Every additional kindness shook out the wings of dreams long kept dormant.
She smiled up into the swirling layers of snow. And now, a burst of winter into the early November evening only added to the magic blooming around her, the hope burgeoning inside. Stella gazed into the sky as the crystalized wisps twirled around her, tickling her cheeks with their cool kisses. Her father had danced with her once in a flurry storm like this, not too far from where she stood. He’d pulled her into the gazebo-like tea house, with its open limestone walls framing the horizon of mountains, and shown her how to waltz. With a laugh, she spun around, eyes closed, embracing the memory and wonder of snowfall, clinging to the magic mingled with grief. He would have wanted her to dream again.
Voices from the library terrace paused her dance and pulled her attention back toward the house. Silhouettes of a dozen guests poured through the library doors onto the terrace, no doubt taking in the snowy beauty. Stella slipped behind one of the stone pillars of the tea house, keeping out of the light from the lantern-lit way.
She’d succeeded in staying away from the house during daylight hours the day before, sneaking in through the stables once all the guests sat down for dinner, and she’d only caught sight of Lorraine once—from the library balcony. The raven-haired beauty knew how to charm the room and how to play the social game with much more finesse than Stella ever wanted to lay claim to. Oh, why had Lorraine felt the need to lie about what happened with Mr. Collins? Family allegiance?
But why would Stella expect anything else? She wasn’t family. Not even a friend, now that she thought about it. No, she’d only been a companion, one step above a servant and certainly not of the same social status as the Collinses. Though, their family’s prestige had been on the decline for years due to Mr. Collins’s poor social and business choices, or so the rumors went. Stella had been happy to leave their home to go to art school. Why had she returned to nurse Lorraine through scarlet fever? Why had she risked her reputation on a family who clearly didn’t care for her at all?
A familiar laugh sliced through the white-wisped night, inciting a sharper chill than the snow and confirming Lorraine’s presence among the shadowy crowd. Dinner wouldn’t be called for at least another half hour, and it was unlikely Stella could make it around the front of the house without being noticed in the lanternlight.
But she couldn’t very well stay in the tea house, either. The guests might walk to it at any moment.
Keeping near the wall and away from the lantern’s glow, Stella took the steps leading away from the house.
She could find anonymity and shelter inside the conservatory.
As quietly as the graceful flurries alighting all around her, she followed the path down the hillside and into the massive walled garden that ended where the lit conservatory kept watch over the flowers all around. Snow twirled in the faint light like loosed daffodils as she stepped beneath the arched trellises that covered the path to the front doors of the conservatory.
“Faye? Is that you?”
Stella spun around to see a figure standing in the shadow near the gardener’s cottage. Faye? No one called her that except…
James stepped into the lanternlight, his coat pulled up around his neck and derby close over his ears. He reminded Stella of a chimney sweep she’d seen once on the streets of Boston. “What are you doing here tonight?”
He gestured with his head toward the cottage. “I’m having dinner with the undergardener, Mr. Leeds.” He shifted a few steps closer, hands in pockets and brow raised in a teasing tilt. “I doubt that’s your reason, unless all my talk has inspired your obsession for plants too.”
“I love looking at plants.” She glanced up at the silhouette of the castle-like house on the hill, sorting through a way to explain. “Don’t you think it’s a beautiful night for a stroll?”
“Not alone.” He shifted a step closer, studying her. “Especially for a lady.” He offered his arm. “But now that you have an escort, I think a stroll sounds like an excellent idea. It will be my first walk with a lady through the snowy gardens at night.”
She grinned and took his proffered arm. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be predictable.”
“You, my fairy-maid, are anything but predictable.”
His fairy-maid? She caught her smile between her teeth and nestled close to his side as they followed the snow-dusted pavement walkway. The quiet that only snow could offer paired with the warmth of James’s closeness, softening the chill in the air.
“And why are you meeting with Mr. Leeds?”
He narrowed his eyes but didn’t push the point that she hadn’t answered his question about why she was in the garden alone. That was very gentlemanly of him. “Plant talk, I hope. Mr. Leeds has teased me with half a dozen conversations that were much too short for my liking.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who enjoys learning about plants and trees as much as you.” She laughed at his mock look of surprise. “Is that what brought you to Biltmore? Your love of plants?”
“Yes, and my need to rescue an orchard.”
Her breath burst out in a puff of cloud. “Rescue an orchard?”
“Well, that’s how it started. I’m overseeing the development of some orchards, but there was an existing one on the land I’m working, so I made a plan to rescue it, despite everyone’s belief it was too far gone to save.”
“It all sounds very heroic.”
His grin slipped wide, but he kept his face forward. “Nothing like saving a child’s life.”
“No more talk of that, James. I was glad to have helped. End of story.”
“Actually, I’ll never forget it, because it’s the way I met you.” He uttered the words so softly that she barely heard, but the tenderness in his voice hitched her steps. He cared about her.
She’d wondered—hoped—ever since he took her hand by the pond to offer his handkerchief. The way he’d touched her fingers, sought her gaze, lingered with his hand on hers.
