Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas

by Pepper Basham

  The no-nonsense housekeeper of Biltmore had already given Stella enough disapproving looks for one week, especially when she’d noted the abundance of paints in Stella’s possession.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened, but it wasn’t the expressionless Englishwoman who entered. Instead, illustrious lady of the house herself, Edith Vanderbilt, stepped through the doorway, wearing a day suit of dark mulberry-hues, like the deepest textures of red wine.

  Stella pinched her hands together in front of herself. She’d only talked to the woman once since her return from Boston, and only for a brief conversation regarding the letter Stella had brought with her from her benefactress, Mrs. Eloise Bertram, a long-time friend of the Vanderbilts. Probably the only reason Mrs. Vanderbilt dared take Stella into her home during such a controversy. “Oh, Mrs. Vanderbilt.”

  The tall woman took in the room, and Stella worked through a mental list of explanations. Mrs. King’s disappointment was one thing…Mrs. Vanderbilt’s, quite another. She entered a few steps, her soft brown hair pulled back into a loose bun, drawing attention to her long, slender face, which only displayed amusement. “I see you’re settling in.”

  A cringe attempted to fold-in Stella’s shoulders, but she held her posture in place. “If I’d known you were going to visit, I would have straightened up some of my—”

  “No need.” She waved a hand at Stella’s excuse. “With Biltmore Industries and the schools we’re overseeing, I find the best creativity tends toward a little mess now and then.” She stepped deeper into the room, her palms together in front of her. “Though, I plan to move you to a more suitable room than the servants’ quarters, immediately.”

  Away from the servants’ quarters? But…but her parents had been the below-stairs sort. How was Stella any different?

  “Oh, this is fine, thank you.” Though better lighting would make a world of difference on her eyes when she painted. “I should think the farther away I am from possible guests, the better for now. Besides, it’s not so different than my room at the Boston Academy of Art.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt circled the room, her observant eyes seeming to take in every untidy detail. “I have a perfect place for you. More room. More light. And tucked away on the third floor where you can take the servants’ stair, should you wish to.” She reached out a hand toward one of the illustrations. Rapunzel. “Is this for your commission?”

  Stella moved nearer, smiling down at the almost complete picture. The ornately draped princess sat staring out the window, her golden braid trailing against the rich red of her gown. “One of them. This particular piece is part of a personal commission for a book of fairytales, individually requested ones—from Mrs. Bertram, as a matter of fact, for her goddaughter. And then I’m also working on illustrations for a more general book of fairytales for my publishing house. Mostly Anderson’s. But the private commission is particularly special because Mrs. Bertram has chosen some of my personal favorites, so it’s a joy to illustrate them. My imagination is happily satisfied. The book only needs a title.”

  “A title?”

  Stella nodded, her grin slipping wide. “I want it to be something special and fitting. Not just another Book of Fairytales title, but unique, because it’s personalized. Mrs. Bertram has given me license to be creative with the illustrations, and she’s done so much for me, I mean to make this my best yet.”

  “Creative license, is it?” Mrs. Vanderbilt’s smile lingered as she leaned closer to examine the work. “Thus the reason for a chessboard in the tower with Rapunzel?” Mrs. Vanderbilt raised a brow.

  Heat warmed Stella’s face. “Well, she and the prince needed something to do during their clandestine meetings. I thought a chessboard would give a hint to their intelligence.” Stella grinned down at the piece. “And imagine the witty repartee that could happen over a chess match.”

  The lady’s grin crooked. “Gleaned from your own experience?”

  Stella shook her head, the question stinging a little. “Only from imagination.” She touched the edge of the illustration, James’s grin coming to mind. “Though I shouldn’t mind the practice.”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt studied her a moment and then turned back to the samplings on the table. She gestured toward an incomplete illustration of Snow White in the dwarves’ kitchen. “She’s baking.”

  “Apple tarts.” Stella shrugged a shoulder at Mrs. Vanderbilt’s look. “There seemed to be an abundance of apples in the story.”

