Once Upon a Kiss

by Nora Roberts

  “I won’t deny it. If you choose to sell the place I’d be first in line to buy it.”

  “A property involved in legal action can’t be sold or traded until the matter is resolved. I couldn’t sell even if I wanted to!”

  “That’s only partially true,” he said. “You could sell it to me and end the dispute. I hope you’ll consider it.”

  “Oh, I will,” Kate said coolly. “Sometime between the return of the dinosaurs and the moment that hell freezes over.”

  She turned and stalked off up the meadow path.

  12

  MRS. BEAN TOOK one last look before letting herself out the front door. Frogsmere was clean as a wink, and she’d left a nice bit of scalloped potatoes and ham in the refrigerator for Miss Singleton.

  Satisfied that she’d done everything that needed doing, she picked up her carrier bag from the countertop and headed for the front door. She fumbled for her key, not noticing the fat little frog a step beyond the threshold.

  She didn’t see the frog hop through the open door just before she locked it up with her key either.

  It sat a moment, then bounded across the hall and and didn’t stop until it reached the concealed door to the study where Agatha Culpepper had written the Trixie Pickering books. The frog blinked three times and the door opened. Just a crack, but enough for the enterprising creature to fit through.

  Those great jeweled eyes gazed around the chamber. The frog had heard of this room and knew he’d find help here. He gave a happy croak: Kizzmee, kizzmee.

  A few short hops brought him to the quiet shadows beneath the trestle table, and he settled down to wait, ignoring the tasty fly dozing on the wall. He was thoroughly sick of flies. And gnats.

  What he really desperately wanted was a glass of ale and some stuffed pheasant—or at the very least, a good steak-and-kidney pie.

  Kate slammed the door behind her with such force that china knickknacks wobbled and clinked on their shelves.

  Jenny’s right. I am a romantic fool. How could I possibly have imagined anything deeper than a surface attraction to Michael Bellamy?

  She decided to spend the rest of the day indoors, blocking out the sounds of the bulldozer and backhoe chewing up the meadow.

  It’s high time I found those journals.

  They were hidden in plain sight, among the household ledgers in the desk. She opened one of the older-looking volumes and saw the date inscribed in ink that was brown and faded: 1603.

  It gave her a little jolt to think that another woman had held this same volume in her hands four hundred years ago in this very room.

  Kate closed the journal and carefully put it back. The only thing she knew about handling documents this old was that they were extremely fragile and that she’d need to seek expert advice before she went any further.

  The newer ones didn’t have the same potential problems, so she selected a fresh-looking volume and opened it to the title page. It was dated only a few months ago and had been written by Agatha Culpepper shortly before she died. She turned to the last entries:

  Tuesday. A cold wind off the sea, but very sunny.

  Mrs. Bean is making a pot of ox-tail soup and quantities of restorative tea, in hopes I will regain my old vigor. A futile attempt, but kindly meant. I am ready and have no reservations about going on to the next waystop on my immortal journey, only a very great curiosity to see what mysteries lie beyond.

  Wednesday. Rain.

  Mr. Plunkett down from London this morning to finalize papers. A visit from Sir Michael Bellamy. He is adamant about the terms of our agreement. It must be his way, he says, or he will not sign the papers. After a long discussion, which became at times rather heated, everything is settled between us. I am sure Honoria would agree that this is for the best.

  Kate’s heart sank. Was she referring to the sale of her acreage? She couldn’t tell, and realized she was in no mood to read about it. As she started to close the journal, her own name leapt out at her from the page opposite.

  Friday. Cloudy and colder.

  Another delightful letter from Kate Singleton in America. How I envy her the opportunities available to young women nowadays. I must make a note to answer the letter and let her know what I have done regarding Frogsmere. Also I must remember to tell her about The People Under the Hill. Things are coming along well after much work. I believe that Lady Eugenia’s role will have to be greatly enlarged in order for it to end up as I have planned.

  Kate’s heart sped up. That must be the title of the new manuscript the elderly widow had been working on at the time of her death.

  The entries ended abruptly two pages later without mentioning either Kate or the People Under the Hill again. Kate decided to search for the manuscript in the little room where Agatha Culpepper had written the Trixie Pickering books.

  As she crossed the great hall, a thought struck Kate. Who owned the rights to the Trixie Pickering books? Were they part of the estate she’d inherited? There was no specific mention of them in the will. She saw she would have to start writing down all the questions she had for Mr. Plunkett to answer when he drove down from London.

  It didn’t take long to find the manuscript. It was in an embossed leather folder on the Welsh cupboard.

  “Not many pages,” she said, leafing through the handwritten document. Kate stifled her disappointment, sat down in the lone chair and began to read.

  It was a first draft, with words and phrases struck out here and there, and others inserted. Also a few indecipherable notes in the margins. Kate read the dedication. “To my sister, Honoria, who showed the courage of her convictions.”

  The People Under the Hill

  Constellations of diamonds studded the sapphire sky, twinkling like stars. The queen leaned against the balcony rail and smiled.

  She remembered stars.

  They were one of the few things she missed from the world Above.

