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

by Bess McBride

  “I wish to keep this ‘good fortune,’ as you call it, a secret from Miss Bell.”

  St. John retrieved his brandy and took a sip. “I will not hide this from Mary, and she will tell Miss Bell. I am afraid your news cannot remain a secret, Roger.”

  Roger heaved a sigh.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “Then I shall proceed with my earlier plan to collude with Miss Bell against Miss Hickstrom’s plans. If, as you say, she is as adamant against the notion of marriage as I, then we shall get on well together.”

  “Yes, I believe you might get on well together,” St. John said, his smile suspiciously resembling a smirk.

  “That is not what I meant, your lordship!” Roger remonstrated.

  “St. John,” the earl said. “We have yet to decide if you will continue on as estate agent. I cannot say that I approve, as we are both peers now.”

  Roger shook his head. “You are an earl. I am naught but a lowly baron.”

  “You quibble,” St. John said with a laugh.

  “I do not!” Roger said, laughter far from his mind.

  “Shall we inform the ladies, or do you wish me to do so in your absence?”

  Roger’s heart seemed to drop to his stomach. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

  “I shall accompany you,” he said.

  “Good man.” St. John rose.

  Roger followed him out of the library as if on leaden legs.

  The ladies looked up as St. John entered. Roger briefly contemplated fleeing from the house, but of course, he could not. He followed St. John in and moved to stand near the fireplace, locking his hands behind his back as he stared down at the carpet.

  “Uh-oh,” Mary said.

  Roger raised his eyes to see her observing him before turning to her husband, who had taken a seat opposite them.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not at all!” St. John replied, a smile creasing his cheeks. “It seems that our own estate manager, formerly Mr. Roger Phelps, has inherited a title. Allow me to introduce The Right Honorable The Lord Rowe, Thirteenth Baron Rowe.”

  Mary gasped, as did Miss Bell. Roger dropped his eyes to the carpet.

  “Really?” Mary finally breathed.

  Roger saw the hem of her skirt approach as she extended her hands. He allowed her to take his hands and shake them.

  “How did this happen?” she asked.

  Roger opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Helplessly, he looked over her shoulder to St. John. Mary turned to eye her husband, who waved the letter he still held.

  “It seems that Roger has inherited a previously unknown title through his mother’s line.”

  Mary swung back to him. “Roger, how wonderful!” Her smile faded. “Oh! But where is your estate? You’ll be leaving us, won’t you?”

  Roger, his throat constricted, shook his head and sent St. John another beseeching look.

  “Those decisions are not mine to discuss, Roger.”

  Roger avoided looking at Miss Bell and forced himself to speak.

  “It is my hope to stay on at Alvord Castle as the estate agent. The title does not come with property.”

  “Oh!” Mary said. She gave his hands a final shake. “Well, good! I hope you do stay on.” She returned to her seat.

  “My dear, it would be most unusual for a titled aristocrat to act as estate agent to an earl,” St. John said.

  “That is my wish,” Roger asserted. “I wish to remain at the gatehouse, as I always have.” He glanced quickly at Miss Bell, who eyed him with a stark white face.

  “Miss Bell, I understand the implications of this news as regards Miss Hickstrom and your predicament. I understand now that I was always intended to be your baron.” Roger regretted his last words when Miss Bell gasped.

  “My baron? Oh, no! Not my baron!”

  “No!” Roger amended hastily. “Not your baron. No, I misspoke. Of course. Not your baron. My wishes are unchanged. I have no desire to be wed! None at all!”

  “Well, I don’t either!” Miss Bell said, rising precipitously from the sofa. She turned several times, as if unsure of a direction.

  Mary reached for her hand and pulled her gently back down to the sofa.

  “Good!” Roger ground out.

  “Roger, some decorum, please,” St. John said.

  Roger’s cheeks burned. He bowed stiffly in Miss Bell’s direction. “Forgive me, Miss Bell. I am overcome.”

  “Well, so am I! Did Hickstrom do this? Did she give you a title somehow so you could become a baron so her little plan could work out?”

