Enchanting Nicholette Read online

  As I slipped my fingers around a number of the books and went to maneuver them off the shelf, I lost my balance and wobbled. And then, because my heels were caught on the rungs, I fell back and quite literally, straight off the ladder.

  I closed my eyes, my arms extended into the air above me, quite unladylike, and then waited for a drastic landing onto the hard, wooden floor below.

  But instead, I found myself in a pair of strong arms.

  Since my eyes were still closed, and I clutched the only book left in my hands—after losing the others—I prayed silently and fervently that the arms were those of the gangly bookseller….

  But I knew better.

  I knew exactly whose arms they were.

  2

  Introductions

  “You don’t need scores of suitors.

  You need only one…if he’s the right one.”

  —Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

  Why, this is just what I was looking for,” came a strong male voice that matched the arms holding me.

  I opened my eyes, and yes, it was indeed him.

  “Someone to fall into your arms?” Sylvie asked from behind me.

  Before anyone answered her silly question, I was placed upon my feet, no worse for the wear, except that my pride had taken quite a beating ever since walking into Brittle Brattle Books.

  I handed the book still in my hands to Sylvie. “Here you are.”

  The gentleman went about gathering my reticule and the books I’d dropped. Handing one book to Sylvie, he said, “Rescuing a falling beauty from spilling to the floor wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, mademoiselle”—picking up on Sylvie’s French accent—“but it was an added pleasure, let me assure you.” He then turned to me, handing me my reticule. “You are all right, I hope? I headed over as soon as I realized your intent—”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m not sure what induced me to do such a thing.” I glanced up at his face for the first time since he’d retrieved the books from the floor. He was smiling now, fully, and I noticed he had a dimple on each cheek. It made him look impossibly attractive—and quite boyish—though he was surely well into his twenties.

  “I’m glad I was around,” he said, catching my eye, quite on purpose.

  “What is it you were looking for exactly?” I asked, ignoring his implications. Yes, he was handsome, but I didn’t know the first thing about him, and I had now made a complete fool of myself in front of him—because of him—and it was all such a horrendous mistake to have come. We should have simply stayed home and sent a servant to run our errand.

  “Why, that—”

  At that moment, both the bookseller and the young lady this fascinating man had come into the store with came up beside us.

  “I do hope you haven’t hurt yourself for the sake of a book, ma’am. I should have been the one to get that down for you.”

  “Or at the very least, you could have asked me,” my rescuer stated, giving me that half smile yet again.

  I didn’t want to go into the reasoning behind my thoughtless adventure up the ladder for the bookseller, so I simply responded, “I’m not hurt. I’m perfectly fine thanks to...” But then I realized my mistake. It seemed I was practically begging for an introduction.

  Which I wasn’t.

  And had he been teasing me? Because I’d gawked at him in a very unladylike manner when he’d come into the store behind us?

  Probably.

  But really, sometimes one’s eyes had no way of turning away, as I was quickly learning.

  “Oh, Cal, you found the book,” the girl said. Now that I saw her up close, she had to be about the same age as Sylvie. And she had to be his sister, or possibly his cousin. The resemblance between them was astounding. She had the same sandy, light-brown hair and dark-gray eyes, and their faces were so similar. I looked between them again, despite knowing it was a bad idea. He had such a good shape to his face, such good cheekbones, and that subtle smile.

  I forced myself to look away now. What was wrong with me? I’d never in my life had such a difficult time not looking at a man, and I’d been loved by one of the handsomest men I’d ever known.

  He held up the copy of The Little Fox. “We came in here looking for a copy of this book,” he said, finally getting around to answering the one question I had asked of him.

  “Really? This book?” I asked, taking it from his hand. I didn’t believe him.

  “Yes, this book.” He took it back, playfully. “We came in here with the sole aim of purchasing a copy. We happen to know the author quite well.”

  “We know the author, too! Well, almost,” Sylvie burst in, pleased with herself. “We’re both related to her through marriage—”

  “You’re both connected to our cousin Violet through the Everstone family?” the girl beside Sylvie asked. “That’s brilliant!”

  The girl’s unexpected response shocked me into a most-euphoric sensation as I realized this man was my own sister-in-law’s cousin, Cal Hawthorne. I’d heard mention of Violet’s cousins many times in the last weeks. I would have eventually been properly introduced to him and likely often associated with him by way of the Everstones, regardless of my foolishness in the bookshop.

  Of course, here I had this as our introduction. Now, that was just brilliant.

  Mr. Hawthorne’s voice broke through my thoughts, “You are the former Miss Nicholette Fairbanks, now Mrs. William Everstone.”

  I looked him square in the face at this admission, unabashedly, trying to place him. Had I met him before? Wouldn’t I have remembered his face? He had such a way about him that had captured my attention despite my better judgment. But then again, I hadn’t been interested in taking much notice of the gentlemen around me before. I’d been patiently resigned to do as my parents wanted, which hadn’t been a bad thing.

  I noticed now, however. Oh, and how I noticed.

