now please leave.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice. I skittered across the room with one aim: to leave this uncomfortably awkward situation posthaste.

  When Mabel and I climbed back through to her mother’s dining room, Sylvie opened the cabinet door for us. “I hear Miss Abernathy coming down the stairs. You’ve returned just in time.”

  After the three of us were adequately dusted off, we met Miss Abernathy in the front hall as she came to the foot of the long staircase.

  “I’m so disappointed our visit didn’t work out as planned, but perhaps you can meet Mrs. Hawthorne more fully on a day when she’s feeling better.” She walked us toward the front doors, where we collected our things. “At least they had a chance to spend some time with you, Mabel. Did you all have an enjoyable time?”

  None of us answered outright, besides little yeses or nods, which didn’t surprise me. It had been a trying afternoon for all of us. I felt as if I’d been in another time and place for the majority of the last half hour, while I’d been snooping through Mr. Cal Hawthorne’s house.

  How could I have done such a thing? Everything about the afternoon left me horrified at myself and disappointed in a million different ways besides.

  On the drive home, I stared, unseeing, out the carriage window at the blur of buildings and trees, but I saw so much beyond that. Memories from my wedding jolted through
my mind. William kissing me the morning of our wedding day, my gleaming white wedding dress covered in his blood.

  Forcing my mind from the recollections, I instead thought back to Mr. Hawthorne’s angry disappointment at finding us in his house. Who was he, really? Was he an undercover police officer? A detective? And what did it mean that his sister didn’t even know?

  6

  New Directions

  “A word in earnest is as good as a speech.”

  —Charles Dickens, Bleak House

  We all know Nicholette is going to outshine everyone else at every event she attends this summer, Guinevere, darling. Now that her cards have been sent out indicating her reentrance to society, the men are simply going to flock to her, as they always have.”

  At the mention of my attending social events to my mother, I stopped outside the front parlor of the Everstones’ impressive mansion and waited to hear more. Knowing Miss Claudine Abernathy, she would have plenty to say, beyond what I’d just heard from her.

  “She’s still so young,” our hostess, Mrs. Evangeline Everstone, added. “You are going to allow her to fraternize, are you not?”

  I was honestly surprised she cared one way or another. I’d only just met her in the last two months and knew her to be a woman of few words.

  After no verbal answer for some time, Mrs. Annabelle Summercourt—another of my mother’s friends—continued, “Marrying again is the best thing she could do now, if you want her to successfully move on from this unfortunate turn of events.”

  “You must encourage her to marry again, quickly,” Miss Abernathy reiterated with finality.

  Though I didn’t especially like the topic of their conversation, I lingered in the hall, waiting for more.

  “We only just arrived home,” my mother said. “Do you truly think she won’t be judged too harshly by society if she marries again so soon? That there has been sufficient time for her to heal from such an ordeal?”

  For months, I’d been thinking about what my life would be like once I was out of mourning, and now that I’d been out for almost a month, the concept still seemed quite foreign. How would this transition go? My mother had seemed much more reluctant about my next steps than my father, as her words now confirmed.

  “Certainly there has. It’s been over two years.”

  It took me a moment to place the male voice behind this callous addition to the conversation, but then I recalled it had to be Alexander Summercourt, who had just moved back to Boston from New York City. He must have arrived at Everwood with his mother while I’d been out of the room.

  “I, for one, think she should be quite over what happened,” he continued.

  “Alex,” his mother reprimanded. “You cannot say such things, not having ever been in a similar situation yourself. And although her mourning is over and we will encourage her to marry, she may not be as ready as you would like her to be.”

  “We will see,” was his only reply.

  Oh goodness. Apparently, Alex thought I was quite the catch now that I had William’s inheritance as well as my own.

  “Don’t forget, everyone remembers exactly when William died,” Mother responded. “The horrid details were written up in newspapers all over the country. Don’t think they’ll not be watching her every move. And what if it ends up that a number of the gentlemen, who will no doubt vie for her attention, are only after her money?” she asked, with good reason. “She’s settled for life now that Bram Everstone has bequeathed William’s fifth of the inheritance to her.”

  “Dear, the same could have been said for her marrying William,” Miss Abernathy refuted. “He could have doubted her love because of how the whole thing was arranged between the families, but he didn’t. Anyone could tell he adored her, and that was all that mattered to him. We have to trust she’ll be able to discern such things for herself, as we have all had to learn to do throughout the years.”

  “I don’t know….I know Nicholas thinks she should be ready…” was Mother’s quiet response.

  “I’m certain she is, and I know just where she should live.”

  “Live?” Mother asked.

  “She’ll need a house when she’s married, and Hilldreth Manor will soon be on the market.”

  “What are you saying, Claudine?” Mrs. Summercourt exclaimed. “Hilldreth cannot be sold—where would you live?”

