Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas Page 5

  Mr. Vanderbilt nodded, his mouth set in a welcome slant. James had always guessed Mr. Vanderbilt came from Italian descent, with his large, dark eyes and hair, and his perfectly manicured moustache.

  Laughter rang from across the room, where Mrs. Vanderbilt spoke with some of the other ladies. The mistress of the house, taller than all the other women, seemed to fill every inch of her height with charisma and generosity. What a complimentary pair they made. The quiet, reserved lord of a manor and his exuberant lady, yet by all accounts, perfectly matched in compassion and ingenuity.

  “Nature has a way of drawing us to it, doesn’t it?” Mr. Vanderbilt’s moustache twitched again. “I’ve always preferred the outdoors to the latest party, though”—he waved his glass toward the room— “they have benefits and joys of their own, especially in the colder months.”

  James nodded, glancing about the vast room of a dozen people, all in their finest dinner dress. James tugged at his bowtie, almost envious of his little sister’s quiet dinner with Collette in their room.

  “Will you be staying throughout the house party?” Mr. Vanderbilt took another drink from his glass, his eyes warm with welcome. “Our gardeners have enjoyed your ready attentions, from what I understand.”

  “They’ve been a great deal of help to me. I have twenty trees that ought to bear their first fruit this upcoming year, and all because of what I’ve learned from your men. I can’t wait to see what the grapevines will do.”

  “Grapevines?” Mr. Vanderbilt lowered his glass. “Do you mean to try your hand at a vineyard too?”

  “Father says I’m overzealous, but I feel like I’m doing exactly what I love best—growing things—and in the long run, like you’ve proven here at Biltmore, it can lead to its own revenue.”

  “With your vision and industry, I have no doubt it will.”

  James warmed beneath the encouragement missing from his father. Though James knew his father loved him, the Craven partriarch’s world revolved around business dealings and industries. But James had his own ideas for industry—one that would keep him close to home, one Mr. Vanderbilt understood: the making of a viable estate. “I’m afraid Alice and I will have to leave before the end of the house party because of the Masquerade. Father and Marilyn have asked for me to return to Cravenwood in plenty of time to assist with preparations.”

  “It’s your father’s first large party at Cravenwood, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. After two years of worrying over every carpet thread, the house finally meets stepmother’s standards, and if she has anything to say about it, the party will be memorialized throughout all of Craven history.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt released a slight chuckle. “Knowing your stepmother, I can only imagine the spectacle. My wife has mentioned her latest plans to get you and your older brother married off.”

  James’s attention zeroed in on the unassuming millionaire. “What have you heard?”

  “She was regaling Mrs. Vanderbilt and myself about her houseguests from Boston, who mean to arrive at Cravenwood in a few weeks under the guise of helping her with plans for the Masquerade. It seems that one of her long-time friends is bringing a young woman who is particularly marriageable.”

  “And I’m particularly uninterested, but that doesn’t seem to curb my stepmother’s negotiations of my future.”

  “I feel certain your best interests are at heart.”

  James sighed out the tension in his shoulders and ran a palm over his face. His stepmother held a dramatic and sometimes frivolous bent, but she wanted the best for her stepchildren. “Yes, I know. Those best intentions and all that…”

  “But as I’ve learned, the right choice is always worth the wait.” Mr. Vanderbilt’s gaze traveled across the room to his wife. “And may appear at the most unexpected of times.”

  Faye came to mind. Of course, she was never too far from his thoughts since he’d met her…at the most unexpected of times. Could something as solid and endearing as the Vanderbilts’ love come to him? No, James wasn’t the determined bachelor Mr. Vanderbilt had been labeled. Not yet, anyway. But he’d not sought out romance either. His grin tipped. Until now. And perhaps romance came in the form of a fairy.