  But if Mr. Hawthorne knew of me, did he happen to recall exactly how long William and I had been married? How William had been murdered on our wedding day? It wasn’t shameful to have been married and widowed so early, and so young, but that didn’t stop my continual embarrassment whenever I knew the subject was under consideration.

  Sylvie and Mr. Hawthorne’s sister, presumably, now stood a few feet away, busy studying Violet’s beautiful illustrations in The Little Fox, so I went on speaking entirely to him.

  “May I then have the pleasure of an introduction, Mr. Hawthorne?” I dared to ask with the faintest of whispers, looking him in the eye and giving away that I, too, already knew who he was.

  He looked at me as if he were trying to figure something out, for whatever reason. “You may have the pleasure.” He bowed minutely. “As my sister said, Violet is our cousin, and I am Mr. Hawthorne, Mr. Cal Hawthorne.” Lifting his eyes, yet again, to meet mine, he continued, “Mrs. Everstone, this is my sister, Miss Mabel Hawthorne. Mabel, meet Mrs. Nicholette Everstone…and…?”

  “I’m so happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Everstone. Please, you both must call me Mabel. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other after this, since we are connected through Violet.”

  Mabel then looked expectantly at Sylvie, whom she’d already been speaking to exclusively for a number of minutes. It was such a strange way of being introduced—all on our own without the benefit of having our shared acquaintance there.

  “This,” I said, “is my father-in-law Bram Everstone’s stepdaughter, Miss Sylvie Boutilier—recently arrived from France, having completed finishing school.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Boutilier.” Mr. Hawthorne smiled, but this time, entirely for Sylvie.

  I’d never been one to get jealous easily—well, not usually—but I had to wonder if Mr. Hawthorne had heard me say that Sylvie had recently graduated finishing school? But perhaps he liked her easy, open manner, and the fact that she was young and her heart unscathed.

  “The pleasure is returned, let me assure you. And do feel free to use my name…Sylvie,” s
he said, her French accent adding to her already overabundant allure. She took Mabel’s hand, and then Mr. Hawthorne’s.

  “May we call you Cal since we have the honor of such close relations?” Sylvie asked.

  “Sylvie, you shouldn’t ask—”

  He gave me the slightest of bows, providing his consent as he said, “Yes, you may all call me Cal.”

  “Mrs. Everstone,” Mabel started awkwardly, since I’d been the only one of the small group who hadn’t given permission to use my Christian name, “I’m sorry to hear of your loss. I had heard of the tragedy while first getting to know your extended family a year ago. The Everstones truly are a beautiful family. I’m sure you were pleased to have married into such a wonderful group of people.”

  “Thank you,” I said, quickly turning away from Mr. Hawthorne, trying desperately not to lose my well-practiced composure at the mention of my marriage. But when Sylvie and Mabel seemed to—quite purposefully—turn and walk together to the front of the bookshop, I took the opportunity to ask, “Have we met before, Mr. Hawthorne?”

  “We’ve never been properly introduced, no, but I did know who you were as Miss Nicholette Fairbanks. We’ve been in mixed company a number of times in past years.”

  “That’s so very odd, for I don’t recall you at all.” I glanced up, unable to resist sharing my next thoughts. “I think I would, to be honest.”

  “Your honestly is greatly appreciated, Mrs. Everstone.” Again, the sight of those dimples and his smile made my stomach flutter.

  “I have to admit, at first glance, I didn’t recognize you. I certainly didn’t expect it to be you, back from your travels.”

  “If we’ve been in mixed company a number of times, why were we never introduced?”

  “I would have requested an introduction, but I didn’t think it prudent, considering you were spoken for…and my whole goal in being introduced would have been to court you.”

  I swallowed, and I could hear my heartbeat pound in my ears. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” was his only reply.

  “How long ago was this? Where?” I asked. I felt as if I were prying, but he’d been agreeable to the conversation from the beginning, and I was merely going along…no matter how personal, no matter how the whole exchange produced the feeling of having a dozen butterflies in my stomach.

  “Four years ago, perhaps, here in Boston. You were very young, just out.”

  The flusters intensified, and I could barely speak. When they finally settled, I was able to say, “My, you have an excellent memory.”

  He shrugged. “I must admit, you left a profound impression upon me.”

  “Oh, I see,” I attempted, stunned by his frankness.

  He went on thoughtfully, “Though, back then I thought you were to marry the eldest Everstone brother, Nathan Everstone.”

  “That didn’t work out so well,” I said, slowly getting acclimated to the open manner of our conversation. It was so very easy to speak with him, about almost everything. I’d never known anything like it, except for how close I’d become to William during our engagement. But even that was different. We were supposed to talk about everything.

  This, with Mr. Cal Hawthorne now, was happening entirely because I wanted to know more about him. And he obviously wanted to know more of me as well, having even admitted the desire to court me at one time.

  “Nathan fell in love with someone else, and as it turned out, William had long harbored affection for me. Not that marrying William wasn’t what I wanted at the time we were engaged. I had looked forward to—”

  Good grief, what was I saying? Was this my best effort at being flirtatious—talking about how much I’d looked forward to marrying my first husband?