  The woman raised a hand to her grin before continuing to pace the room. “And these? Are they yours?”

  Stella followed her gaze to the stack containing copies of the most recent fairytale book she’d completed—a simple collection of classics from Scottish author George MacEllis’s classics, but popular enough to have garnered more commissions. Better ones.

  “Yes.”

  “Eloise Bertram wrote to me of your fame in illustrations, but I haven’t seen your work first hand—until now.” She raised a brow and gestured toward the stack of books. “May I?”

  Stella stumbled closer, still adjusting to being in the grand lady’s presence. She remembered her parents’ kind words about the owners of Biltmore, but to have the grand lady take interest in Stella…or her work? Well, she wasn’t quite certain what to do.

  “Of course, yes.” Stella peered around Mrs. Vanderbilt’s shoulder as she flipped open the cover of the book. “These are copies of my first fairytale book of note. A collection of George MacEllis’s fairytales.”

  A turn of the page filled the silence as Mr. Vanderbilt examined the book. Another turn. Stella pinched her fingers together behind her back. Even after completing illustrations for three well-received fairytale books, she still held her breath as a set of fresh eyes examined her work. Especially a literature- and art-lover like Edith Vanderbilt.

  “I love your use of color. And your people acutally look healthy, unlike the sickly waifs I’ve seen in some other fairytales. What man would wish to marry a woman who already looks fit for death?” She chuckled and kept scanning through the pages, lingering on several before placing the book back on the stack. “Are these books for sale?”

  Stella blinked. “Y... yes. They’re what I had left to bring from Boston.”

  She narrowed her eyes and scanned the stack. “I think I should like…six of them. With Christmas closing in, I can think of a half dozen young ladies who would adore a collection of fairytales with such whimsical illustrations to stir the imagination.”

  Stella’s smile split wide. “Yes, of course.”

  “And you’ll sign them, won’t you? It will make the gift even more special.”

  “Happily.”

  “Now.” The woman placed her palms together and resumed her trip around the room, taking in the cluttered surroundings. “I actually came with only two purposes in mind, but I see you’ve expanded my plans.” She paused in front of the half-finished painting of Biltmore, studied a portrait of Eloise Bertram that Stella had completed during her first few days at Biltmore, and then paused to examine the three decorative Christmas ornaments that Stella had hand painted for three of the girls she tutored at an orphanage in Boston.

  Mrs. Bertram’s prized project. Her orphanage.

  “How clever.” Mrs. Vanderbilt raised a brow. “May I?”

  “Yes. Anything I have is open to your perusal, ma’am.”

  “Your father spoke of your art skills when you were a child, but I had no idea they’d bloom into such exquisite talent.”

  The unexpected compliment stole Stella’s breath. She pressed a palm to the nearby dresser to keep her balance. “My father spoke about me to you?”

  Mrs. Vanderbilt placed one ornament down only to lift another. “Often. Of you and your mother.” Her gaze rose with her lips. “It is a pleasure to hear a man speak so lovingly of his family.”

  Stella’s eyes warmed with a sudden rush of tears. “He was a very good man.”

  “Indeed, he was. Hardworking. Kind.”
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  Silence swelled through the room as Mrs. Vanderbilt carefully inspected each ornament. “How many of these do you think you could turn out by Christmas?” She gestured with the ornament in hand, the silver star for ten-year-old Christy. “Along with your commissions, of course.”

  “By...by Christmas?” Stella drew in a breath, mentally assessing her commitments.

  “Yes, seven weeks or so.”

  “I’ve almost completed my final illustrations for the publisher and should send off those within the next few weeks, which leaves Mrs. Bertram’s commission. I still have several stories to illustrate for her.” Stella touched the edge of an illustration in progress on her desk. Beauty and the Beast, complete with a library mirrored after the famed Biltmore’s. Would Mrs. Vanderbilt note the similarities? Would she approve?

  Her lips tilted ever so slightly as she peered closer, but she made no comment.

