Page 1 of Bluebell’s Fate

Chapter One

Fate was usually kind to Bell; this morning was an exception. She’d missed her opportunity to escape to her woods by mere minutes and was instead forced to sit in on visits with her mother. If only she had finished her book a few minutes earlier, she’d have made it. But the incredible love story had settled itself into her heart—right there to live with all Bell’s dreams of a happy, loving marriage. How could she not finish the last chapter? She ought to have taken the book with her, but she hadn’t wanted to carry yet another item into her sacred space today, not with all she needed to accomplish there already.

However, now Bell was confined to the drawing room listening to her mother, the Countess Gardner, talk to Lady Dalrymple about the upcoming assembly. Bell’s gaze flicked to the window…again.

Lady Dalrymple sniffed loudly and then pitched her voice low. “She’s not even paying attention to a word we have said. Her head always seems to be in the clouds. Are you certain she is ready to have all of London’s eyes upon her?”

Bell pretended not to have heard the comment. Her tendency to daydream wasn’t a new concern, but it still stung to have it talked of when she was sitting right there.

“Bell?” her mother’s voice was as much of a command as it was a question.

Turning her head to her mother, Bell smiled and feigned ignorance. “Forgive me, Mother. It just seems like such a splendid day outside. What was it we were discussing?”

Lady Dalrymple stretched her neck taller, reminding Bell of a pompous goose. “Have you decided which dress you will wear to your first ball, Bell?”

Bell had, but she’d been instructed not to tell Lady Dalrymple. “I haven’t given it much thought. I’m certain any of the ball gowns that have been made up would be wonderful.” At least that much was true. It was her mother who did all the thinking when it came to her upcoming debut.

Lady Dalrymple shook her head. “You ought to do more to be ready, my dear. Society in London is not nearly as forgiving as it is here in the country.”

“Thank you for your concern, Lady Dalrymple,” Bell said sweetly. All her life, Bell had been told the same thing—that London would be worse, harder, less forgiving. Why was it that anyone wanted to go? There had to be other ways to make a suitable match—preferably ways that involved going off on an adventure in the woods where a handsome gentleman saved you from a den of thieves. Or maybe Bell could travel to France or Italy? Was finding a suitable husband as difficult abroad as it was in England?

Bell’s mother set down her teacup with a tiny clink. “Lady Dalrymple, I received your note about changing the color of the tablecloth at the next assembly. I thought we agreed to use my ivory linens for the refreshment tables.”

“Yes, well…” Lady Dalrymple sniffed, “That was before we decided to add a yellow crocus to the centerpiece. I believe my cream linens would make the centerpiece more prominent.”

Bell bit the inside of her lip. It didn’t truly matter to anyone if the tablecloth was ivory or cream; what mattered was whether her mother or Lady Dalrymple won the ridiculous argument. Bell didn’t have time for this. There were things she needed to do today. Seeing no other way to move the women along than to join the conversation, Bell took a deep breath, clasped her hands in front of her, and cleared her throat. “What if you took a sample of the table coverings to the meeting at the inn when you leave? You could decide with the help of your committee.”

Bell and her mother both knew that the other ladies of the planning committee would side with whatever the Countess Gardner deemed fit. Her powers of commanding people around her were astounding. So, Lady Gardner readily agreed with the plan. “Excellent idea, Bell. Shall we be off then? I would hate to keep the other members of our committee waiting on us to see the room at Houghton’s Inn.”

“Perhaps next week, we shouldn’t take tea since we are in such a hurry.” Lady Dalrymple’s snide remark was made with the most deceiving catlike smile.

Bell’s mother stood tall and didn’t miss a beat. “A marvelous idea. Yes. Of course, we should skip the tea anytime you are delayed in your arrival such as today.”

Watching the two matrons squabble as they made their way to the awaiting carriage made Bell’s stomach queasy. This type of interaction would be forced upon her every single day in London: false smiles and compliments, attempts to come out of each conversation on top. Competing for the hand of the most eligible bachelors of the gentry would be nothing but soul-sucking work. Worst of all, there was nothing Bell could do to avoid it.

