“Mr. Dawson, you know you loved seeing Greece.” Mrs. Dawson offered an apologetic smile. “It was a delightful trip, James. So kind of you to remember.” She turned toward the two girls at her right. “Here our daughter, Laura, recently engaged to a Mr. Lawrence Kennedy.”
“Congratulation, Miss Dawson.”
“And she’s brought her friend, Miss Lorraine Collins with her.” The hopeful mother hid nothing of her desire to find a match.
“Her father is a well-established man in the railroad industry. Isn’t that right, Clarice?” Marilyn raised her brow to James before turning to Mrs. Dawson.
“Indeed, most established.”
Oh dear. Neither woman was making any attempt at subtlety. James shot Thomas a glance, but his eldest brother only shrugged in weak consolation. Perhaps James should attempt Thomas’s approach to fending off his stepmother’s pursuits. Appear disagreeable and uninteresting. Though Thomas was generally neither, he played the part perfectly to keep their stepmother’s hands off his future happiness.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Craven.” Miss Collins blinked large, brown eyes at him. “The Dawsons have done nothing but sing your praises.”
James sent Mr. and Mrs. Dawson a grin. “Clearly, they are as generous as ever.”
“Come, let us continue our conversations over dinner.” Father gestured toward the dining hall.
Miss Collins stayed by his side. “Your house is lovely. You must take a great deal of pride in it.”
“My parents do. I prefer to pass my time in Orchard House on the other side of the property.”
“Ah!” She rounded the table with him, her eyes glowing with renewed interest. “As grand as this?”
As expected, Miss Collins was placed between James and Thomas, which meant that James would have to keep the conversation going with her.
“Not at all. I prefer smaller spaces with much simpler furnishings, but I’m happy for my stepmother, who finds her ultimate fulfillment in designing this house.”
“But surely you’ll move here when you marry? Or build your own grand house?”
The woman had no subtlety at all. “Not if I can help it.” He placed his napkin on his lap. “Thomas, being the eldest, will inherit the house.” Thomas shot him a steely warning from the other side of Miss Collins. James stepped directly into the fire. “He’d benefit from a woman with talent as a hostess and a love of design, I’m sure.”
Thomas’s glare fell into disinterest as Miss Collins turned her hopeful gaze to him. As usual, without any encouragement or even conversation on Thomas’s part, Miss Collins turned her full attentions back on James, her dialogue almost reprimanding him for “underappreciating” his status in the world by living simply.
Well, his stepmother had missed the mark again. Not even near the target with this one.
But of course Marilyn would recommend Miss Collins, a young woman who enjoyed the social dance and reveled in redesigning—and had her sights set on redesigning her future husband too, he suspected. James had nothing against the activity of decorating, but holding it as almost the sole topic of discussion, headed by Miss Collins, showed two things: One, Miss Collins was more interested in sharing her own thoughts than encouraging others to join in dialogue. And two, he and Miss Collins had very little in common.
A fact his father recognized, from the apologetic look on his face.
But at its core, James’s disinterest had less to do with Miss Collins and more to do with the fact that his heart was already held by his fairy, Faye. His heart was set.
The table conversation took a turn toward the new moving-picture shows before the party began to disperse for after dinner conversations. Men to the smoking room, women to retire for the evening.
As James made his way to return to his own house for the evening, he passed his father’s office and noticed the door ajar. His father stood by a shelf, cigar box in hand.
“A new brand, is it?”
His father looked up and raised one of the cigars. “Spanish. I thought Mr. Dawson might like to try one. Care for one yourself?”
James shook his head and stepped farther into the room. “But I am happy to have this opportunity to speak to you on a matter related to the masquerade.”
His father stilled, smile dissolving into a thundercloud. “I don’t care what excuse you have this time, James, this is Cravenwood’s first party of the sort and I will not have you—”
“No, I plan on celebrating like the man of leisure I’m supposed to be. I know it means a great deal to you and Marilyn.” He held up his palms and grinned.