  “I’m going to move to Everston to be near Estella and her new family. Letty Hawthorne put the idea in my mind last summer with all her wishful plans, and although I know she will never actually move away from her children, I do not have the same problem.”

  “But you have us,” I heard Mother say quietly.

  “It is but a day’s train ride away. We will still see one another.”

  “So you’re planning to move away?” Mother continued.

  “And who better to move into Hilldreth Manor than Nicholette? She’ll need somewhere to live once she’s married and settled again, and I know just who I’d like to see her end up with,” Miss Abernathy said.

  “And who is that?” Mrs. Summercourt asked, sounding annoyed, for it obviously wasn’t her son, who was present, that Miss Abernathy had in mind.

  Miss Abernathy giggled. “Violet’s cousin, Cal Hawthorne.”

  I gripped the curtain and leaned closer to the opening of the parlor to better listen.

  “He’s young, handsome, and available,” she continued. “Nicholette hasn’t seen him yet, but just you wait until she does. They’ll make a spectacularly smashing couple.”

  Of course, she said this not realizing that I’d indeed met the man—whom she’d described quite accurately—two times by then. Two times burned into my memory that wouldn’t let me rest at night.

  I blushed profusely at the annoyingly delightful thought, the thought of being married…to him. The blush, at suddenly thinking far too much of “handsome and available” Cal Hawthorne, traveled down my neck and back, heating me most uncomfortably. But then I shook the image away…what was I thinking?

  “Yes, Nicholas has mentioned him. Seems he’s known him quite well in past years, I suppose from something to do with the bank,” Mother added. “And Bram has been specifically interested in introducing him to Nicholette, hasn’t he, Evie?”

  “Oui,” Mrs. Evangeline Everstone said. “He is a fine young gentleman, quite sought after now that Violet marrying Vance has brought him out of obscurity. They’re from a fine family, but living in a double townhouse in South Boston hardly seems right.”

  “Oh posh.” Miss Abernathy scolded her friend. “They like the quiet life, is all. And Nicholette has seen where he lives. I took her to see his mother and sister for tea, remember? Where they live isn’t terrible; it’s just much smaller.”

  “You don’t think they’re related to that scandalous Hawthorne family of Westborough, do you, Claudine?” Mrs. Summercourt asked. “Everyone from Westborough to Boston has heard of the stigma behind the name Chauncey Hawthorne.”

  The name jogged a distant memory, and I vaguely recalled once meeting someone by that name years and years past…but there had been nothing scandalous about the gentleman or his family back then. Honestly, I couldn’t remember a single thing about him other than his peculiar name and that we must have socialized in similar circles.

  “Whatever happened?” my mother asked, apparently lacking information, having been in Europe for the last two years with Father and me.

  “It is widely and infamously known,” Mrs. Summercourt answered, “that Mr. Chauncey Hawthorne II, upon his death, left the lion’s share of his fortune to his mistress and their six very young children rather than his wife and his legitimate children.”

  “It’s an abomination that such things can even be done,” Miss Abernathy practically exclaimed. “They certainly cannot be undone!” After what seemed a long pause of consideration, she went on. “Afterwards, the rumors flew, for he’d been known as an exceptional man of Christian character, and now the disgrace of what the scoundrel
had done to his family as his last rightful act on earth has proven to be too much a burden to bear. The family, his wife and his legitimate children, haven’t been seen or heard from for years.”

  “I would never show my face again either,” Mother added.

  “But didn’t I hear that a great uncle left everything he had to them, giving them his vast fortune in restitution for what his nephew had done to his family?” Mrs. Everstone asked.

  “Still, even with that recent news, the whole thing is disgraceful. And still no one knows where they are. It all sounds very shady to me.”

  It hardly seemed fair to me to blame the family left behind after such an awful occurrence, no matter who they were or where they were living now.

  “And I’m quite certain our friends are not related to those Hawthornes,” Miss Abernathy continued. “Can you imagine? Cal and Mabel—and Violet, I might add—related to this Chauncey Hawthorne fellow? What a preposterous thought.” She laughed. “I think Violet would know that much about her own family.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain about Violet knowing anything,” Mrs. Summercourt said. “The families had been estranged for decades, until Violet moved down to Boston from Maine last year.”

  “Are you not good friends with their mother, Claudine?” Mother asked. “Have you not asked about their connection to Chauncey Hawthorne?”

  “Oh, believe me, I’ve done my best,” Miss Abernathy answered. “She doesn’t come right out and say much—she isn’t feeling well these days, you know—but Letty’s explained to me enough that I believe they’re far enough removed from the Chauncey Hawthorne family that it likely has no influence on the reasons they are living in South Boston. She’d told me that her late husband—and to be clear, his name was Robert, not Chauncey—and Violet’s father, Edward, grew up in Westborough. Edward met and married Violet’s mother in Maine and stayed in that area and was therefore estranged from the rest of the family. They never saw him again; they only wrote a few nondescript letters back and forth over the years.”