by Bess McBride
Mary’s cheeks were high with color, but Clara couldn’t soften her words. Hickstrom continued to regard her with...was it patience? No!
“Well?” Clara rasped. “Say something!”
“My dear, come sit down,” Hickstrom said. “You are overwrought. The situation is not as dire as you present.”
“Not dire?” Clara repeated.
Just then a knock on the door startled them all, and Mary put a finger to her lips. She looked at Hickstrom quickly and rose to cross the room to the door. Clara, anxious and upset, watched her as she opened the door a crack. Someone spoke from the outside, and Mary nodded before closing the door.
“I’m sorry. The baby is awake, and I have to feed her. Why don’t you two talk and I’ll be back in a little bit? And Hickstrom, for goodness’ sake, at least tell her who the baron is! Even I have no clue. Be back in a bit!”
With that, Mary slipped out of the room, and Clara stared at the closed door.
Her legs, already shaking, turned to jelly, and she grabbed for the mantelpiece to keep from falling. In a rustle of silk, Hickstrom rose and approached, sliding an arm around Clara’s waist. Smelling of lavender, she guided Clara back to the sofa and settled her before taking a seat. Hickstrom took Clara’s cold hand in hers, which were soft and warm. Clara, a bit lightheaded, had the oddest sensation of being mothered, something she hadn’t felt since she was a child. She tried to pull her hand away, but Hickstrom kept hold of it...gently but firmly.
“My dear Clara, please trust that I know what is best for you. And if you cannot trust that, then simply give our little experiment a bit of time. If nothing else, provide Mary companionship for a short while. She loves her life here with St. John, but she pines for home as well. It is only natural.”
Clara knew a moment of guilt, and she swallowed hard.
“But she has the other woman? Rachel, I think?”
“Then spend some time with both of them. Give them the latest news of home, for they have been gone for some time.”
“You could do that,” Clara said piteously, still trying to withdraw her hand from the fairy godmother’s hypnotic maternal touch.
“I am only a visitor to your time. I do not understand all the ways of the future.”
Clara let out a breath she had been holding for far too long. She looked down at their conjoined hands, and despite herself, curled her fingers around Hickstrom’s plump fingers.
“Hickstrom, if I stay for a while...and that’s a big if, promise me...promise me that you will send me home when I want to go. Promise me that you won’t make me marry some old baron.”
Hickstrom laughed then, a combination of full-bodied laughter and hooting. Clara reared her head in surprise.
“‘Some old baron’ indeed! I would not match you with an older gentleman, my dear, certainly not if a young bachelor were to be available. How could you think such a thing?”
“Sorry. It’s just that Mary and her husband only know one baron, and he’s married and old. I just assumed...”
“The baron in the fairy tale does not yet know he is a baron. It comes as a surprise to him as well.”
Clara knew another moment’s anxiety that she was allowing Hickstrom to even warm to the topic. Shaking her head quickly, she cut the fairy godmother off.
“It doesn’t matter! No barons, no matches, no husband. Promise me. I mean, you can’t make me marry someone anyway, can you?”
“It is not in my nature to force young ladies to marry, my dear. I can, however, and have exerted...shall we say...pressure upon the gentlemen to comply with what is best for them.”
“Best for them?” Again, despite her intentions, Clara felt herself falling into a trap of engaging in the conversation. “How can you decide that?”
“Because that is my tasking...to help people find happiness.” Hickstrom widened her eyes as if to suggest that the answer should have been obvious.
“Who assigned this ‘tasking’ to you?”
Hickstrom tilted her head, furrowing arched eyebrows. “Perhaps I chose the wrong word. No one ‘assigned this tasking.’ Perhaps calling might be a more appropriate term? This is my calling.”
“But how do you know? And how do you know who you think needs to ‘find happiness’ and who doesn’t?”
“So many questions, dear. I do wish we had ordered a cup of tea for such a cerebral conversation.”
“I notice you’re not answering the questions. Why do you do what you do?”
Hickstrom rose and smoothed the silk of her gown.
“Well, my dear, I really must go. I understand that you wish to know how you were selected to benefit from my particular skills. I chose you because you are unhappy.”
Clara began to protest, but Hickstrom held up an imperious hand.
“Yes, dear, I know you do not believe you are unhappy, but you are. As is your baron. Find him, for if you do not, he will die an unhappy man. Surely you do not wish that upon anyone, do you?”
Hickstrom moved past Clara to head for the door.
“Wait! Hickstrom!” Clara fussed, following in her wake. Despite her anxiety, she could not help but admire the purple silk train that trailed Hickstrom. “You can’t lay all this on me! I can’t be responsible for some man’s happiness!”
“But you are, Clara. That is settled. No one may change that. If you wish to return home in two weeks’ time, then I shall send you back. However, you and you alone are the baron’s only hope for happiness. Please consider that. Good day, my dear.”
The door didn’t open, yet Hickstrom vanished. She didn’t disappear into a cloud of smoke or a beam of light. She simply stopped being visible. Clara stared at the spot where she’d last seen the fairy godmother.
“I can’t be anyone’s only hope, Hickstrom!” she called out to the closed door. “You’re not being fair!”