  “I’m sorry.” I fidgeted with the binding of Violet’s book. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “That you wanted to marry your fiancé? Please, I’m glad he had the fortune of possessing your heart. He was an extremely lucky man. It’s what we all wish to find in marriage, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is,” I admitted, sadly.

  “You wouldn’t know, but I, too, have been married before. My wife passed away almost five years ago.” He let out a long breath, as if saying so affected him physically. I could easily imagine the sense of loss, grief, and past sorrow such words could produce.

  At this admission, I realized the reason I’d felt such a curious connection to him. He knew exactly how I felt. Though we’d just met, he knew parts of me that even my closest family and friends couldn’t understand.

  “Alice passed away three months after we were married. She’d been unwell for some time, but still, it was unexpected.”

  Alice.

  It felt ridiculous to even think such things, but I immediately wondered if he missed belonging to someone as much as I did. But why hadn’t he married again after so many years? Surely he would have if he’d wanted to. Surely, he could have chosen to marry anyone he wanted. Anyone.

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say, and suddenly, I reheard all of the similar comments I’d received in the last two years with new ears. I realized how awkward it felt to find something worth saying in such a situation.

  “It’s quite all right. Coming from you, it means a great deal.”

  Yes, he understood completely. And suddenly, I had the strangest sensation that standing there with him, beside him, sharing such telling sentiments, was the most natural, perfect thing…and that he felt it, too.

  “Well, we had better be going,” Sylvie interrupted as she came up to us and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realized how close Mr. Hawthorne and I had been standing until she came between us. “We found exactly what we were looking for, and now we must be off to attend to our long list of errands.”

  Did Sylvie realize she was interrupting the most meaningful conversation I’d had in years?

  “It was wonderful to meet the two of you,” she went on. “I am sure we will have a chance to become acquainted once your cousin and her husband return to Boston from their vacation in Maine.”

  “It won’t be long now.” Mabel looped her arm through her brother’s. “It was only a short visit to see her sister-in-law and the new baby. They will be back soon. And I’m certain we will see each other in the future. I will be counting the days, won’t you, Cal?”

  “Counting already, sister.”

  Finally, we excused ourselves, and Mr. Hawthorne went up the ladder to retrieve another copy of The Little Fox from the upper shelf. I led Sylvie to the counter with the books as well as the newest edition of Harper’s Bazaar that she’d been looking forward to reading.

  After paying for our purchases and leaving the store, Sylvie took my arm in hers again. “That was absolutely remarkable. Mr. Hawthorne had eyes only for you. You did notice, non? Are you not pleased?”

  Pleased was a good word for it, but there was a part of me that felt unprepared for what my emotions were doing to me concerning this man. I didn’t know how to answer her. I didn’t know what to divulge, what to believe.

  It wasn’t the first time a man had noticed me, of course.

  Just the first time I’d cared to notice him back.

  3

  Hawthorne House

  “You never know what is enough

  unless you know what is more than enough.”

  —William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

  Monday, June 19, 1893 • South Boston, Massachusetts

  My mother’s elderly friend, Miss Claudine Abernathy, had quite decided that Sylvie and I needed to meet Miss Mabel Hawthorne and her mother, whom she’d become dear friends with since Violet had married Vance Everstone. Thus, we found ourselves in Miss Abernathy’s carriage, traveling to the Hawthornes’ house.

  Of course, Sylvie and I had never brought up our meeting Violet’s cousins in the weeks since our visit to the bookshop. I hadn’t known what to think, let alone what to say, about that day. However, I did know that Sylvie had been all too happy to
have met Mabel and she was looking forward to seeing her new friend again. It hadn’t seemed that she’d given Mr. Hawthorne a fleeting thought, which to me, was strange.

  Had she not seen him?

  Unfortunately, I had…and I couldn’t get the thought of seeing him again out of my mind.

  For as much as I’d tried not to think about—well, anything from that day—I simply couldn’t help but admit that I’d enjoyed those few minutes of special attention from him in the bookshop. Even though, at the time, I’d been quite embarrassed, I found I desperately wanted him to continue those teasing ways.

  I had a feeling that if he did, we would suit very well. And to tell the truth, from our limited time together, I knew I had come to like him far more than I’d allowed myself to like anyone ever before. I’d never had such a strange sensation—that I knew he would love me, if I wanted him to.

  I sat next to Sylvie in Miss Abernathy’s carriage, both of us facing her and her Pomeranian, Winston. I couldn’t help but fiddle nervously with the strings of my reticule, wondering if I would perhaps see Mr. Hawthorne that very afternoon. We were almost there, and I hadn’t yet had the courage to ask if Mabel Hawthorne’s brother would possibly be in attendance.

  When we were most of the way to South Boston, Sylvie leaned toward me a bit and whispered, “And now I will tell you lesson number two: be spontaneous. You need much help in this regard.”

  “I doubt Mr. Hawthorne will even be present.” My words were barely audible, in case Miss Abernathy’s hearing was, by chance, better than she let on.

  “It’s interesting that you should bring him up,” Sylvie continued softly, her face forward, her chin up, and eyes focused on the window at her side of the carriage. “I hope he is, for I believe there is a high chance you could make him fall madly in love with you, quite easily.”