“So does marrying well, but I don’t see you running toward the altar.”
“Marrying well is the rub of it, isn’t it? Well for my heart, or well for the general populous?”
His father ran a hand over his chin and chuckled. “Your stepmother has your best interest in mind, James, but I would not have you overlook your heart. There is much to be said for a match to one’s heart.”
James knew the look, the softening of his expression as he thought of Mother. He rarely spoke of her anymore, but theirs had been a status-marriage-turned-love-match.
His father cleared his throat. “But you wished to speak with me?”
“Yes.” James moved a few steps nearer his father’s desk. “I know the invitations went out weeks ago, but there’s someone else I wish to invite.”
“The party is next week. Who would come on such short notice?”
“She will.”
His father’s brows rose. “She? Ah, I see.” He lit the cigar and placed it to his lips, pacing to the window. “Yes, I didn’t think Miss Collins would tempt you after I heard her rattling on about decorating.” He released a puff of smoke from his lips and turned back to James. “And who is this…‘she’ you wish to invite?”
James drew in a deep breath, choosing his approach carefully. “She’s a lady I met at Biltmore. Smart, kind, an easy conversationalist.” He raised a finger. “And she paints.”
“She paints,” his father echoed. Never a good sign. “And who is her family?”
James hesitated. “She…she doesn’t have family.”
Father’s mouth pinched around the cigar, and one eyebrow took a northerly lift. “And her status? Situation?”
James cleared his throat. “She’s a servant, I believe. Or at least I think so.”
“A servant?” The cigar almost flew form his father’s mouth. “You think so?”
“There something special about her, Father, and I think if you could only meet her, you’d understand.
“Invite a servant to our party?”
“No one will know. It’s a masquerade, after all, and she’s not the sort to embarrass anyone. She’s intelligent and refined.”
“A servant?”
“I think, but…but I’ve not asked.”
“Your stepmother will not approve.”
“She doesn’t need to know either.”
“James.”
“You’ve always boasted of being openminded and that a good person is a good person no matter their rank.” James stood taller, facing his father. “I know how it appears, but I won’t be dissuaded, Father. This is important to me.” He took a step closer to his father. “She is important to me, and I would have you meet her, if you’re willing.”
His father carefully removed the cigar from his mouth and slid into his desk chair. “I appreciate your appeal, James, but there are expectations. If she has no family or appropriate status, on what grounds should we solicit such an invitation?”
James sat in the chair opposite his father—the same place he’d made appeals for years, but this request carried a greater weight. A future hope. He leaned forward, hands braided in front of him, and almost groaned at the thought of what he had to confess to convince his father. “If my personal desire is not enough to warrant your approval, then perhaps saving your daughter’s life will be.”
“What do you mean?”
James accepted his fate. “Only proof that both Alice and I need swimming lessons.”
7
The Clock
“You won’t believe it, Stella. We’ve sold every wooden solder you painted and all the fairies.” Wren grabbed Stella’s hand and pulled her farther into the shop her cousin and uncle rented across the river from Biltmore Village. It was advertised as a hardware store, but most people knew it for the intricate handcrafts her Uncle Morin kept on display.
Wren, only a year younger than Stella, had grown to resemble her mother, who had died not long after Stella’s own. Dark hair and eyes, and full lips. Stella had seen a china doll in Boston once that reminded her of Wren as a child. What a strange thing to be among family again after so long.
A wonderfully strange thing.
“It’s a marvel. All of it.” Wren pointed toward the three-tiered display where the toys had decorated the window two weeks earlier. Only a wooden rocking horse and a few rag dolls remained. “Father’s never sold his crafts so quickly. All he needed was someone who knew how to bring his toys to life, and that’s exactly what your paints have done.” Her large walnut-colored eyes grew even larger. “Why did you ever worry about sellin’ in Asheville?”
