Once Upon an Irritatingly Magical Kiss by Bree Wolf
Prologue
Whickerton Grove 1794 (or a variation thereof)
Nine Years Earlier
Mistakenly, the door to the drawing room had been left ajar, allowing voices to carry out into the corridor…
…to the ears of Lady Christina Beaumont, daughter to the Earl of Whickerton, presently thirteen years of age. She stood hidden behind said door, her ear almost pressed to its smooth wood, as she tried to peek through the minuscule gap that allowed her this unique glimpse of adult life.
“Please, Beatrice, you need to help me!” Aunt Francine pleaded with Christina’s mother, her voice choked with tears. “I cannot stay! You of all people must surely understand!”
“Must I?” Christina’s mother replied, her voice tinged with disbelief. Christina heard the soft sound of footsteps as her mother began to pace around the room. “Why do you believe so? Why would I—?”
“Because you did the same!” Aunt Francine exclaimed, pride and awe ringing in her voice as she surged forward, hasty steps carrying her toward her older sister.
Christina held her breath, waiting for her mother to reply. She did not know what had happened, what had brought Aunt Francine to Whickerton Grove in the middle of the night, nor did she know why her aunt was so agitated. Had there been some kind of accident?
“What are you doing out of bed?” came a sleepy voice from behind her, and Christina spun around.
When her eyes fell on her little sister Harriet, only two years her junior, she exhaled a breath of relief. “Shhh!” she urged, pressing her finger to her lips and beckoning Harry forward.
With her green eyes squinted, Harry tiptoed to her side, her fiery-red hair unruly as always. “What is going on?”
“Shhh!” Christina urged again. “Listen.” Side by side, the two youngest sisters of the Whickerton clan stood outside the door to the drawing room, quieter than they had ever been in their lives, straining to hear the drama that was unfolding only a few paces from where they stood.
“Let’s try to remain calm,” their father suddenly spoke out, and Christina flinched, her hand clamping about her sister’s mouth to keep her from making a sound. Christina had not known their father was in the drawing room as well. Until this moment, she had only believed it to be her mother and aunt.
Christina felt her heart skip a beat. This was serious! If her father was there, it had to be, did it not?
“What do you mean I did the same?” came their mother’s voice, filled with incredulity. “I never—”
“You chose your own path,” Aunt Francine interrupted. “You married Charles against our parents’ wishes. You did not care what they said, how they objected. You chose your own path.” A deep sigh left their aunt’s lips. “As I wish to do.”
“But you’re married!” Christina’s and Harriet’s mother exclaimed. “Surely, your husband would not want you to—”
“Of course not!” Aunt Francine exclaimed, and Christina could not help but think that her voice resonated with deep-seated anger. “He demanded I abandon all foolish thoughts of being an artist and only concern myself with providing him with an heir.” A choked sob fell from her lips. “He threatened to lock me away.” Again, footsteps echoed to the girls’ ears, and Christina could all but imagine her aunt grasping their mother’s hands, her eyes full of tears and pleading. “I cannot live this life. Please, will you not help me?”
For a long moment, silence lingered. Christina looked down at Harriet’s face and saw the same kind of confusion she, too, felt. Always had Aunt Francine been a cheerful and carefree, lighthearted person, her smile radiant and her laughter infectious. Now, however, she seemed completely changed, despair in her voice and fear ringing in every word she spoke.
Christina clutched Harriet’s hand, and together, they inched closer to the door. As much as this conversation unsettled Christina, she could not imagine turning away from it.
“Let’s try to remain calm,” Christina heard her father’s voice say, the way he spoke not betraying the deep kind of emotions she had heard in her mother’s and aunt’s voices. “Of course, we will help you, Francine. But what is it that you have in mind? As you surely know, your options are severely limited.” Caution rang in her father’s voice, and Christina felt an icy chill inch down her spine.
“I want to leave.”
“Leave?” their mother demanded, incredulity in her voice. “What do you mean leave? Go where?”
Aunt Francine inhaled a deep breath, and Christina could picture her straightening and lifting her chin. “To France.”
Shocked silence stretched from one heartbeat to another as Christina held her breath, waiting for either one of her parents to reply. Surely, Aunt Francine could not be serious. She could not leave behind the life she had here and go to France. She was married. She had been married only a few months ago. Was she not happy? Was that not why all young ladies were encouraged to seek husbands? Did marriage not mean happiness?
“France?” Christina’s father asked in that calm voice of his while her mother remained quiet, perhaps too shocked to reply at all. “Why France?”