  “I cannot believe she effected such, Miss Bell,” St. John said with a broad smile. “Miss Hickstrom may have been privy to information, but I do not believe she would have been responsible for the demise of the Twelfth Baron Rowe.”

  “Oh!” Miss Bell murmured, her own cheeks rosy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone had passed away.”

  “Roger was not aware that he stood to inherit a title,” St. John explained. “He did not know the Twelfth Baron Rowe. I have never heard of the gentleman either.”

  Miss Bell raised a hand to her face as if to hide her blush, a move that even in the midst of his dismay, Roger found charming.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, directing her attention to Roger.

  “Not at all, Miss Bell. I did not know the former Lord Rowe, and I must admit that I too wondered if Miss Hickstrom had a hand in this matter.”

  Miss Bell turned to Mary.

  “I agreed to stay the two weeks, but that was when the baron was a non-person, someone we didn’t know. I think I should go.”

  Roger sighed inwardly. Yes, of course Miss Bell must go, as soon as possible.

  “Please do not feel you must leave early on my account, Miss Bell. Did we not earlier mutually agree to thwart Miss Hickstrom’s plans? That we now know she intended us for each other should change nothing. No wedding shall happen between us.”

  “Roger,” St. John murmured.

  “That’s okay,” Miss Bell said, turning to the earl. “I don’t think he’s being rude, and my feelings aren’t hurt in the least. He’s right. No wedding shall happen between us.”

  “Well, you two are the most unwedded pair I’ve ever seen, so let’s all relax,” Mary said with a chuckle. “To date, Hickstrom hasn’t exactly dragged anyone to the altar, so you’ve got that going for you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Upon returning to her bedroom, Clara sought out the closet that Mary had told her was the nineteenth-century version of a restroom. She managed her clothing with difficulty and returned to the bedroom to wash her face and hands.

  Mary had gone to check on the baby, and St. John and Roger had gone their separate ways. Freshened, Clara moved to the middle of the bedroom and looked toward the ceiling.

  “Hickstrom!” she called out. “Hickstrom, can you come?”

  Feeling foolish, she waited, unclear how the fairy godmother would appear...if she did.

  “Hickstrom! I know what happened! I don’t think I should stay now! Can you come?”

  Still, Hickstrom didn’t come.

  Clara looked toward the window and crossed over to it. She gazed down on the parkland. A movement in the distance caught her eye. Roger Phelps walked up the drive, probably headed toward the gatehouse.

  Walking seemed like a good idea—anything to work off the restless anxiety she just couldn’t shake. Clara left the room and hurried down the stairs. A footman opened the door for her.

  “Could you let Lady St. John know that I’ve gone for a walk if she asks?”

  “Yes, miss,” the young man said with a bow.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving past him and lifting her skirts to descend the stone steps. Once on the drive, she surveyed the parkland. To the left, a forest tempted her. To the right, meadows swept into the distance. Ahead, the drive led toward what she assumed was the gatehouse...and the gate.

  She wondered if she cou
ld sneak past Roger and leave the castle grounds. With no idea what the gatehouse even looked like or whether it guarded the entrance to the estate, she decided to find out. But if she happened to bump into Roger, that would be fine too. They really needed to put their heads together anyway to see if they could mutually convince Hickstrom to send her home quickly.

  Clara walked as speedily as she could in the little black slippers Mary had lent her. They weren’t very sturdy at all, and every small pebble in the drive ground into her feet. She fretted about the hem of the gown in the dirt and clutched a handful of material to keep it above her ankles.

  She’d never been in England before, never even been out of the United States, and she marveled in the softness of the climate as she walked. The air was comfortably cool and smelled sweetly of the thick emerald-green grass that lined the edges of the drive. Leaves in the nearby oak trees swayed in a gentle breeze, and the sun peeped through a thick, fluffy cloud cover.

  As anxious as she had been, Clara started to relax as she walked. Something about her surroundings calmed her, as if she was enfolded in a secure embrace. To date, England had exuded a certain charm—the delightful accents, the luxury of the castle, the warmth of the tea and at that moment, the softness of the countryside.