  Stella released the breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding. “But…with that in mind, I think I can easily complete four or five a day.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Vanderbilt brought her palms together, her smile growing. “Then I shall draw up a list for you of possible styles and colors that would match the names I have in mind for each ornament. Gifts to our families here.”

  Yes, the Vanderbilts were known for giving gifts to each family in their employ. A tradition for as long as Stella had known them. She’d received a sketch pad and pencils when she was ten, most likely due to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s uncanny way of winkling out the interests of the children across the entire estate. Would Stella’s own ornaments be the coveted gift of this year? And with the two commissions plus Mrs. Vanderbilt’s request, Stella would have enough saved to purchase one thing she’d missed for so long.

  A home. A place of her own. To belong.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vanderbilt. I’m happiest when painting.”

  “Of course, I shall cover the costs for your materials.” She walked to the door, gesturing toward the room. “And since you are clearly an artist in residence, we shall move you to a guest room instead of the servants’ quarters.”

  “But Mrs.—”

  “I shall place you safely away from other guests, but you need more space and larger windows for better light.” Her eyes glimmered with more mirth than her lips allowed. “Though, I should think once this little mix-up has been set right, there shall be a great many people who wish to meet the famous S.F. Emory.”

  Stella moved a few steps forward. “You don’t believe the rumors?”

  “I’ve only met Ellis Collins and his daughter once, but it was enough to know I wouldn’t trust their word over Eloise Bertram’s on any matter.” She turned at the door, her dark gaze holding Stella’s, imbuing some sort of strength Stella didn’t quite understand. “I’m glad you’ve returned to Biltmore, Stella. Your father and mother would be happy to have you home.”

  “James, truly. Don’t you think you’ve spent enough time in the Vanderbilts’ gardens?”

  James tugged off the derby he’d worn all morning while he studied plants with one of Biltmore’s gardeners, Mr. Finch, but one look at the dirt beneath his nails had him slipping his hands and cap behind his back. No, his stepmother wouldn’t approve. “If I’m to make our estate as viable as Biltmore, Stepmother, I must learn what to do. Mr. Finch happens to have expertise in fruit trees and berries. Perfect for Cravenwood.”

  His stepmother released a wearied sigh and shook her head as she pulled on her gloves. “Who would ever recognize you for a wealthy heir with your work clothes”—she pinned him with a raised ebony brow— “and dirt-stained hands?”

  No use pretending. He pushed the derby back on his head and placed his “dirt-stained” hands on his hips, tagging a grin in place just for Marilyn’s benefit. “I’d rather be known as an innovative and kind-hearted workman at any rate. And besides, Thomas has Cravenwood well in hand, as any firstborn ought.” James sent his stepmother a wink. “He can keep the business strong while I make the property useful.”

  “Oh James, you are positively incorrigible. Albert.” His stepmother turned as Father rounded the car to stop at her side. “Look at the state of your son, out for the whole world to see.”

  Father sniffed as he examined James, his bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “You need a hat with a larger brim, James. The tips of your ears are as red as strawberries.”

  “Not his ears, Albert.” She waved a white-gloved hand toward him in accusation. “His stained work clothes. His dirty hands. One would think he’s nothing more than a common servant.”

  “Some of the nicest people I’ve met have been common servants.”

  “Oh, heavens. You will be the laughing stock of us all.”

  “Now, now, Marilyn dear. There are worse things in life than bringing laughter. And if my dirt-stained adventures help keep your new house filled with those lovely paintings you enjoy then how can you argue about my study of trees and bushes?” James leaned forward and kissed his stepmother on the cheek.

  She waved him away, but her lips hinted at an underused smile. She’d joined their family six years ago, rescuing his father from his grief, and started a grand design to turn Albert Craven’s family into the well-bred children they would never become without her. “What if Mr. Vanderbilt’s guests for the house party arrive early and see you in such a state. You’ll never find an appropriate bride then, James. They’re not looking for scalawags and paupers.”