As soon as the front door closed, Bell ran up to her bed chamber, changed her shoes, and grabbed her leather satchel. She pulled it close to her chest as she walked out the back door, past the rose garden, and out to her woods. All the while, she sent up a silent prayer that her godmother could give her guidance. She’d never failed her in the past. Thus far, the fairies hadn’t been any help.

Bell knew her imagination ran wild on the subject of fairies, but she could hardly help it. It was so much easier to explain why things happened when you had a fairy story to go with your predicament.

But even her most creative fairy stories hadn’t calmed Bell’s heart about her upcoming departure to London and her presentation to society in a week’s time. Her godmother would fix that.

Since the time Bell had been six years old, a woman with silver hair and sparkling eyes had met with her in the same place on the same day of the year. Tomorrow was that day, April twenty-eighth. Bell’s godmother was the closest thing to a fairy in real life. Her presence in general had magical properties over Bell’s spirit, and the small clearing where they met in Bell’s woods had become somewhat of a sacred space. She wanted to make sure the special meeting place for her godmother to appear was appropriately prepared. She would be asking for a miracle, after all. Everything needed to be perfect.

She picked her way along a familiar path meandering toward the road near her family’s estate. In all reality, the path was only clear for her. She knew these woods like an infant knew its mother.

The cool, morning dew on the surrounding foliage ought to have calmed her. It usually did. But today seemed to be the exception. Upon entering the clearing, Bell stood in the middle of the space and turned in a slow circle. In less than a week, she would have to leave this place behind for the London season. If the season was a success, Bell would no longer call this place home. A lump formed in her throat. The fallen tree covered in moss had seemed so large when she’d first come here; now, it didn’t even come up to her knee. How had time passed so quickly?

She set down her satchel, untied the top, and pulled out her sketchpad and pencil. She placed them on the makeshift table and chair that she had arranged from stones years previously. It was nothing fancy, but it was enough for Bell.

“It’s time to prepare for the godmother of the woods,” Bell announced to the fairies that she pretended could hear her talking. It was spring, after all, and the bluebells had just reached full bloom. How could Bell not see the magic in the nature around her? “I expect you to bless us with good weather tomorrow, if you have an ounce of control over that. But in either case, I need you to lead her to me safely.” Bell walked over to the other side of the clearing and placed a basket of bread and jelly in the hollow of the old oak that stood sentinel to their secret clearing. “Godmother always loves this jelly. Please keep it safe until tomorrow.” She covered the hollow of the tree with a rock nonetheless; the wildlife in the area would most certainly smell the bread.

Rose, her perfect elder sister, always thought that Bell’s talking to the woods was immature and self-indulgent for a lady of high standing. She was likely right. But here, Bell found her voice, that space inside of herself that allowed her to travel through the web of her own thoughts until her world made sense again. It didn’t matter so much that no one ever answered, as much as it simply made Bell happy to pretend. She made herself comfortable on the rock next to the table and sketched a cluster of bluebells that hung their heads low next to the base of the fallen tree.

In this serene space, time stood still; a shaft of light was a gift, and the call of a bird a song. She set to work to leave a little gallery in the clearing for her godmother. Godmother always loved her sketches. As the day stretched on, scenes of fairies waking up from a bed of leaves, a fairy couple dancing a waltz, and a drawing of her godmother with fairies flying behind and pushing her carriage to go faster, covered the makeshift table. If only Bell could convince the fairies to do just that, her godmother would get here early tomorrow, and they could spend the entire day together.

Bell clearly recalled that first meeting when she was just a small girl.

“Hurry, we have to get to the castle before the army of giant moths know where we are!” Bell ran through the woods as fast as her six-year-old legs could carry her, jumping over fallen logs and protruding tree roots, her invisible partner just steps behind her. “Drat this dress. If only I were a boy, I’d be faster.” Truth be told, if she had only been born a boy, her life would be infinitely better. Her parents would notice her, for one. And dresses were difficult to run in, especially when one was being chased by giant moths.