Stella attempted to keep up with the verbal tirade. “I’d left all my contacts back in Boston, so I wasn’t sure.”
“Well, you can put your worries to rest.” Wren placed her hands on her hips, her long dark braid swinging back and forth as she shook her head. “And Pa’s crafting some wooden horses for you next—even one with a fancy carriage, like from those fairytales you’re illustratin’.”
A laugh burst from Stella’s smile. Even with the shadow of Lorraine Collins’s presence, God was still finding ways to touch her life, through Mrs. Vanderbilt and then James, and now this? She wasn’t alone.
A sweet swell of gratitude wound its way through her heart. It had been so long since she’d really belonged somewhere.
Her thoughts traveled back to flurries and almost-kisses. Or belonged…to someone?
“I had a woman come by yesterday and tell me that Mrs. Vanderbilt herself recommended our shop.” Wren tapped Stella on the shoulder. “That’s no doubt on account of you. And I put an advertisement in the paper about our new toys and, well, I do believe it’s working. If we can keep this up, Da will be out of debt by summer, and then we can make some real plans.”
“Like writing all those children’s stories you’re always telling instead of tucking them away for another day?” Stella nudged her cousin right back, welcoming the comradery and the contagious joy of a job well done.
“Not sure I’m quite ready to put feet on that dream just yet.”
“When you do”—Stella placed her palm on her cousin’s shoulder— “I want to be the illustrator for them.”
Wren looked away, her cheeks rosy. “If it ever happens, you’re the illustrator, of course. And I reckon storytelling comes natural with the granny we got. She can’t have a conversation without a story growing out of it.” Wren turned toward a shelf and straightened part of a row of cannisters.
“That’s true.” Stella followed. “And you’re usually carrying a story with you. I rarely see you without a book in hand.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She tipped her grin and raised a book from the counter in response. What was it? Gulliver’s Travels?
“A good writer is a good reader, or that’s what my publisher says.” Stella joined Wren at the counter and examined the book before setting it back down. Yes, Gulliver’s Travels.
“Speakin’ of your publisher, this package arrived for you yesterday along with a letter from your friend Mrs. Bertram.” Wren pushed the items across the counter to Stella, her knowing gaze locking with Stella’s. “I hope she bears good news.”
Stella picked up the envelope and looked down at the familiar, elegant handwriting of her benefactress. “So do I.” She placed the envelope into her bag and pulled out a large package of her own. “Would you mind mailing this off for me on your next trip to the post office?”
Wren’s eyes sparkled with her grin. “Is it the next fairytale book?”
“It’s the illustrations for the first commission. I’ve not finished Mrs. Bertram’s yet. I’m still trying to get the Cinderella illustrations just right, but I should have them ready for binding by the end of the week.”
Wren sighed and pulled the package to her chest. “Oh, I can’t wait to see it. I plan on us ordering a few to have in the shop, if sales keep up as they are.”
“I’ll do what I can to help.” Stella backed away from the counter. “But in the meantime, I have ornaments to paint, canvases to create, and a book to finish. Did you have a few more wooden soldiers for me to take?”
“Right.” Wren disappeared beneath the counter again, and when she rose, she had a small box of six wooden cylinders in the shape of men. “And two fairies.”
Stella peered inside. Even without the paint, the detail was incredible, but with the colors…the woodcrafts truly displayed her uncle’s unique and skilled handiwork. She’d never realized how her family carried a special gift for artistry—of all sorts.
Her family. She grinned at the thought.
No, she wasn’t alone in the world anymore. She was home.
“I’ll have the horses ready for you when you stop by next week.”
“See you then.” Stella tucked the box beneath her arm and walked out the door, taking in a deep breath of the crisp November afternoon. Color still clung to the trees lining the street as she crossed the French Broad bridge back into Biltmore Village. The manicured drive to Biltmore opened to her right, the gatehouse welcoming guests onto the estate like some European chateau. Biltmore Village opened to her left, idyllic with its neat rows of rental homes and Tudor-style shops. The town had grown since Stella was a child, but still kept its quaint, convivial quality. Cobblestone streets. Sidewalks. Even the Vanderbilts’ signature lanterns lining the way.