  She soon caught sight of a two-story stone building nestled among some trees. Impressive in its own right, she realized that was probably just the gatehouse, as she could see stone walls and an iron gate beyond.

  Clara slowed and, keeping her head forward, peeked at the gatehouse out of the corner of her eye. If Roger came out, she could pretend she was just on a walk, but she didn’t want him to see her ogling the place. That would give him the wrong impression.

  Hearing and seeing nothing, she pretended to saunter on toward the gate as nonchalantly as she could. She reached the gate, an imposing black iron thing. Clasping several of the bars, she pushed against it but had already seen the chain and padlock, which suggested that she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. With a frustrated tug of the lock, she turned to eye the gatehouse again, wondering if she dared ask Roger to let her out.

  As if he heard her silent question, the door opened, and Roger emerged onto the front steps. He stopped short when he saw her, then hurried down the stairs and over to her. Clara had the distinct impression that he hadn’t, in fact, seen her at the gate but had just been emerging from the gatehouse at the same time.

  “Miss Bell!” he said, striding to her side. “Where are you going? Does Lady Mary know where you are?”

  Clara noted the cute sandy lashes framing his surprised blue eyes.

  “I left word with the footman that I was taking a walk,” she said diffidently. “The gate is locked though.” She looked over her shoulder toward the gate. “Can you open it?”

  Roger followed her eyes.

  “I could, but I do not think that is a good idea, Miss Bell. I should have remembered that both Lady Mary and Lady Rachel thought they could walk about unaccompanied as well, but the ladies soon learned that is not how things are done in our time. You should be escorted when you venture out onto the property, and you must never leave the castle grounds unattended. It is most improper.”

  Clara’s back stiffened at the censure in his voice, the disapproval in his eyes. She breathed in and forced herself to relax, reminding herself that she and Roger needed to ally themselves against Hickstrom’s plans.

  “Okay,” she said as amicably as she could. “I just needed to get out and stretch my legs. But since you’re here, maybe we should discuss how best to approach Hickstrom. I did agree to stay the two weeks, but I think I’d like to return as soon as possible now. I’ve tried calling her. Can you? If she sees us together—united in our refusal to play her game—then she’ll have to let me go, let us go.”

  “I have tried calling upon the lady myself, Miss Bell, upon receipt of the letter and several times over the past few hours. I have been unsuccessful.”

  “Well, we could try calling her together.”

  “Together?” He looked skyward, as if to see the fairy godmother.

  “Yes, while we’re together.”

  “Simultaneously? In unison?” His eyes widened.

  Despite herself, Clara laughed out loud.

  “Well, I didn’t mean that we needed to sing a duet. You can call out to her, and I can call out to her. Like this!” She looked up. “Hickstrom! Can you please come and talk to us? Hickstrom?”

  Clara dropped her eyes to Roger’s face, his cheeks tinged with color.

  “Oh, come on, Roger. You said you’ve called out to her.”

  “Very well,” he said stiffly. He cleared his throat and looked skyward again.

  “Miss Hickstrom, would you be so kind as to make an appearance so that we may speak with you?”

  He lowered his eyes to Clara.

  “Well, that was certainly polite,” Clara said, chuckling again despite her anxieties.

  “Yes, of course. I am afraid you have seen me at my worst, Miss Bell. I pride myself on my manners.”

  She looked up again.

  “Hickstrom? Hello? Hickstrom! I’ve changed my mind!”

  “Ah! You succeeded, I believe,” Roger murmured.

  Clara followed his eyes. Hickstrom, resplendent in a golden gown with a train more suitable to a formal ball, strolled up the drive from the direction of the castle. Clara hurried toward her.

  “Hickstrom! Finally!”

  Hickstrom paused, raising a hand to pat her blue hair.

  “My dears, the pair of you are demanding a great deal of my time. I do have other charges who need me. How may I help?” She beamed. “Oh, may I say how pleased I am to see you together! This is progressing much more rapidly than even I could have hoped for.”

