Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas Page 9

  “They’re excellent.” Wren turned to Stella, her smile unfettered by any guilt. “But of course, they would be, since Stella painted them. She’s always had a gift for art, even before she was sent off to Boston to become the famous illustrator she is.”

  “Boston?” James gave his head a shake. “Famous illustrator?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” Wren shot a grin in Stella’s direction. “She has a tendency to shy away from the spotlight, but I thought you might know her name, your stepmother being from Boston and all. Stella Emory.” Wren chattered on, oblivious to the unwelcome revelation unfolding in James Craven’s mind. “She illustrates some of the best-loved children’s fairytale books in the nation.” Wren slid her arm through Stella’s, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You didn’t tell me you knew one of the heirs to Cravenwood. How can you keep a secret like that from your own cousin?”

  Stella flipped her attention back to James. Heir to Cravenwood? The estate about twenty miles east? “Cravenwood?”

  Wren passed a glance between them and took a step back. “Well, I’d better get back to the shop.” She placed the package on top of the box of toy soldiers still tucked beneath Stella’s arm, but Stella couldn’t move. She didn’t even have the presence of mind to say goodbye to her cousin as Wren dashed away. All she could think about was the man in front of her.

  “Your…your name is Stella?”

  “You’re not a servant.”

  James Craven. How had she not known?

  He took a step back, the previous welcome now clouded with suspicion…or worse. Hurt. Her chest stung with a sharp pang. Oh, what had she done?

  “Why would you lie to me?”

  Stella? What was Wren Morin talking about?

  The invitation in James’s pocket suddenly weighed as heavy as the knot forming in his stomach.

  As a bachelor with a fortune to inherit, he’d been victim to plenty of wealth-seeking women. Terrified by a few overzealous ones. Deceived by others. Disinterested in the likes of Miss Lorraine Collins. But he’d never expected something like this from Faye.

  No, not Faye. Stella.

  “Why would you lie to me?”

  Her golden eyes took a pleading turn, beating against doubts rising to the defense. “I misled you, but I didn’t lie. Faye is my middle name.”

  “Semantics,” he growled, heat crawling up his neck into his face. “Why didn’t you tell me from the first?”

  Her body sagged a little, as if the answer burdened her as much as his fear of whatever truth she hid…or worse, his fear she had turned out to be anything other than the genuinely authentic woman she’d presented over the past weeks. He took the box from beneath her arm and tucked it under his own.

  “I…I didn’t know you then, and I’d come to Asheville to—” A frown pulled at her bottom lip, pricking his conscience. “To disappear from Boston for a while. To…maybe make my home here, in the quiet world of these mountains. My recent history didn’t promote immediate trust in strangers. I’m so sorry, James.”

  He studied her, trying to match the woman he’d come to know—the wounded beauty from the flurry storm—with this new information. It couldn’t have all been pretense. No. Not her saving his sister’s life or the scars she bore beneath those eyes. And the fact she wasn’t a servant would help his cause with his father. But she’d misled him, which certainly dampened their growing trust. And famous?

  “Stella F. Emory.” He worked the name over his tongue. He’d seen the name before. At his home. “You’re a famous painter, too. We have one of your works in our family home. My stepmother brought it from Boston.” He pulled off his hat and blew out a long breath, blinking up at the clear autumn sky. What was happening right now?

  “James…” She squeezed her eyes closed, her frown deepening. “Mr. Craven, if I’d known you would become so dear—” Her lips pinched closed. “A…a dear friend, I would never have continued the charade. I thought I’d only meet you the one time and never again.” Her gaze found his. “Please forgive me.”

  He knew what it was like to need an escape, to flee the constant foot traffic of the social world. Cravenwood had become a haven for him from the frenzy of expectation as a millionaire’s son, and even though his family spent summers at their townhouse in Boston, those times had become shorter since building Cravenwood.

  He leaned forward, holding her gaze. “You could have told me. I would have kept quiet.”

  “I’m sorry. I was planning to tell you in the snow before Mr. Leeds interrupted, but…but I should have told you sooner. I…I was afraid because I thought you were a servant and my status would change the way…the way we’d become such good friends.”

  “You thought I was a servant?”

  “A gardener. A tradesman learning his trade. There was no indication of anything else until now.” She looked away, her hands pinched tightly in front of her. “I didn’t want to do anything to threaten…the sweetness of it all.”

  He digested the new information and paired it with the facts of what he did know about her. Hadn’t he assumed the same about her and not sought clarification either? He’d wanted to keep things simple. A man and woman, instead of an heir and…whoever he’d thought she was.

  Stella?

  He paused and tilted his head. “Actually, Stella suits you even better than Faye.”

  Her eyes came up to his, a glimmer of hope deepening the umber hues. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  He released a long breath along with some of the ire stiffening his shoulders. “It seems we both suffered from making wrong assumptions, but now that we are properly acquainted, I’d like us to start over with all the correct information.” He took off his hat and gave a small bow. “I am James Craven, son to automobile baron Albert Craven, and I have a tendency to see the trees instead of the forest in every case except this particular one.”

  Her frown softened ever so slightly, but she shook her head.