She needed to paint the village, especially with autumn’s colors framing the town like a vibrant picture of what home should look like.
“Faye?”
Stella’s entire body warmed to the voice, and she couldn’t keep her smile from responding long before she turned. It had been four days since she’d seen James. She’d visited their place at the pond every day and even sneaked to the gardens, but he’d been nowhere to be found. The memory of the look in his eyes, the tenderness of his caress against her face, soothed her to sleep each night.
And here he came, approaching from the train depot—looking nothing like the Biltmore gardener she’d come to know. His black topcoat waved behind him as he approached, framing his striped trousers, white button-up, and gray sack suit. He’d even donned a top hat. If Stella didn’t know better, she’d take him for a high-class gentleman, complete with fresh shave. Her smile spread wider, appreciating his approach. He’d make a fine Prince Charming, wouldn’t he?
“What a pleasant surprise.”
“I was hoping to see you today.” His blue gaze captured hers, sending all sorts of unvoiced messages her pulse seemed to interpret. “And sooner than expected.”
Heat swarmed into her cheeks, and she looked away. “Are you coming in from the depot?”
He glanced back behind him and nodded. “I had to return home for a few days to welcome some guests who’d arrived from Boston for my parents’ party, but I returned today to meet with Mr. Harry Lawrence, student to the famed landscape architect Frederick Olmsted, who designed Biltmore’s gardens. He’s visiting with the Vanderbilts, and I didn’t want to miss him.”
Home? Party? Stella raised a brow. “That explains your stylishness.”
He tugged at the lapel of his suit jacket and raised his chin. “Posh enough for a gentleman, you think?”
She refused to lower her eyes this time. She wanted him to see her admiration. “You do cut a fine figure in that suit.”
His smile spread with the compliment, inciting the little
dent in his chin. “I suppose you’re on your way to the house now? May I escort you?”
“Well, I’m walking, so you might want to catch a carriage or car to make your meeting on time.”
He frowned. “You can ride with me. I have a car waiting just there.” He pointed toward a Model T across the street, then turned back to her, his boyish grin reappearing and igniting all sorts of delightful sparks in her chest. He offered his arm. “We’ll even look the part of lady and gentleman.” His gaze took her in. “After all, I’d never take you for a servant in this day suit. Green is a becoming color on you.”
Stella paused as she slipped her arm through his. “Servant?”
“Stella!”
Stella turned to the call from behind, her thoughts still caught on his misnomer.
Wren bounded toward them, her braid bouncing behind her and her cheeks aflame from the exertion. “I’m so glad I caught you. You left your—” Wren stopped in front of them, eyes rounding as her attention shifted to James. “Parcel.”
Stella slipped her hand from the warmth of James’s side and took her mail from Wren, who was stuck in a statuesque pose. Well, Stella had paused at the sight of the handsome man too, so why wouldn’t her cousin? “Thank you, Wren, but I’m sorry you had to run—”
“Stella, I had no idea you knew Mr. Craven.” Wren turned to James and gave a little curtsy. “Nice to see you again, sir. I see you know my cousin Stella.”
Why on earth was her cousin curtsying to James? To impress him?
“Good…good day, Miss Morin.” James gave the greeting, complete with raised hat, but kept his focus on Stella, a pucker in the center of his brow. “Stella?”
All warmth slid from her body as an aching realization dawned. Her name.
“It was nice to have you visit the shop this week.” Wren turned to Stella. “He’s one that came by and bought up nearly all your fairies.”
James cleared his throat and turned his full attention on Wren, his smile tight. “Alice wishes for nothing more than to stop by your shop for the rest.” His attention flickered back to Stella’s. “She was charmed by them.”
Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas Page 8