  The small log cabin sat tucked within the folds of the forest as if a part of the brambles and branches. Stella breathed out a sigh as she approached the familiar sight. One thing remained the same over all the years of change: her granny’s cabin. Five miles from the closest main road, its wood-hewn walls and drooping roof reminded her of fairytales, of an unassuming place holding priceless treasures—in this case, memories of Stella’s mother, of evening stories around a fire, of a simpler, sweeter life that had disappeared when Stella’s father had died. And most precious of all, Stella’s last physical tie to her mother: her granny.

  The wood-hewn walls and drooping roof reminded her of fairytales – of an unassuming place holding a priceless treasure. In this case, his held Stella’s last physical tie to her mother. Her granny.

  The brisk morning air cooled Stella’s cheeks as she stepped from the forest and into the cabin’s clearing, a stream of smoke rising from the fieldstone chimney into the cloudless autumn sky. With a turn behind her, she took in the view her granny had known her whole life. Just above the tree line crested a layered sea of mountains unfolding one behind another to the edge of the heavens. The fog had been so low on her first visit to Granny’s after her return to Ashville that they’d obscured the mountains into a horizon of foamy mist, but today…Stella smiled. Today, those mountains she’d missed for over eight years welcomed her with their varied shades of blue bending into a painting only divine hands could fashion and pushing her worries far from this spot.

  Yes, coming back to her past had been long overdue.

  The porch steps gave off a warning creak as Stella neared the wooden front door. Like clockwork, Granny’s face appeared from behind a dark curtain in the window before Stella ever reached the door.

  “I ‘spected you’d find your way back up the mountainside,” Granny said as she swung open the door. Her ever-present apron covered a simple calico dress, and her wiry silver-and-auburn-spun hair sat pinned back into its usual bun, except for a few rebel strands loose about her face.

  “I told you I’d come today.” Stella gestured to the basket hooked over her arm. “I brought some surprises. Wren sent an apple cake and some jams.”

  A glint light her granny’s gray-blue eyes as she took the offering. “Ah, yer cousin ain’t forgot my favorite jam.” She waved for Stella to come deeper into the tiny house, filled with the same scents that always surrounded her mama—lavender and honey—and a touch of Granny’s own scent—her favorite delicacy, chestnuts—to round out the earthiness of the room.

  “Wren said she’d come see you as soon as she could, but her daddy’s shop is keeping her busy.”

  Granny sniffed and pinched her lips closed. “Copper Morin ain’t got no mind for business. He should’ve stayed with the furniture shop instead of takin’ on this venture, make no mistake. I ain’t liked it none from the start.” She wiggled her finger, her ‘r’s curling like the second-generation American-Irish woman she was. “Ah, why’d yer mother get all the sense and her brother the senselessness? God keep him.”

  Stella ignored her granny’s tirade about her firstborn, happy to have reconnected with her cousin Wren, his only child and now the one who kept her father from making too many business mistakes. Though, with Wren’s need to rescue her father from himself, she rarely had time to devote to her passion—taking Appalachian tales and weaving them into children’s stories. But Stella planned to encourage her cousin’s dream, just as Eloise Bertram had encouraged Stella’s.

  “Well, I’ve also brought you a new painting for your wall.” Stella drew a canvas from beneath her cloak and set it on the table in the center of the room. The sun’s brightness from the window paired with the lantern light to show off the golden glow of Stella’s landscape, displaying a sunrise over the mountains
and a little stone cottage peeking out in the bottom left corner from a lush green meadow.

  Granny’s chuckle broadened to show off a few of her missing teeth. “You remembered my parents’ old painting of their home in the Old Country, did you?” She raised the painting to the light, her face crinkling into a wreath of smiles. “Aye, it looks like the one we lost in the fire.”

  “That painting was my first look at art, and I’ve finally improved my skills enough to recreate it for you.”

  “Alainn.”

  Stella fished for the interpretation of the Gaelic response. Beautiful? “When I buy my own house, Granny, you can move it down there to live with me.”

  Granny didn’t respond, staring at the painting, silence and memory touching the moment before she seemed to remember Stella’s presence. “I’ll put it over the fireplace, where we used to have the old painting.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “And I ‘preciate your invitation, lass, but this is where I’ll stay ‘til God calls me to my heavenly abode. My da built it with his own hands. I’m as much a part of this place as the trees and earth outside. It’s home.”

