Once Upon a Time

by Marylyle Rogers

  "I've already resolved to refuse Orville's suit," Amy promptly said. "But why do you feel so strongly about my lone suitor?"

  Color darkened Garnet's cheeks. He was determined to see that his sister not be forced to pay the price for his crime but, unable to fully explain, he could only grimly respond, "Because your happiness is important to me, and because I know exactly what kind of bounder Orville Bennett is. He'd make you miserable."

  A slight scowl creased Amy's brow. Though agreeing that she'd never be happy with the pompous Orville, surely the term bounder was too extreme? Garnet's claim reminded her of Comlan's warning and was likely as inaccurate. The former could be ascribed to brotherly concern but the latter?

  Garnet was alarmed by Amy's frown. Anxious to avoid questions impossible to safely answer, he made so hasty an exit that his bemused sister was left standing in the center of the withdrawing room he shared with his wife.

  Amy shook her head to free it of the confusion left by her brother's odd actions and took a step forward to follow him out. Again a quiet voice intervened.

  "Don't go," Lovey pleaded. "I'm miserable and you're the only person I can talk with."

  Seeing the sparkle of unshed tears in her friend's eyes, Amy rushed to the open door connecting Lovey's boudoir to this room and wrapped the now softly weeping woman in comforting arms.

  "What has you so upset?" Amy gently asked once the flow of tears slowed to a trickle.

  "You heard Garnet," a bewildered Lovey softly wailed. "You heard what he said."

  "I heard Garnet urging me not to wed Orville." Amy nodded and then a teasing twinkle appeared in gray eyes. "Knowing how little I think of the man, surely I've not dashed your hopes by rejecting him?"

  Despite damp cheeks Lovey responded with a tremulous smile.

  "No, I thought not." Although the amusement in Amy's expression faded, warm compassion remained. "But what else did Garnet say? Which of his words have worked you into such a state of distress?"

  "Didn't you understand?" Lovey mournfully asked while a fresh bout of tears threatened to overbrim. "Surely it's clear he's so unhappy in our marriage that he doesn't want you to be caught in the same snare."

  An immediate burst of laughter broke from Amy's throat—startling both Lovey and herself. Yet, it instantly occurred to her how much more fitting it would've been coming from the purposefully contrary Comlan.

  Then Amy saw the anguish her reaction had added to Lovey's already pained gaze and remorse rushed an explanation to her lips.

  "You're being a silly goose!" Amy gave the other woman another quick hug before leaning back to say, "If anything, it's because Garnet is so happy in his marriage that he hates to see me trapped in an unhappy alliance."

  "Do you think so?" Lovey pleaded for reassurance, afraid to believe what she so fervently wished was true. "Honestly?"

  Amy answered with the promptness of conviction. "I'm certain of it."

  "But if he's happy with me—" Tears too close to the surface began to flow again. "What's upsetting my even-tempered Garnet so deeply that he's becoming short-tempered?" Lovey slowly shook her head. "I know it must be due to more than how very little he eats or how much sleep he loses while pacing all night. In fact, I'm certain that whatever is troubling him is what robs him of sleep and appetite."

  Having no answer to this question, Amy could only murmur indistinct words of comfort while struggling with guilt for being so preoccupied with her own concerns that she hadn't realized her brother was troubled.

  Chapter 8

  "A letter for you, Miss Amethyst," announced an impeccable butler of advanced, age.

  Polite conversation between the stylish ladies seated in a gracious drawing room was abruptly stilled by this highly unusual interruption. Their attention shifted in a single motion to the erect figure standing in an open doorway.

  "Thank you, Bingley." Tight-lipped and holding a highly polished teapot poised above one delicate cup; Lady Cornelia sent her butler a meaningful stare. "Leave it on the credenza, if you please."

  The afternoon post, like the morning post, was either left in a neat pile on a small table near the entry or handed directly to Lady Cornelia. But its delivery never interrupted tea, certainly not while company was present. Even less would any part of it be given first to a daughter of the house.

  As if he hadn't heard, the elderly servant extended his silver salver toward Amy. On it rested a single creamy envelope.