A tap on the door startled Clara, and she jumped back, as if an apparition had knocked.
The door opened, and Sarah, the maid, stuck her head in.
“Her ladyship asks if you will join her in the drawing room for tea, miss.”
“Oh yes,” Clara said, turning to survey the room, but there was no sign of Hickstrom hiding behind the curtains or behind the bed hangings.
Clara followed Sarah down the staircase and into the drawing room. Mary sat on the sofa bouncing a rosy-cheeked baby on her knees. Dark curls, like her father’s, framed a laughing face. Chubby hands pulled at the ringlets dangling near Mary’s face.
“Clara! Come meet Anna.”
Clara, unaccustomed to children, sat down next to Mary and greeted Anna.
“Hello there,” she said.
As an only child, Clara had not dealt with younger siblings, nor had she babysat as a child. In her mother’s absence, Clara had busied herself caring for the house—cleaning, cooking—all in addition to going to school and doing her homework. Though her father had encouraged her to pursue a social life or sports, she had preferred to stay home with him. In truth, her father had been relieved. He enjoyed his daughter’s company. Following her mother’s abandonment, her father had never remarried, never shown interest in any other women, and Clara had recognized her father’s loneliness and unhappiness.
It was small wonder that when Hickstrom guilted her into being responsible for some poor lonely baron’s happiness, Clara bucked at the idea that she was the only solution.
Anna gurgled then and reached out toward Clara. Clara lifted a hand, and the baby grabbed her fingers and tugged.
“She’s cute,” Clara said with a half smile.
“She is,” Mary agreed, looking down at Anna with a broad grin.
Just then the door opened, and St. John entered, followed by a footman with a tea service. He set the tray down on the table.
“Cedric, can you send Kate in?” Mary asked the footman.
“She is just in the hall. I will take Anna to her.”
St. John approached, picked up his daughter and carried her to the door, where
another maid, a plump brunette, took the baby. St. John closed the door and turned back.
“May I join you for tea?” he asked. “Or would you ladies prefer to be alone?”
“Of course not!” Mary said. She turned to Clara. “St. John knows Hickstrom was here. So what did she say? She didn’t send you back right away, I see.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Clara said. “But no, she didn’t send me back. She asked me—no, she told me to stay for two weeks. She said she would send me home then if I hadn’t changed my mind.” Clara’s cheeks colored. “She pressured me by saying that—whoever this baron might be—he’s lonely and that if I don’t ‘find him,’ he’s going to die an unhappy man. Or some kind of blackmail like that.”
Mary shook her head. “She does that. She’s kind of shameless that way.”
“Well, I’m not changing my mind, but I guess I’ll have to stay the two weeks. Do you mind if I stay here? You have to know that I’m lost. I don’t have any money, and I have no idea where to go.”
Mary covered Clara’s hand. “Of course you’ll stay with us. There was never any question about that.”
St. John, pouring tea, murmured assent.
“Did Hickstrom say who the baron is?” Mary asked. “Did she at least give you a name?”
Clara accepted a cup of tea from St. John. Just as she was about to reply, the door burst open. A wild-eyed Roger Phelps stood there.
“Roger!” St. John exclaimed. “What is it? Is something amiss on the estate? One of the tenants?”
Chapter Seven
Roger’s eyes flew first to Miss Bell. Her image had blinded him all the way down the drive as he hastened from the gatehouse to the castle to discuss the news of his pending good fortune with St. John.
But good fortune was a misnomer. Indeed, the letter from the solicitor had come at a most unfortunate time. A week prior, he might even have welcomed such news, might certainly have been intrigued at the very least. Never in his thirty years had he suspected he stood to inherit a title. His father had never mentioned such. Perhaps he had not known.
Yet given Miss Hickstrom’s new scheme, Roger understood that he was in fact intended as the baron who must marry Miss Bell. Of course, he planned to deny Miss Hickstrom her goal. Miss Bell did not wish to marry, and neither did he. What could she possibly do to him if he did not comply? Imprison him in the gatehouse in similar fashion to St. John? Doom him to perennial bachelorhood as she had Viscount Halwell? He wished nothing more than that happy state.
St. John had risen and approached him. “What is it, man? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Roger repeated dumbly, forcing his eyes away from Miss Bell’s piercing look. “Not at all. Nothing is amiss on the estate. I simply had a matter of utmost import to discuss with you. Regarding the estate.”
St. John regarded him with narrowed eyes. “What is it?”
Roger scanned the room again. All eyes were upon him. “I think it best we speak in private, your lordship.”
St. John glanced at his wife.
“Roger, what is this about? There is nothing about the estate which I do not share with Mary.”
“It is of a delicate nature, your lordship. I really can say no more in company.”
St. John quirked an eyebrow and turned to bow in his wife’s direction.
“Please forgive me, my dear. Miss Bell. We shall see what this delicate matter involves. Come, Roger. Let us repair to the study.”
Roger followed St. John out the door, and they made their way to the study. Once inside, St. John turned with a furrowed brow.
“Whatever is the matter, Roger? I feel that was most impolite to Mary and Miss Bell.”