  “No!” Clara and Roger barked...in unison.

  They glanced at each other for a moment, and Roger nodded, signaling that Clara should speak.

  “No, Hickstrom. You misunderstand. Now that we know that Roger is the baron in your story, we know that you intended us to marry each other. But we don’t want to marry. Neither of us.”

  Hickstrom smiled patiently, as if to a child having a tantrum. Clara turned to Roger.

  “Tell her!”

  “I have told her, but I will say it again.” He directed his words to Hickstrom. “Madam, I do not know how I came to be the baron in your fairy tale, whether you effected that particular detail or not, but it changes nothing for me. I do not wish to marry.” He gave Clara a small bow. “And I mean no insult to Miss Bell. We neither of us wish to marry.”

  Hickstrom gave him her patient smile as well.

  Clara rushed in. “So, now I would like to go home, Hickstrom. I know I said I would stay two weeks, but that was when I thought you were trying to hook me up with some random vague baron that no one knew. I think the sooner I leave, the better it will be for all of us!”

  Hickstrom eyed the pair without speaking.

  “So what do you say?” Clara urged.

  “You did agree to two weeks, my dear,” the fairy godmother finally said with a remonstrative tsk.

  “Yes, I know I did, but I just don’t think I can do it.”

  “We agreed you might keep Mary company,” Hickstrom reminded her.

  Clara blew out a breath of frustrated air. “I know. I know. I hate to go back on my word.”

  “Then...do not, my dear.”

  Clara stared at Hickstrom.

  “Do you agree not to try to manipulate Roger and me any longer?”

  Hickstrom clamped a hand to her face and giggled. “Manipulate, is it?”

  “Well, that’s what you’re doing. We don’t want to get married.”

  “To each other?” the fairy godmother asked, her eyes crinkling with continued laughter.

  “Yes!” Roger and Clara echoed in unison. They looked at each other, and even Clara’s lips twitched.

  “Not to each other anyway,” she amended, her cheeks hot. “And I don’t want to get married at
all, honestly.”

  “Neither do I,” Roger said.

  “You are such a perfect match,” Hickstrom said. “Do you not see that?”

  “This isn’t a math equation, Hickstrom. Two negatives don’t make a positive. If I don’t want to get married and Roger doesn’t want to get married, that doesn’t mean we should get married!”

  “Ah!” the godmother replied. “Mathematics was never my strong suit.”

  “Then you agree to release us from whatever curse you have set upon us? You agree to return Miss Bell to the future?”

  “Miss Bell may return to the future in two weeks’ time if she does not wish to marry you. You, Lord Rowe, will marry someone whom you do not love, someone who makes you unhappy. I am so sorry. I wish it could be different, but I have little say in the matter.”

  Roger’s face blanched, and Clara gasped.

  “You can’t do that to him! Are you saying that if I don’t marry him, he’s doomed to marry someone who will make him miserable, that he still has to marry? Why would you do that?”

  “Well, I have no wish to make anyone unhappy, my dear. It is not I who will doom him to eternal unhappiness. It is you.”

  “Me?” Clara barked, jabbing her thumb toward her chest. She looked at Roger’s stricken eyes, and her heart went out to the poor guy. He seemed genuinely miserable.

  “Roger, she really can’t do this,” she said to reassure him. “She can’t make you marry.”

  “I believe Miss Hickstrom can do anything she wishes,” he said in a husky voice. He stared at the fairy godmother. “I have seen her powers.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Are you guys serious?” Clara said, stamping one foot. “There are no such things as fairy godmothers, and she really doesn’t have powers like that. It’s not possible!” She eyed the older woman. “No offense, Hickstrom, but this is just nonsense.”

  “And yet you stand here thousands of miles from your home and hundreds of years from your time,” Hickstrom pointed out.

  Clara blinked and swallowed hard. How could she have forgotten?

  “I can’t believe this. You really have the power to make him marry against his will? What do you do? Drag him to the altar by force?”

  “Please, Miss Bell, do not give her any notions. Suffice it to say that she can compel me.”