  Amy reached for the letter, torn between an impish urge to wink conspiratorially at Bingley and sympathy for the chagrin her mother was experiencing on a day when already she'd had to deal with a willful daughter. This veiled feud between Lady Cornelia and their butler had been going on for as long as Amy could remember. As a child she'd wondered how their otherwise assiduously correct servant dared brave his mistress's ire in ways even she wouldn't dare. Eventually she'd found an answer in the simple fact that Bingley's family had served the Danton family for generations.

  Bingley's lengthy alliance with the viscounts of Wyfirth meant his position was secure enough for him to risk subtly pricking at her mother's patronizing attitude. Indeed, since the old lord's day when the rector's daughter first entered Wyfirth Grange as wife to its heir, anyone living near would be quick to admit that their lady was more than a wee bit haughty. And they'd just as certainly take glee in Bingley's challenge to Lady Cornelia's pride of position.

  "It was posted in Ireland," Amy softly stated. Uncomfortably aware that everyone was watching, she concentrated on spidery letters forming the return address. "From Miss Patience."

  "Ah, yes, dear Miss Patience." Lady Cornelia hastily followed the welcome lead, anxious to divert attention from a servant's intentional misstep. Close acquaintances might understand Bingley's odd habits but… As hostess to one duchess, the wife of an earl, and an additional two of Society's most well regarded matrons, Cornelia deemed it imperative that with the lightest of touches she gloss over the error which had seen a letter delivered directly into her daughter's hand.

  "Am I right in recalling her as an elderly, talkative woman?" Not waiting for an answer, Lady Cornelia made a show of casually adding, "Charmingly vague, I believe—not unlike her dear friend, your great-aunt Daphenia."

  Quelling the smile tempted by her mother's overuse of a favorite term, dear, Amy tried to concentrate on deciphering scrawled words. Toward that goal, she again had reason to appreciate Lovey's talent for social small talk. Her friend smoothly stepped into the conversation and assisted the hostess of Wyfirth House in entertaining important visitors while Amy quickly scanned the rambling letter— stopping to reread several unpleasant points.

  "I have most unsettling news of odd events which your aunt Daffy refuses to take seriously… a rough-looking Englishman asking strange questions of Daffy's gardener, Mr. Meaghan… if he'd experience in digging secret vaults… inordinately interested in you and your activities…"

  … Do wish you'd return to Ireland and convince Daffy to take sensible measures for her own safety…

  … Asides, my darling grandson, Paddy, would love to see you again…

  Although bright sunlight poured through the drawing room's long windows, clouds of anxiety darkened gray eyes as Amy refolded the letter. How could she have allowed personal matters—even one as exceptional as a mocking, unpredictable other-worldly king—to make her forget the broken shutters of her great-aunt's cottage and all that damage portended?

  Here in this letter was undeniable proof that the elderly woman's eccentric insistence on keeping her fortune near had lured greedy knaves to threaten the peaceful Irish countryside. That prospect raised the specter of her great-aunt in physical danger, and Amy fervently wished she could immediately rush to her much loved relative's side.

  Memories of the warning Comlan had offered the previous day repeated in Amy's thoughts: a threat to someone you love which each day grows more ominous. Daffy!

  Guilt added yet another layer to Amy's distress. The unbelieva
ble suggestion of Orville as a danger had distracted her from another infinitely more important. Yet, though certain Comlan overestimated her pompous suitor's abilities, she accepted as unquestioned fact Comlan's mastery of the mystical abilities of his kind. He clearly knew already what she'd just learned from Patience. Yes, he was aware of that and likely a great deal more. She must talk with him… a hopeless wish.

  Feeling powerless, Amy nearly moaned. Not only was she forbidden to openly talk with the Irish lord, but after her previous day's escapade she'd be carefully guarded to thwart any stealthy attempt at personal contact. It was frustrating to accept a full week's wait for the next opportunity to see Comlan at the Great Exhibition's opening. Amy took small consolation in the fact that at least she'd have time to devise some method for eluding her mother's eagle eye and securing private words with the Lord of Doncaully.