  Home. The word carried an entreaty to Stella’s wandering heart. Oh, she wanted to find home, she just didn’t know where too look or how to uncover it. To belong to a place, with a person so much that your heart settled into just…being? Yes, that sounded a lot like home.

  Granny’s gaze found Stella’s and held. A sweet, and sorely missed, connection knotted her to this place, this woman. “You’ll be stayin’ the night, won’t ya?”

  “Aye,” Stella teased in her best accent.

  Granny nodded. “I’ll need help eatin’ this apple bread, and I’m anxious to hear news from the big house.”

  James’s face flickered to mind.

  “Ah, I see a sparkle in those eyes. Come.” She gestured for Stella to continue. “Give this old lady something to ponder on.”

  Stella told Granny about the events of the past week—of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s commission and moving Stella to a guest room at the main house. She even shared about meeting James and Alice, at which point her granny had a great many questions.

  “Aye, was he handsome?”

  Stella clipped her lips closed, eyes widening at her granny’s directness.

  “I can see he was.” She laughed, a throaty sound. “And he was kind to his sister.” She clicked her tongue. “That’s a good sign, ‘tis. No cause for a man to be kind to his sister unless he’s true through and through.”

  “Granny.”

  “Did he see you for the lovely girl you are?”

  Heat shot from Stella’s cheeks down to her chest and she looked away.

  “Ah, he did. Smart boy, too, I see.” She tapped her forehead. “I’ve prayed for you to find the right one. Someone like yer da. Good hearted and good headed.” She raised a brow. “And easy on the eyes too.”

  “Granny.” Stella couldn’t stop her burgeoning smile despite the heat in her face.

  Granny’s laugh rang through the house. “It doesn’t hurt none to have a pretty face to go along with a pretty heart, now, does it?” Granny’s eyes lit. “You think he’ll invite you to one of them fancy parties?”

  “He’s a gardener, Granny.”

  “Ah, even more like yer da. Him who tends trees well, tends hearts well, eh?”

  Stella shook her head, the current impossibility stealing joy from her laugh. “And with the rumors, I’m not at liberty to even—”

  “The people who know ya won’t listen to such sca, girl.”

  Stella allowed the silence, the memories from this tiny cabin, to settle over her disappointment and nurture her hope. Granny’s breathy hum as she finished emptying the basket of goodies from Wren and the crackling of the fire behind Stella whispered of times long gone yet still close enough to trace in her mind’s eye. Stella breathed in the scent of lavender, now mixed with apple cake and some other robust aroma that probably came from one of Granny’s homemade soaps. Pain and loss whispered among the shadows. But as she watched her granny find delight in cutting the apple cake—a tiny photo of her grandpa and ma watching in the background—an awareness settled over Stella of the way grief and hope mingled to create new colors for life’s palette. Colors that could add depth and a different kind of beauty and understanding, if she chose to let them.

  Stella’s attention returned to the photo of her mother’s laughing face. “There are times when I’m afraid I’m going to forget her what she looked like. It’s been so long.”

  Granny placed the jar in her hands back on the table and tilted her head in examination. The wrinkles around her eyes smoothed as she palmed Stella’s cheek with a cool hand. “You only need look in the mirror and you’ll see her. She’s never far away from you, girl. Yer da neither. Their story lives on in you and how you live your story.”

  Stella’s throat parched from the effort to keep her tears at bay. Their story in her? She’d cherished the idea of looking like the golden-haired mother whose image floated in and out of recollection in Stella’s memory, but to have Granny confirm it burrowed the sweetness deeper. Somehow, seeing them in her own story curbed some of the edges in her loneliness.

  “I have something to show you.” Her granny’s eyes took on an added glimmer. “Somethin’ to tease away the melancholy thoughts of an achin’ heart.” Granny pushed back from the table. “Now that yer grown, I reckon it belongs to you at any rate.”