  “Come now, Stella. Don’t you want to be properly acquainted? No misconceptions? No assumptions?”

  She sighed, her smile almost resurrecting. “With such an entreaty, how could I possibly refuse?”

  “It would be rather rude and heartless if you did.”

  She stared at him for a long time, wavering from her stance, before she offered her hand with great ceremony. “My name is Stella Faye Emory. I’m an orphan from these Blue Ridge mountains who has become an illustrator and painter because of the kindness of a benefactress.”

  “And the talent of your own hands,” he added, his suspicion dying a steady death with each continued second. He took her fingers in his and brought her hand to his lips, holding her gaze. “It is a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance, Miss Emory.”

  Her breath hitched as he breathed a kiss over her soft skin. A definite pleasure.

  “The fact that you’re not a servant and you’re a respected artist will only improve my father’s opinion of you. After my younger brother’s recent choices of—” He lowered his voice and kept hold of her hand. “With his less-than-favorable reputation, Father has been particularly choosy with respect to the company we keep. Everything impacts his business, and he’s keen to keep the dirty laundry from airing, if he can.”

  This news should have curbed her guilt, but instead, the crease in her brow deepened. She slipped from his touch. “Did you say…you had new guests arrive at your house from Boston?”

  Her question paused him. “Yes, just two days ago. Friends of my stepmother’s. They’d just come from Biltmore, so perhaps you met them?”

  Stella closed her eyes, and when she opened them, a look of sad resignation firmed her features…and for some reason, wrung his heart, but he wasn’t sure why. “I heard they were here but didn’t meet them, no. As I said before, I’ve been keeping my distance since I arrived. Completing my commissions, helping my cousin.”

  “Saving little girls from drowning.”

  The tease didn’t make a dent in he
r frown. “Things are different now. You’re…a millionaire’s son, and I’m the daughter of a servant.”

  All suspicion fled. She was trying to leave, not stay with him. No money-hungry deceiver would do that.

  “And that means we can’t be friends?”

  She reached for her package beneath his arm, but he turned to keep it from her. She shot him a powerless glare. “It means we shouldn’t be friends. Not…not like we were before.”

  “Shouldn’t? I like that.” He winked. “Less restrictive.”

  “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?” She reached for the box again.

  “I am very clever. Haven’t you realized that, friend? And I’m attempting to help you see reason.”

  Her hands flew to her hips. “How can you joke about this? You are heir to a fortune. Your family has to consider things like birth, rank…reputation. It can’t be the same as it was.”

  “Stella Faye Emory.” He paused and grinned. “Yes, I do think Stella suits you much better. Star. Beautiful.”

  A smile lit her eyes but didn’t move to her lips.

  “You’re going to end a perfectly good friendship because I happen to be rich? Do you have something against rich heirs?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t, it’s just that—”

  “I didn’t think you were the sort to make possibilities so small.” He offered a mocking pout at her narrow-eyed stare. This was too much fun for the frown crinkling her brow. “Where is that heavenly magic of yours?”

  “Mr. Craven.”

  He took her hand in his. “It’s James to my friends.”

  The fight in her expression melted, so he seized the moment. “Your friendship is one of the most important I’ve known. You’ve brought my mind and heart to life as no one ever has, and if futures are built on heavenly magic, we have enough between the both of us to see this through, regardless of the opposition or challenges.”

  “Mr. Craven.”

  “Your friend, James,” he corrected and searched her face. “Though, I want to be more, Stella.”

  “You have to know I care about you…and your future.” The tenderness in her expression tensed with sadness, and she shook her head. “I’m so sorry…I can’t give you what you deserve right now.”

  “Stella.”

  She slipped the box from beneath his arm before he could catch it. “Please forgive me.”

  And with that, she raced across the street toward the forest. He started to follow, but a horn blared as he nearly stepped in front of an oncoming car. He jumped back from the stream of vehicles passing, trying to catch a glimpse of golden hair or a green day suit.

  But by the time the cars passed, Stella Faye had disappeared.

  8

  Key

  Stella wiped away another tear and added the final strokes to her illustration of Cinderella and her fairy godmother. The pale-blue shroud of the godmother’s gown swelled like a cloud around the ethereal fairy, promising something magical, but Stella shook her head.

  The irony of her occupation stung to her core. She brought fairytales to life for others but couldn’t have one of her own? Oh, how she hated the lost look she’d last seen on James’s face. He deserved so much better than her. She’d deceived him, and if the rumors came out, he’d think even less of her. No, she didn’t want to watch his faith in her, his care for her, dwindle beneath the slander.

  She’d rather never see him again than risk that.

  Wouldn’t she?

  She took the page to her drying table and passed the box of soldiers Wren had sent, the tip of Mrs. Bertram’s letter peeking from the top. Stella had been so distracted by the exchange with James that she’d forgotten about the parcel and Mrs. Bertram’s letter. All she wanted to do once she returned to hide away in her room was to disappear into a painting…a story.

  She opened the parcel first so it wouldn’t distract from the letter. Her publishing house had sent her the newest edition of the first book she’d ever illustrated. A third edition, and still one of the bestselling children’s books. Another fairytale collection.