  The same sun casting light on the formal group sharing tea and idle conversation in a fine London town house, sent bright rays through the small diamond panes of a tiny Irish cottage's mullioned window.

  "Could'a knocked me oer with a feather, I tell you." Despite the number of years weighing heavily on her stooped back, Patience stomped from one side of her cramped parlor to the other. "Says Daffy as how she wants her Amy to wed with an Irish lord. Her next-door neighbor, if you please." She turned to glare at her companion. "As if I don't know every livin' soul in this county and no Lord of Doncaully amongst them!"

  Patrick O'Leary casually brushed a lock of bright red hair from his brow and grinned at his great-grandmother. He was amused by his granny's disgust over a plan able to effectively thwart their scheme—but then he found perverse humor in almost everything.

  "But faith be, me Paddy-boy, though I sent a letter meant to draw Amy back, 'tis easy seen we must do more to see she returns." Patience sent the handsome young man a meaningful look. "Once done 'tis certain I am that me darlin' boy will charm the maid into givin' all we seek and likely more. For well 'tis known what a rogue you are with the women."

  "Ah, but, Granny—" Patrick lifted hands palm-out and motioned as if to hold back her words, "There's a power of difference betwixt seducing either faithless wives or silly milkmaids and wooing a fine lady."

  "Don't be a gammonin' me." Patience wagged an admonishing finger at the teasing man. " 'Tis easy seen you'll be havin' no difficulty once given the chance to work your wiles."

  Paddy grinned again. His loving granny's view was a mite prejudiced though he liked to think nearer to truth than lie. "Be it powerful pleased I am to give that sweet challenge me best effort." Smile fading to a rueful grimace, he added a serious caution. "But to what good use if the prize is gone afore we've the right to claim it ours?"

  "Speak you of lurkin' strangers?" The elderly woman stood squarely facing her seated grandson with gnarled fists firmly planted on bony hips. "Thieves bent on stealin' what is no' theirs?"

  Patrick nodded and with that motion sunlight burned over bright red hair in a fine counterpoint to the dark expression of solemnity so rare to his face.

  "Aye, we must do our all to guard against their tricks… yet at the same time 'tis imperative we lose no moment in findin' the lure able to induce Amy's hasty return to Eire."

  By the fierce determination in his granny's eyes, Paddy knew better than to even mention further possible pitfalls. Great-grandmother Patience was a tiny, fragile woman and to all appearances of the sweetest nature. But he knew what strong will, what single-mindedness she harbored in that frail form.

  More importantly, he had learned long ago the utter futility in attempting to reject any plans she made. And why should he when, if successful, it would see the man of humble origins he was become a wealthy man wed to a wellborn lady.

  Chapter 9

  As the appointed hour neared, Hyde Park teemed with throngs of people from every level of society and all remarkably well-behaved. These gathered masses waited with good-natured patience for the royal party to make its way through streets lined with crowds of onlookers from palace to park. Clouds that earlier darkened this Mayday morning had scattered to leave a sky more blue than gray. It was as if even the heavens were lending approval to the Queen's much anticipated opening of her Great Exhibition.

  Though having little choice but to remain obediently positioned between her parents, Amy inwardly chaffed against unwelcome restraints while the man she was anxious to speak with stood just beyond her stern-faced father.

  "The papers say the pavilion boasts one million square feet of glass!" Lord Farley ponderously announced, turning to glance toward their day's host. "Unbelievable, heh?"

  "Indeed," Comlan agreed. "Truly a Crystal Palace." He used the name given by the press, a sardonic smile curling his lips while gazing not at the questioner but at that man's daughter who looked particularly fetching in a lilac gown and bonnet trimmed with white silk roses.

  Amy felt the brush of an emerald gaze sliding over her. Though her goal was to speak with him, this was not the time, not while her parents were carefully watching. Fearing she'd betray her fascination with him, she focused on a safe and interesting subject for study, joining the multitude to gaze in awe at the pavilion glittering under bright sunlight. Delicate and airy for all its vast size, the giant glass house seemed to effortlessly soar into an almost cloudless sky.

