Chapter One
A very long time ago in a land far, far away there lived a fairy godmother. This isn’t her story.
Over Two Hundred Years Ago, England
Viscount Halwell opened his eyes to yet another dreary day at Alton House. He should have removed to London some time ago but could not face the onslaught of invitations and social activities that no doubt awaited him at his town house.
A crack in the curtains revealed that the gray skies matched his mood. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, the tightness in his chest unrelieved by the motion.
The wedding had come and gone over a month ago. The happy couple had traveled to the continent and returned yesterday. Despite Halwell’s melancholy, his mother, Lady Georgianna, insisted that they call upon the newlyweds as a courtesy. He had protested but had known his mother was correct. Had he gone to London, he could have avoided seeing Lady Mary St. John so soon. Yet...had he gone to London, he would have missed seeing her upon her return.
Such a dilemma. She was lost to him. The better man had won. He had no moral right to long for her, yet he did. Though he had met many fine young misses and potential brides, none had stirred his imagination, his heart, as had Mary. Something about her had been particularly unique, refreshing, perhaps even mysterious, and she had no equal.
He had offered her his heart and name, and she had rejected him. No, not rejected him precisely. He recalled the exchange several months ago.
This is not the time or the place, but I wish to speak to you privately, if that is possible. Perhaps I could call upon you tomorrow? I know that is not an easy task given St. John’s proclivity for seclusion.
Wait! You’re not going to...propose to me, are you? I can’t!
Miss Palmer, please grant me an opportunity to express myself properly in another setting. This is very awkward.
It is. I just can’t. I can’t marry anyone...here.
What do you mean...here? In England? Is it that you would miss your home?
Yes, that’s it. I have to go home, to America. I have family there. They need me.
I understand, Miss Palmer. Is it possible that they could come here to England? I would be honored to have your family live at Alton House with us if you would consent to become my wife.
Mary had said no more that evening, but in a confusing set of events, she had removed herself from Alvord Castle the following day and come to stay at Alton House—for less than an hour.
Then Mary had vanished from the premises, the eccentric Miss Hickstrom stating that Miss Palmer had gone home to America. Yet Mary had left Alton House without her case, which was not the least of the oddities that day.
She had married St. John within weeks of her abrupt departure, hardly time enough for her to have gone home to America and then returned to England. Halwell’s mother had requested his attendance at the wedding, and though it pained him beyond measure, he had attended the ceremony.
“Miss Palmer looked lovely,” his mother had said as they drove back to Alton House from the church. “St. John seemed very happy.”
“Indeed,” Halwell had said, unable to trust his voice. He seemed to have developed a perpetual huskiness.
“I did think at one time that she might be right for you, George, but I can see now I was mistaken. She was much too flighty, disappearing from Alton House that day! I still do not understand what happened. Did you hear anything more after St. John sent for her case?”
“No,” Halwell responded briefly. He turned to watch the passing landscape, wishing that his mother would cease and desist with the topic. A glass of brandy was what he needed.
“I am sorry that I pushed you toward Miss Palmer, George.”
“You did nothing of the sort, Mother,” he said, keeping his face averted. He cleared his throat, hoping to alleviate a painful knot.
“I wonder if you will stay in the country now or return to London,” his mother had said. He suspected that she prefer he stay with her at Alton House, as his father was often away for long periods.
“No, I do not intend to return to London this year,” he said.
“Are you certain, George? You have so many friends, so much to do. You seem a bit melancholy. You could do with some festivities.”
“No, I think not,” he had repeated, uncharacteristically monosyllabic. He was normally much more voluble.
His mother, sitting across from him in the carriage, had regarded him with concerned eyes.
“George,” she had begun.
“Thank you, Mother. I will stay at Alton House. I would prefer not to go about. Perhaps I am sickening.”
“You have never been sick a day in your life!”
“How odd,” he had murmured. “Perhaps it is an illness of age.”
“George! You are only five and twenty, far too young to assume you have an illness related to aging!”
He had nodded and resumed gazing out the window at nothing in particular. His mother had fallen silent. She had inquired after his health in the ensuing weeks and had offered to call the doctor, but Halwell had refused medical attention. There was little a doctor could do for a broken heart...little indeed.
Yet he must rise, dress with care, breakfast and set out to see the lady who was lost to him, and the gentleman who had claimed her for his own.
Halwell looked out the window once again. Yes, the gray skies suited his gloomy mood. He pushed himself out of bed and rang for his valet.
“Good morning, your lordship,” Jensen said upon entering. The tall, thin man with sparsely graying hair hurried to pull open the curtains, though to what end Halwell did not know. No sunlight filled the room.
“You are awake early,” Jensen said.
Halwell stood and stretched his lethargic frame.
“Good morning, Jensen,” he said. Somewhat taller than his valet, he looked down at the elderly man, who removed Halwell’s nightshirt. He washed mechanically and sat down while Jensen shaved his face. When the valet selected beige trousers and a cheerful yellow waistcoat, Halwell dissented. Glancing out the window again, he voiced his preference.
“The gray tailcoat and black breeches this morning, Jensen. Nothing too light. Perhaps the charcoal waistcoat.”
“But, sir, did you not wear that to a funeral service for an acquaintance of your father’s last year?”
“Did I?” Halwell asked, though he knew the answer. “Perhaps I did. That will be quite fitting.”
“I thought you were calling upon Lord and Lady St. John this morning, sir. Lady Georgianna’s maid informed me that you were accompanying her ladyship to Alvord Castle.”
“I am.”
Jensen blinked at Halwell’s brief response. He turned and withdrew the requested clothing from the wardrobe while Halwell crossed to the window. The garden lay just below, and while he normally enjoyed the myriad colorful roses in bloom, he saw nothing but an empty, dull lifetime ahead of him.
“I should say, sir, that your mother has a guest at the moment who will be accompanying you to Alton House.”
“Who?” he asked without interest.
“A Miss Hermione Hickstrom?”
Halwell whirled around...