  She shuffled toward a shadowed corner of the room, her throaty chuckle nudging a renewed curiosity that pulled Stella to her feet.

  “Yer da took yer ma to a dance at the big house once. A Christmas party.” She gestured for Stella to follow. “Did she tell you ‘bout it?”

  “Pa did.”

  Granny paused and turned back, her eyes softening with understanding. “Aye, he would remember. He surprised yer ma by purchasing cloth for me to sew her a gown. I learned the trade from my ma. A finer seamstress you wouldn’t have seen.” Granny worked with the latch of a large trunk, old from the looks of it. “Yer pa chose a new cloth, silverish-blue—not cheap, mind you, but he’d not be convinced of any other. He said it had to be this—”

  “Silver reminded him of Ma, because he first saw her cast in moonlight.” Stella stepped closer.

  Granny looked up, her smile bending to the tender sentiment. “Aye. That he did. And, charmer than he was”—Granny added a wink— “said that with the stars reflected in the pond behind her, she looked like she was surrounded by stardust, like an angel straight from heaven.” She sighed as she finally succeeded in unlatching the trunk. “Ah, that man took good care of my girl.”

  Stella swiped at a rebel tear and nodded. “He did. He talked of her with such…tenderness.”

  “As the right man should always see his love. His sweetheart. His princess.” She raised a crooked finger to Stella. “And that’s what you’ll be to the right man one day. No matter whether you’re dressed to scrub floors or be a mistress of the manor.”

  With those words, Granny reached into the trunk and drew out one of the most beautiful gowns Stella had ever seen. Even in the dim lantern light and the faded sunlight through the dusty window, there was no concealing the intricate design of beading and silver-blue satin. Stella stepped forward, her breath stalled in wonder, fingers itching to slip them over the shiny material.

  “You’re tinier than yer ma, but I’ll fit it to you. It’ll be my gift to you. A homecoming gift.”

  Stella’s grin pinched into her cheeks as tears blurred her vision. A homecoming gift? Yes, the mountains, the memories and love bounding through the hills and gardens and hollows, all beat with the thrum of belonging, and Stella was finally able to breathe in the welcome scent of home.

  5

  Castle

  She’d worn her hair in a loose bun today, so that a few golden curls spilled around her face. James tried not to stare, but Faye made it difficult with her almost ethereal look, appearing in a
simple rose day suit from the forest…very fairy-like.

  She gave him that reluctant smile of hers, an action he sensed wasn’t as frequent an occurrence as it ought to be. So when she graced him with it, he stood a little taller…and stared a little longer—too long—before snapping back to the scene they presented by the pond. The three of them.

  “A magic wand?” Alice exclaimed, touching Faye’s magic wand charm on her bracelet. “That’s so much better than stealing a horse.”

  “Oh, most certainly.” Faye chuckled, sprinkling James with a little of her own magic in the form of a wrinkle-nosed grin that sent his thoughts spinning directly into happily-ever-after.

  Faye continued with the story, sharing how each item took on its new shape—a carriage, horses, a footman—and then when she shared about Cinderella’s beautiful dress and special shoes by touching the slipper charm on her bracelet, Alice clapped her hands against her chest. “She’ll be much prettier than those nasty stepsisters. Kindness makes anybody prettier. That’s what James says.”

  Faye’s otherworldly gaze met his for a second before returning to Alice. “He’s right, you know. The prince may have noticed Cinderella’s beauty at first, but when he actually spoke to her, he recognized her kindness. That’s what made the difference. Not the dress. Or the slippers. But her heart.” Faye’s hand smoothed over one of took Alice’s braids. “In that moment, he knew she was his princess.”

  James liked Faye’s version a lot better than the one he remembered as a child. Kindness did make everything lovelier, and a quick wit only gave it an even brighter shine. Golden eyes were a nice addition too.

  Alice tilted her head, examining Faye’s face with that curious pucker of hers. “Do you mean that kindness is magical too?”

  Faye leaned closer, like sharing a secret. “That’s the best sort of magic there is.”