  Stella ran a hand over the ornate cover, rich with golds and deep blues. In the years since she’d been pulled from her Blue Ridge mountains, she’d plunged into her art, trying to keep a connection to her parents, to the love they’d shown her, by creating the magic and beauty they spoke of so often. She liked to think they would have been proud of these books celebrating the value of imagination—would have encouraged her to develop that “God-part” of herself that saw beyond circumstances to a world of hope.

  She turned a few of the pages to the first illustration. More vibrant than she remembered in the first edition, a massive black dragon towered over a farmer, his sickle raised as a weapon, his hardened expression unafraid. The story had been an old mountain tale reinvented for a broader audience, where a brave farmer battled a dragon to save his community and the family he loved. A quote from the story underlined the illustration.

  Love is a commanding force. It can make the most unassuming person as brave as any knight.

  Love? Her attention turned to the pair of gloves James had loaned her during the snow-tinted evening in the garden. She’d kept them at the corner of her desk along with the handkerchief she’d forgotten to return to him. Elegant curves made out his initials: JGC. What did the G stand for? She smiled as her fingers reached to smooth over the lines of the letters, in a vain attempt to bridge the current gap between them. She couldn’t fit into his world, could she? No notable parents. No dowry. A reputation stained by someone else’s deceit.

  Her hand slid from its placeholder on the book, and the pages fell open to another illustration. One of her favorites. A little girl carried a lantern through a dark wood toward the tiniest sliver of light on the other side. Rich, dark reds mingled with shadowy gray, framing the girl’s pale-blue cloak as she stepped toward the light. Brambles and distorted thorns took the shape of monstrous faces on the periphery of the wood, but the little girl’s face carried a look of determination. Of…hope.

  What had the story been about? Oh yes, the girl had been promised medicine to help save her mother’s life if she could only make it through the woods to the other side of the dark forest. A quote waited beneath the print.

  Bravery is not walking confidently in the light but keeping faith even in the dark. Oh, yes! For the brave go with hope as their light, and not even the shadow of death will deter them.

  She studied the resoluteness on the little girl’s face, the determination. Stella had captured something within that expression she must have felt within herself. Somehow. Courage? Yes, she had to have some bravery within her, didn’t she? She’d jumped into the pond to save Alice, even as memories of her father’s death nearly stole her strength.

  Confidence? Yes, she’d offered to help Wren and Uncle Copper by putting her skills on display, even though it meant someone might recognize her name or work, because her existing family needed her.

  And now? With one of the sweetest rewards waiting as a possibility on the other side of what seemed a very dark forest of doubt, couldn’t she be brave enough to reach out and take what James offered? The possibility of being publicly disgraced for the chance to belong with such a man! Her own happily-ever-after?

  She slid a hand over the illustration, breathing in confidence. Weren’t the best stories about people who had the courage to make it through the hardest circumstances to discover the sweetest ever-afters?

  Her heart pulsed with more certainty as she peeled open Mrs. Bertram’s letter. She smiled at the welcome greeting and some pleasantries.

  In reference to the nasty rumors placed at your feet, I have garnered enough evidence from the names you provided me, as well as some of my own contacts, to clear your name. I plan to travel to Asheville within the week to provide this proof. Do not lose hope, my dear girl. The truth always comes out.

  As to the fairytale book you are creating for my goddaughter, please feel free t
o personalize this copy. Any special notes you wish to make for her to study as she reads will only make the book more special. This is my only goddaughter among three boys, and I feel it a vital part of her young life to learn of brave men and women persevering through all sorts of trials and wickedness to make it to their glorious story’s end. These are necessary ingredients for life—perseverance, hope, bravery, truth, and kindness.

  I plan to write little notes in the margins as well.

  As you know, I have no children, which is why I’ve poured my resources into supporting as many talented young people’s education as I can. It has been my delight to invest in your future, in you. You have become like a daughter to me in your kindness, generosity of spirit, and ready gratitude, and I pray to see your future unfold with more joy and magic than it has in recent years. I have no doubt God has a beautiful plan for your story, Stella. Maybe even greater than your imagination can conjure up.

  Stella’s vision blurred as she reread the last line. Imagine marrying an heir to a fortune?

  Another look at the little girl in the illustration confirmed her choice. She would find James and tell him the truth. Fight for her own happily-ever-after, if she could.

  Stella grinned as she pulled out her pen and scribbled in the margins beside her newest illustration—the one with Cinderella and her fairy godmother.

  With a laugh that dispelled her previous tension, she added a few more thoughts, including one of her granny’s best quotes, perfectly suited to an illustration of Belle looking through the castle for the Beast she’d left behind: Don’t follow your heart unless your head is in agreement. Emotions are fickle things unless paired with good sense.

  She scribbled a few more and then left the ink to dry. Perhaps she could collect James’s address from Mrs. Vanderbilt. Surely finding an entire estate couldn’t be difficult. She stood and attempted to wipe some of the ink from her fingers, glancing out the windows. Evening had fallen, so there was little likelihood of finding James at the pond. But his address? She could approach Mrs. Vanderbilt about that tonight.