  “I don’t think I want a bride who’s afraid of healthy earth, sunshine, and fresh air.” He dusted his hat against the thigh of his trousers. “And I might not wish for a high-minded debutante who hasn’t some gumption, kindness, and a bit of wit about her. Life is a long journey to spend with someone you can’t genuinely have thoughtful conversations with.”

  He caught the sweet glance his stepmother gave to his father. Despite her more reserved personality and sometimes elitist mentality, she loved James’s father…and the boys, but her mother instinct came out best with Alice.

  He didn’t even want to imagine what Marilyn would be like when Alice grew old enough to catch a man’s eyes. He paused. The idea of his little sister and romance? He shook away the thought.

  “Well, whomever you choose, make certain she brings a good reputation along with her.” His father added. “It took more money than I care to discuss to fix your younger brother’s romantic escapades.”

  James grimaced at the mention of Luke’s less-than-stellar personal choices. Costly choices. Not just for his father’s pocketbook but also the Craven name. The move to North Carolina from New York distanced them from some of Luke’s more unsavory relationships, but the past still hung over the family like a warning, keeping them on the alert to another scandal. Especially his Father.

  “Hush now, Albert.” Stepmother took his arm, leaning close and glancing beyond the large stone archway of Biltmore’s entry as if one of the servants may be listening on the other side. “We’ve had enough trouble with parlor maids and the like. Besides, James is well aware of the expectations. A lady of excellent reputation.”

  His father’s brows shimmied. “And a rather wide swath of positive influence wouldn’t hurt business either.”

  James sighed. “Always looking for the business edge, eh, Father?”

  “It’s why you live in luxury, son.” Father placed his palm on James’s shoulder. “Even if no one can tell from the look of you.”

  James doffed his hat. “What is it they say about the stuff of a man is the heart and all that?”

  “Well, you’d better attend to the outside so a woman has a care to know the heart, James.” Marilyn shook her head again. “Now, look, Albert, the car is ready.” She stepped toward the car, then turned back to James. “And we expect you home well before the masquerade, James. You’ll be needed with preparations, you know.”

  “Your wish is my command, my lady.” James swept his cap in front of him which reaped an eyeroll from his stepmother.
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  Father leaned in. “Mind you do. You know Thomas hasn’t a head for social gatherings, and Luke can’t be trusted at them. We’ll need you there. And since it’s a masquerade”—Father waved a hand to James’s work clothes—“you can come as a farmer.”

  “And do keep Alice from becoming too wild, James,” Marilyn called as she prepared to enter the car. “She’s meant to be a lady someday.”

  James placed his palm over his heart. “I give you my word to help Alice become the most well-rounded lady you’ve ever known.”

  His stepmother released a sigh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  With that, she disappeared into the car, followed by his father, who sent a wink over his shoulder before taking his seat alongside her. James waved as the car traveled down the long drive and then he turned back toward Biltmore, his steps determined. Time to locate Mr. Vanderbilt and inquire about swimming lessons…and then plan a walk down to the lake, just in case a fairy decided to appear for a second time.

  3

  A Fireplace

  Stella peered through the branches at the pair by the water’s edge. Alice faced away from the forest, tossing rocks into the pond, while James sat propped against a nearby tree, as comfortable as any country-bred lad—though his speech hadn’t sounded like someone from the mountains. He wore a pair of simple beige trousers and a white button-up beneath a set of black suspenders. His black derby sat low on his head, and he chewed on a piece of straw as he read a book. Stella squinted to attempt a guess at the type of book, but she couldn’t make it out from her distance. There was something singularly attractive about a man reading a book.

  The scent of rain moistened the air in warning. Stella had half-hoped the threat might keep the pair away…and yet, she couldn’t seem to stop her smile from blooming at the very fact they’d come. Oh, what was wrong with her?

  “Do you think she forgot?” Alice’s voice lilted across the woodland floor toward the barrier of trees separating them from Stella. Stella had turned back twice, almost talking herself out of the sweet distraction of new friendship and her favorite fairytale. After all, she needed to sort out the horrible rumors before developing too many new connections in Asheville, even with servants.