Roger’s throat burned. “May I have a drink?”
“Yes, of course. Pour me one as well.” St. John turned away. “Shall I sit? Your face tells me we shall be here for some time.”
“Yes, you should sit. My knees are weak and will only hold me for a short while longer. I will join you.”
With a shaking hand, he poured out two glasses of brandy before delivering one to St. John. He dropped down onto the chair opposite and tilted his glass back indecorously. St. John sipped his brandy and eyed him speculatively.
“Why do I think this is about Miss Hickstrom and her new scheme?”
Roger sputtered his drink and wiped at his mouth.
“Forgive me!” He shook his head vehemently, but his words belied the denial. “Yes, it is about Miss Hickstrom and her scheme.”
“I cannot imagine what has you in such a state, Roger. Miss Bell is the target here, not you. After all, you are not a baron.”
Roger set his glass down on a side table and reached into his jacket. Withdrawing the letter, he leaned over and handed it to St. John before retreating back to his seat.
St. John took the letter and set his brandy down. Roger gulped the rest of his drink while watching the earl read. As might be expected, St. John’s eyes widened, and his dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. He glanced at Roger, who shrugged his shoulders. At last St. John looked up.
“This is wonderful news, Roger! It is too bad the title does not come with property, but you are welcome to stay at the gatehouse until I can find a new estate agent.”
Roger reared back his head, hearing words he had not expected. “A new estate agent? What is this? No! I shall remain in my position!” He amended his words. “With your permission, of course.”
“Come now, man! You are nobility now. You have an income. You are no man’s estate agent!”
“St. John! What is this nonsense?” Even as long as Roger had known the earl, he had never spoken to him thus. But such was his state of mind that he spoke so brazenly.
“I beg your pardon?” St. John said, his look severe.
“Forgive me. But I wish to remain in your employ. I wish to continue to manage the estate as my father did. I wish to remain in the gatehouse. When I showed you the letter, I never imagined I might lose my livelihood, only my freedom!”
“Your freedom?” St. John looked down at the letter again. “Ah! Your freedom! You are a baron now, the baron in Miss Hickstrom’s fairy tale. Miss Bell’s baron, the one who will find happiness.” A slow smile curved over St. John’s face.
“No!” Roger barked. “No. I have no intention of marrying. I do not know how this title came about or whether Miss Hickstrom effected this inheritance in some magical way, but it is much too coincidental, and I will not be bound by the dictates of a fairy tale...or a fairy godmother.”
St. John tilted his head and regarded the letter once again before looking up. “What punishment does Hickstrom have in mind for you if you do not comply with her plans? Was she specific?”
“No, she was not. She may incarcerate me in the gatehouse, or she may doom me to a lifetime of bachelordom. It matters not to me. I will not marry Miss Bell.”
“I see little danger of that, my old friend,” St. John said in a dry voice. “Miss Bell too has no intention of marrying and extracted a promise from Hickstrom that she would send her back in two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Roger rasped. “So long? Does she not wish to return now? You know how these twenty-first century women are! Always anxious to return to the comforts of their time.”
St. John’s smile vanished, and Roger understood his error.
“Yet they choose to remain here...with us, forsaking those very comforts,” St. John said in a husky voice.
“Yes, yes, of course. I apologize. It is just that I am overwrought. I spoke out of turn.”
“We must appear as bumpkins to them, yet they give up everything they know to stay,” St. John continued, almost as if to himself. “Did you know that the infant mortality rate is greatly reduced where Mary and Rachel came from? That the life spans appear to be eighty years, even more? That they use machines for transportation, have heated water piped into their homes, have flown to the moon and back? To the moon!” St. John shook his head.
“Yes indeed, we must seem very backward to them. Yet they choose to stay...for love.”
Roger pressed his lips together. He and St. John had never differed to any great degree, but he could not join the earl in his immersion into romanticism. He understood that St. John loved Mary, and that was all well and good for St. John, but that sort of sentiment was not for him. Not at all. He had come very close to loving Miss Lee, but that had been a foolish notion on his part. He said nothing in response to St. John’s comments.
St. John dropped his eyes to the letter once again before looking up. He rose and executed a graceful bow.
“Well, Lord Rowe, may I offer you my felicitations?”
Roger drew in a sharp breath and jumped from his seat, returning the bow awkwardly. “I cannot—” He had no words.
St. John approached and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can,” he said with a broad smile. “It is simply a title. It does not change the man.”
“I do not wish to be a baron,” Roger ground out.
“Why ever not, man?”
Roger shook his head, contemplating the question. “This situation with Miss Hickstrom.”
St. John chuckled. “But that is most likely only a temporary complication. Long after Miss Bell has returned to the twenty-first century, you will still be a baron. Enjoy your good fortune!”
“Are you certain she means to return?”
“She seemed quite adamant about it.”
Roger drew in a deep breath, seeking relief in St. John’s words.
“But then so were Mary and Rachel,” he added.
Roger slumped back onto his chair.
“I do not wish to marry,” he said in a piteous voice.
St. John returned to his seat, albeit in a less abject manner. “So you have said.”