  The lilting strains of a waltz wafted through the open ballroom door. The leaves of the crystal trees in the garden shimmered and tinkled in three-quarter time. The queen hummed along in spite of herself. Everyone in the kingdom was in the mood for romance.

  Everyone but the Crown Prince.

  The problem with her son was that he was too coddled and protected. His father had never allowed him so much as a glimpse of the world Above, which made it all the more alluring.

  Perhaps his father is afraid it will appeal too greatly to his human side, she thought, and that he won’t come back to us. He is wrong. Arthur may be spoiled and inexperienced, but he is deeply loyal. In the end, he will always do what is right.

  Everyone in the kingdom had, at one time or another, made their choice. Certainly she did not regret making hers.

  She turned as her husband approached. “I cannot find our son anywhere,” the king said.

  “There he is, my dear, sitting by the lake, staring at nothing in particular.”

  The king frowned. “He is supposed to be dancing with the guests! All the fairest maidens in the land are here, and he has not danced with any of them. I don’t know what has come over him.”

  “I think I do.” The queen’s pretty mouth curved upward. “He is very like you at the same age, you know. Our son is tired of having to meet everyone else’s expectations. And he is restless, as all young men are. He wants to see the world. The world Above.”

  “No! I forbid it!”

  She put a hand on her husband’s sleeve. “Every young man needs to sow a few oats before he settles down. Arthur has never had that opportunity. He has never smelled a real rose, or eaten bread hot from the oven. He has never known the warmth of the sun on his face or the cool kiss of the rain.

  “It’s dangerous Above,” the king said slowly.

  She saw the look on her husband’s face. He was afraid for Arthur, although she thought it was rather dear and silly of him to be so worried about his only son. Not that Above didn’t have its drawbacks.

  People fell ill.

&n
bsp; Grew old.

  Died.

  Soon there would be no one left of those she’d known in her own girlhood. But in the five hundred years since the kingdom was founded, not one member of the royal family had been lost during a pilgrimage to the other world. Except, she reminded herself with a shudder, for the one who was run over by the oxcart.

  “He must make his own choice,” she said. “We cannot do it for him. And he should see Above, just once before settling down.”

  “Do you miss the world Above, Honoria?”

  The queen touched her husband’s cheek. “I miss stars and summer nights and kittens. But I must admit that I like staying young and beautiful and never having to worry about eating too much chocolate.”

  The queen leaned her head against the king’s broad shoulder. “It’s high time that you had your father-son talk with Arthur. About his going Above. I believe it’s exactly what the boy needs. Just a little taste of adventure before he settles down. I am confident he will make the right decision.”

  “But, Honoria—surely it’s too soon. Why, he’s only a lad.”

  The queen laughed. “Oh, Edgar. You were exactly the same age when we met and fell in love.”

  The king thought a moment. “By Jove, you’re right. I’ll do it.” The king sighed. “I’ll talk to Arthur when the ball ends at dawn. He knows what must be done if he intends to go Above. But I must say I don’t think he’ll be very happy about being turned into a frog…”

  Kate was dismayed to find the next page blank. So were all the rest. Unless there was another copy of the manuscript floating around somewhere at Frogsmere, it appeared that it had never been completed.

  She didn’t know quite what to make of it. It was an odd little story, half Coming of Age and half Frog Prince. And curiously, it wasn’t written for young children like all the rest of the Trixie Pickering books.

  Despite her annoyance, Kate wanted to know the answer to that all-important question that kept people turning the page: What happens next?

  While she’d been reading, the sounds of the heavy equipment had faded into the background. Now, as she straightened the sheets of paper and slipped them back into the folder, the clank and roar came back with a vengeance.

  Kate hurried outside to see what the noise was about and stopped dead in her tracks.

  “The bastards!”

  They were uprooting a tree.

  And she didn’t care what Michael Bellamy claimed—that tree was on her property.

  13

  KATE HEARD THE car pull up as she was heading for the gardens. “Mr. Plunkett!” The very man she needed.

  She went around to the front and greeted him.

  “Country life must agree with you,” Mr. Plunkett said. “You’ve fresh roses in your cheeks since last we met.”

  “I’m afraid it’s anger that has my face glowing,” she told him. “At this very moment, Sir Michael Bellamy and a BBC archaeological crew are digging up Miss Culpepper’s garden and ripping out trees. You have to stop him!”

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear. I rather thought you would like Sir Michael. This will make everything so awkward.”

  Kate eyed him with growing suspicion. “He claims that he bought the property from Miss Culpepper before she died.”

  “That’s true. Up to a point. I am contending, on your behalf, that the sale should be set aside, since the check was never cashed. Unless,” he said hopefully, “you wish to accept the terms that were negotiated and complete the transfer of property.”

  “No. I want to keep the estate intact. I won’t sell off so much as a foot of it unless I’m forced to do so.” She folded her arms. “And I wouldn’t sell it to Sir Michael Bellamy even then.”

  She led him into the drawing room, with its fine view of the gardens. He smiled with approval at the vases of flowers on the mantelpiece and the roses in their fluted crystal bowl. “Charming, my dear Miss Singleton. Quite charming!”