  An unwelcome voice startled Amy from her willful preoccupation.

  "Isn't it just too marvelous, Comlan?" Lady Isobel gushed, determined to put a quick end to Amy's feeble challenge. "Like some magical fairy palace."

  Accustomed to receiving unstinting admiration from every male who came anywhere near, Lady Isobel was decidedly less than pleased by how often the lucky man she'd honored with her company gazed at the unfashionably dark Amethyst Danton.

  Amy's mind filled with remembered images of the far more amazing castle she'd visited in a dream, and she couldn't keep herself from peeking around her solemn father, curious to see the king of the Tuatha De Danann's reaction to Isobel's comparison.

  Hiding his impatience with both humankind's rigid conventions and the rules controlling his inter-action with them, Comlan responded to a discreet, mist-gray gaze with a faint, mocking smile. Amy wouldn't know its source was as much self-contempt for his inappropriate response to her as amusement over Isobel's inaccurate analogy.

  The blond beauty clinging to the Irish lord's arm coyly batted her lashes while flashing smiles of studied allure. Her insincere posturing was distasteful to one with Comlan's acute senses and a telling contrast to Amy's uncontrived allure.

  It was just as well that his instincts were curbed by the difficulties posed by the intersection of two very different worlds. The winsome Amy had already fogged his view of this fact too often with her shy smiles but brave deeds—a paradox assuredly unintended and likely regretted yet appealing to him. Against the danger in that fact Comlan again reminded himself that, despite the brief explanation he'd given while she tarried in his realm, Amethyst knew too little of his kind to understand his nature—something an admirer of logic was likely to find distasteful. And this was a further warning to remember that the realities of her present and future were vastly different from his.

  Under the devastating man's intense green gaze, Amy's creamy skin took on a faint crimson glow. Apparently inevitable but despised, the regrettable blush deepened under the weight of her mother's scowling disapproval.

  Figuratively trapped helplessly between two opposing forces, Amy fought to rid herself of both by staring beyond Comlan… only to directly meet the ice blue glare of the woman who had fastened herself to Comlan's side before the Wyfirth family arrived.

  Amy's glance skittered away. Not even the scorn she heaped on herself for acting a pigeon-heart was enough to force her attention back to that she-vulture. Instead, Amy was grateful to catch a glimpse of her Beattie standing decorously in the background, the epitome of a proper maid waiting to be of service.

  Next to a demure Beattie stood Comlan's manservant, the Irishma
n her friend had heatedly declared a rude oaf and was earnestly striving to ignore. And it was true that although Dooley also waited unobtrusively to serve, his bold demeanor was far from subservient.

  "Ah, at last." Orville puffed as he pushed his way through the crowd to join their party. "Pray forgive my tardiness. I had a devilishly difficult time getting through this mob. Feared I might fail to reach you before the thing's begun."

  Amy wished he had failed. She'd have welcomed the reprieve. At the Season's outset she'd sworn to fight Orville's pursuit every step of the way. It was a goal she still meant to keep but one proving more difficult than expected. Particularly now when beneath the scrutiny of her parents' eagle eyes she'd be permitted anywhere near Comlan only by accepting Orville's company.

  The clatter of carriage wheels demanded attention. A parade of nine royal carriages swept to a halt before the pavilion's entrance and waited for the Queen, her consort and two oldest children to descend from the last. Then while silver trumpets heralded the way, Queen Victoria led twenty-five thousand guests and season-ticket holders inside. As their monarch, resplendent in pink silk, passed along an impressive nave toward the wonderful fountain and blue-and-silver canopied throne at the far end, one organ after another rang out in homage.

  Feeling carried on that thundering wave of music, Amy flowed along with the crowd trailing in the queen's wake. It stopped when Prince Albert stepped forward to begin reading aloud a Report of the Royal Commissioners addressed to his royal wife.

  The prince's long, dry monologue and the pious prayer that followed efficiently tempered a growing excitement almost too much to bear. But anticipation rose again when the Hallelujah Chorus soared joyously and a long procession formed to follow the Queen on her tour of this amazing building.