And she wanted his care, to stay arm-in-arm with him, talking of orchards in the middle of the swirling fairy-snow for as long as possible. Was this what her father and mother had known? This kinship? This easy conversation? This…this feeling of belong?
They rounded the corner of the garden. “You’re bound to make a real business of it. I’m sure your family is proud of you.”
He sighed and followed her focus to the massive chateau, nearer on this side of the garden. “Well, I think my father would prefer I pursue something grander than orchards and bushes, but there’s something special about creating things from your own hands. And I prefer the outdoors. Always have.” He reached out as if to catch a flurry. “I suppose it’s like your art—seeing the benefits of your own creativity.” His grin spread. “Last fall I took my first apples from some of my trees. Not a lot of trees yet, but they were mine, and I was so proud that I learned to make apple pie.”
Stella’s laugh burst out before she could stop it. “You’re joshin’ me!” Oh goodness, her granny’s speech was already rubbing off on her.
“I’m not joshin’ you.” He exaggerated the word, leaning close until her cheeks warmed beneath the cool evening air. “However, I won’t comment on the quality of the pie except to say that I’ve gotten better with practice.”
“So that’s your dream, is it? To live with your orchard, enjoy the outdoors, and bake pies?”
His grin flashed, bringing out a little dent in his chin. “You mean it doesn’t sound fashionable enough for you?”
Her smile faded as their gazes held. He was simply one of the best men she’d ever met. “I think it sounds lovely.” His nearness and the tender turn of his expression dispelled the cold into a mesmerizing blanket of mental fog. She looked away, taking in the garden from their vantage point near the conservatory. “You know, I spent so much of my childhood within this garden, it was almost like a second home.”
Her attention rose to the estate and the lights flickering in its distant
windows. She’d hoped Asheville would be far enough away from the rumors to free her, but they’d followed her, haunting her opportunity to start over, to disappear. Surely God saw the injustice. What way was He making? What steps did she need to take?
“You grew up here?”
James’s question brought her thoughts back to the present. “My father worked in these gardens for as long as I can remember.” She reached out to touch a barren oak as they passed. “He shared your passion for growing trees and rescuing broken things.”
Quiet whispered between them as they made a second turn along the garden path. The “wind snow,” as her granny called it, continued to flutter about in a magical dance, glistening in the faint lanternlight.
“Faye.”
Each time he used her middle name she cringed. What would her real name sound like on his lips? How would he respond if he learned the truth about her profession? Her growing fame? Oh, she didn’t want to break this beautiful spell between them as two simple friends without tainted reputations and social discrepancies.
She paused and turned to him, but he gave her no time to speak.
“I do care about mending broken things.” His gaze roamed her face, offering her his singular attention, drawing her hope, her heart deeper into his hold. “And I see hurt in your eyes. Hear it in your voice. What’s troubling you? Won’t you share it with this friend?”
The affection in his voice, the gentle request, nudged her wounded heart awake. She wanted him to know her. Everything. “Don’t you wish, sometimes, that there was a fairy godmother who could float into your world and fix the troubles? Make things right? Help prolong moments like this when everything feels almost perfect?”
With a hesitant hand, he reached up to brush back a strand of hair from her face, his fingers skimming the skin by her temple. “What is it?”
She closed her eyes, memorizing the tingle from his touch, praying the truth didn’t push James away. “I wish my father were still here. When I’m in this garden, I miss him more. He loved this place—the people, the ability to create beauty through his work.” Her throat tightened. “And I wish I could seek his guidance again.”
“Tell me about him?”
She tugged her coat closer around herself and stared up at him, his gentle question somehow releasing the binding on a story dear to Stella’s heart. A story few knew, but she wanted him to be one of the few.
“After my mother died, it was only Father and me. He was larger than life, filled with joy and humor and…goodness. So brave and kind.” She nodded toward him. “You remind me of him sometimes.”
James’s palm pressed against his chest. “I feel that compliment to my core.”
“But then he...he was gone when I was eleven. I suppose I should be proud that he died a hero, but he’d been a hero to me long before he was a hero to the couple he saved from drowning.”
“Drowning? What do you mean?”
“They’d come from Boston, visiting the Vanderbilts, and their carriage slid off the bridge into the river, which was already swollen from rain. We were walking home together, Da and I, and he…he rushed in to save them. He managed to pull them out before the current swept him away. I lost my bearings that day and have been trying to find them ever since.” Warm tears slipped down her cold cheeks, and she looked at her fisted hand wrapped around the strength of James’s arm. “It’s been a long time since…since I’ve shared that story, but…but I’m glad I shared it with you.”
They’d come to a complete stop in the shadows of the conservatory. James’s softening expression—the way his gaze stroked her face, her hair, her eyes—smoothed over her open wounds like fresh sunlight over the solemn beauty of the winter mountains. “It seems you got your courage from him.”
She looked down, attempting to stifle her sniffles. “My eye color too.”
James’s fingers tucked beneath her chin, bringing her attention back to his. “You…you have beautiful eyes.”
They stood at the edge of the walled garden her father had loved so much, snow swirling around them as if nudging them a little closer, and in the sweetness of James’s attention, Stella gave over her heart. All of it. As she’d never done before.