  Kate offered refreshments, which he declined. “I lunched at a pub in the village. If you like we will get down to business.”

  She took the chair opposite him by the fireplace. “Let’s start with the unpleasant part and get it out of the way. How bad will the estate taxes be?”

  Mr. Plunkett cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the news is not good.” He named a sum that made Kate’s stomach bounce up into her chest before dropping like a lead weight.

  “I’m stunned,” she said at last. “I don’t have those kinds of funds available to me.” She grasped at other possibilities of raising money. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who owns the rights to the Trixie Pickering books?”

  “You do, Miss Singleton. In an equal partnership with Sir Michael Bellamy.”

  “Him again!” She knotted her fingers together. “He seems to have had a very close relationship with Miss Culpepper.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” The solictor’s voice was mild. “Sir Michael helped Miss Culpepper with her affairs after his return from Australia. Her health had been failing for some time, and she said on more than one occasion that she didn’t know how she would have managed her finances without him.”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “What was the sum he offered her for the property?”

  “One hundred pounds per acre.”

  Kate felt sick. It was an old story: a handsome and charming young man, an older woman in poor health needing assistance in managing her money—and a tidy bequest to the man in question when the old lady passed on.

  “Do you really think him capable of such a thing?” Mr. Plunkett said, watching her face intently.

  “No,” she said at last. “You’re right. I can’t see him purposefully setting out to turn things to his advantage. It was hers to dispose of as she pleased.”

  “Perhaps you might offer some of the antiques at auction. Items that perhaps you have no use for that would fetch a tidy sum.”

  “But wouldn’t I have to pay more taxes on the profit?”

  Mr. Plunkett considered her objection. He tented his hands. “By Jove, I believe I can find a way around part of the problem. You might set up a trust to maintain Frogsmere, and place the funds from the sale in the trust. That would enable you to keep the house up, yet the rate of taxation would be much lower. Shall I look into it?”

  “Yes, please.” Kate remembered the other matter she wanted to discuss. “I found a partial manuscript among Miss Culpepper’s journals. Does Sir Michael also share an interest in them?”

  “No. Her papers and unpublished manuscripts are yours exclusively.”

  That was encouraging. Kate was familiar enough with the Trixie Pickering style of writing to complete The People Under the Hill. She would need only notes or a plot outline to tell her how the story was to go. She intended to send out feelers to different publishers to find out how much interest there would be in a new Trixie Pickering story, and in the biography she proposed to write.

  Mr. Plunkett coughed his gravelly cough. “Would it be possible to see this manuscript?”

  “Of course. It’s in her study.” She led him across the hall and through the hidden door. “Welcome to the world of Trixie Pickering.”

  As she opened the door she saw a frog sitting squarely atop the pages. “Oh! How did you get in here?” She scooped the frog up and went to the casement window. “Out you go, pal.”

  The frog landed in a patch of goat’s beard and leapt away as if jet-propelled.

  Mr. Plunkett smiled. “No damage to the pages. He was just trying to read them, I suspect.”

  “You have quite a sense of humor.”

  “One has to, in my business.”

  Kate hesitated. “I’d like to talk to Sir Michael before I make any final decision on the property.”

  “That’s wise of you, Miss Singleton. I’ll await your directions.”

  When he was gone Kate went through the drawing-room doors into the summer garden. Alicia came up the path from the dig site, her red hair frizzing to a halo in the hea
t. “The fellow’s here to measure for the car park. I thought I’d better warn you.”

  “What car park?”

  “For the King’s Meadow Convalescent Center.” She frowned. “You did know that Sir Michael has sold the place, didn’t you?”

  Kate just shook her head. “I don’t believe you. He loves King’s Meadow!”

  “He can’t afford to keep it, with the death duties and all. That’s the only reason he let us near his place—for the fees. Quite stiff ones, I might add. He’s an excellent negotiator.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Kate mumbled.

  “This way,” Alicia went on, “he retains an interest in the property when it becomes a children’s rehabilitation center.”

  “I imagine he’ll make a tidy profit on it,” Kate said bitterly.

  The older woman looked surprised. “He’s not making a penny on it. In fact, he’s donating the property. Remarkably generous of him, when his investments are just beginning to pay off the debts his father incurred.”

  Kate stared at her. It didn’t make sense. “Thank you, Alicia. I’d invite you in, but…but I have to see Sir Michael on urgent business.”

  It was a quick walk across the meadows and through the fallow fields to King’s Meadow, but it gave Kate time for some heavy-duty thinking. The butler gave her shorts and tank top a look of disapproval, but ushered her into a small book-lined study. Michael looked up from a ledger but didn’t say anything when she was announced. Kate waited until Mansfield closed the door.

  “You don’t look happy to see me,” she said.

  “You caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting you.” He folded his arms and waited for her to explain the reason for her visit.

  “You’re not making this any easier for me.” Kate’s violet eyes met his. “Whatever contract you negotiated with Miss Culpepper was between the two of you. I won’t raise any road blocks regarding your purchase of the acreage.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I see.”