“In the short amount of time I’ve known you, I’ve become certain of three things.” His palm lingered on her cheek, warming her skin all the way to her stinging eyes. “You are intelligent, kind, and brave. You may doubt those truths, but they live, not only in your words, but your very actions.”
“James,” the whisper, so stolen by the tenderness of his touch, barely made a sound. She had to tell him.
“I like it when you say my name, like you know me. And you do.” His grin perched crooked. “My dear Faye, I have no doubt you are well-equipped to face whatever haunts those eyes of yours but know this: I’m more than willing to help you find your bearings again, to let you know you’re not alone anymore.” He trailed his thumb down her skin until it paused at the corner of her lips. “Because, I—”
She held her breath as he reached for her hand, his face moving closer.
“I—” His eyes shot wide, and he looked down at their braided fingers. “Your hands are ice.” He slid his palm from her cheek and reached for her other hand, rubbing the pair between his own gloved ones.
His sudden shift shook her from the glorious haze his closeness had wrapped around her.
“What am I thinking, keeping you out in the cold for so long?”
“I’m fine. Really.” And she wanted him to finish his sentence, to perhaps even…kiss her? Her mind stumbled on the thought as her attention dropped to his lips. According to fairytales, kisses proved as magical as any mirror, fairy godmother, or golden harp.
“You need to get back to the house.” His gaze rose but snagged on her lips, as though he had a certain sort of magic in mind too. He shook his head and pulled off his gloves, fitting them onto her hands. “What sort of friend am I to keep you here?”
“No, James.” She tried to still his movements. “You already loaned me an umbrella and handkerchief. I can’t take your gloves as well.”
“That’s all right.” He clasped his hands around her fingers and grinned. “If I keep loaning you things, you’ll have to keep finding me again to return them.” He winked, dropping his gaze to her lips again long enough to incite a welcome tingle. “So it means I’ll get to keep seeing you.”
The door to the gardener’s cottage opened, and the sturdy silhouette of Mr. Leeds took shape within the frame. James pulled Stella into the shadows of the garden wall.
“I’d better go so that Mr. Leeds won’t suspect an inappropriate rendezvous.”
No, adding a clandestine tryst with a servant to the current rumors wouldn’t help her cause at all.
“But promise me you’ll go directly to the house when we part.” He squeezed her hands, hesitating. “So you’ll be safe and warm.”
“I promise.”
He made to leave, then stopped, his grin tilting up on one side. “And I expect you to return those gloves very soon.”
James entered the front doors of Cravenwood just as the dinner bell gonged its welcome through the massive two-story entry surrounded by white columns of his stepmother’s design. Without contest, the house celebrated wealth and a love for openness, but the vastness of the place always left James ready to return to the snug, cozy surroundings of Orchard House. The only rooms he enjoyed spending much time in here were Alice’s, with all of her toys and an excellent prospect of the falls, and the second floor sitting room with its dark furnishings, massive fireplace, and wall of windows. It was also the one room where Father displayed a painting of his mother—small and situated on an elegant table his mother had designed.
James knew his father did it for James’s sake—and for his brothers’.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d make an appearance.” His stepmother took him into her arms and kept her words near his ear. “You were supposed to be here three hours ago to meet our gue
sts.”
He gave her a squeeze and met her whisper for whisper. “I’ll try to make up for lost time with my expert charm.”
“Expert charm indeed.” She pulled back and shot him a glare. “These are eligible young ladies from solid families who deserve your punctuality as well as your…expert charm. You’ll never find a quality wife on a vagabond’s schedule.”
With a long look, his stepmother led the way through their main sitting room into the dining hall. Not quite as expansive as at Biltmore, but certainly in competition. His stepmother’s heated reprimand bounced off James’s grin without a scorch. He was still happily thinking of snow flurries and a golden-eyed beauty.
There was no denying the mutual interest after that, so despite his stepmother’s expert attempts at matchmaking, James was certain to disappoint her…again. He had his sights set on a fairy-maid.
He should probably find out her last name. Most hopeful grooms knew their bride’s full name.
A small party of three women and four men stood outside the dining hall, readied for entry. His brothers were already there along with their father and Mr. Dawson, the patriarch of the Dawson family, who’d been his stepmother’s friends for decades. James’s eldest brother, Thomas, kept his usual distance from the crowd, polite but certainly not eliciting conversation. Luke made up the difference. Ever a crowd favorite, James’s younger brother didn’t hold his rather scandalous reputation among women for nothing. Looks, charm, but a moral compass with the tendency to sway between north and south. He’d positioned himself between Mrs. Dawson and her daughter, Laura, but who was the new young lady?
“Look who decided to find his way home,” his stepmother announced as they approached.
James slid into his most welcome smile.
“So glad you could join us, James.” Father gestured toward the guests. “You remember the Dawsons.”
James nodded his acknowledgement. “So good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Dawson. Miss Dawson. How was your recent trip to Europe?”
“Europe. A costly affair.” Mr. Dawson patted his chest. “But it made my girls happy, so what can I say?”
Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas Page 7