“I’m an artist,” Aunt Francine replied, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “My whole life, I have been complimented upon my artistic excellence, but it is only now that I realize that none of the words spoken to me ever truly meant anything. Yes, painting is considered an accomplishment for a young lady, but she’s never truly expected to become an artist. At some point, I crossed that invisible line, that line that exists between acceptance and outrage. Of course, I’m not meant to be an artist. A woman is only ever meant to be a wife and mother. But what if that is not enough?”
Christina’s mother drew in a deep breath, a heavy sigh falling from her lips. “Have you spoken to your husband? Perhaps there is a way for you to—”
“I’ve tried more than once,” Aunt Francine replied, resignation weighing heavily upon her voice. “He is a kind man, but he wants a wife, not an artist. He is ashamed of my aspirations. He does not understand.”
“Are you certain you want this? Do you understand what you would be giving up?” Christina’s mother counseled, her voice softer now, kind and soothing.
Christina held her breath, her blue eyes dropping down to meet Harriet’s green ones. Was this truly happening? Was Aunt Francine leaving them? Leaving England? Would she ever return?
The tall grandfather clock in the drawing room struck three in the morning, and Christina flinched, almost losing her balance and falling against the door left ajar. Harriet’s hands, however, shot forward and clamped over her arms, pulling her back.
With their arms wrapped around one another, the two girls remained where they were, listening.
“I know what I would be giving up,” Aunt Francine finally replied, “if I were to stay. This is who I am. This is who I want to be, who I need to be. I suppose I was a fool to never see this coming, to not understand that women are never meant to do anything noteworthy beyond marriage and childbearing. Yes, I should’ve seen this coming.” She exhaled a slow, long breath, agonizing in the way it spoke of all the disappointments she had suffered so recently. “You took a chance,” she said to Christina’s and Harriet’s mother, “and you found happiness. It was a risk, but it was worth it, was it not?”
In her mind’s eye, Christina could see her parents look at one another, her mother’s eyes misted with tears, a devoted smile upon her father’s lips, as they nodded, silent words passing between them, words no one else ever understood but them. “Yes,” her mother finally replied. “It was worth it. I have no regrets, and I do not want you to have any, either.”
First, a relieved sigh and then the rustling of skirts drifted to Christina’s ears. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much, Beatrice!” No doubt embracing their mother, Aunt Francine began to sob with joy. “I promise I shall write. I promise this shall not be the last time we see each other.”
“I will hold you to that,” their mother replied, tears now choking her own voice. “I shall miss you so much.”
Christina felt tears sting her own eyes as the truth began to sink in. Aunt Francine would be leaving, and they could not be certain when she would return. Christina wished she understood what exactly had happened, what had made her aunt daring and desperate enough to make such a choice. Yes, her aunt loved to paint. She had always been a formidable artist. Yet it seemed not to be enough. It seemed her husband suddenly disapproved of her artistic ambitions. Why? Christina wondered. Was this merely the way of the world? Something children could not understand. Something that simply happened sometime down the line.
Closing her eyes, Christina thought of the countless notebooks up in her chamber. Notebooks her mother had given her, urging her to write and express herself. Notebooks all the Whickerton siblings had received. Not all of them filled them with the same content. Leonora wrote about observations of the world around her. Louisa enjoyed copying poems that touched her heart. Harriet had not yet decided quite what appealed to her while their brother Troy had never bothered with them in the first place. Christina, however, had begun writing down stories, fairytales about magical creatures and faraway lands, about dauntless knights and fierce princesses. Always had her musings brought Christina joy, and perhaps not unlike her aunt, she had somehow expected it to always be so. Would the day eventually come when she would have to choose? Between her passion and her family? Did husbands not appreciated it if their wives possessed creativity, ambition and talent?
Harriet tugged on Christina’s arm. “We should go to bed,” she whispered before a wide yawn stretched across her face, “before we’re found.” Something thoughtful lingered in Harriet’s eyes as well as though she, too, had found herself confronted with a part of the world she had never known existed until today.
Nodding, Christina followed her little sister back up the stairs. Yet the moment they had overheard kept her awake for the remainder of the night. She remembered the sound of desperation in her aunt’s voice. She remembered her sadness and her regret. Most of all, though, she remembered that her aunt had been forced to make a choice.
Choices had always rung with possibility for Christina. Choices had always been highly valued in their family. Now, however, they spoke of loss. After all, at their core, choices spoke for one thing and against another.
Christina could not imagine leaving her family. She could not imagine ever being away from them, perhaps even separated by the sea. She could not imagine ever making such a choice.
Perhaps, the time had come for fairytales to be laid to rest. After all, she was already thirteen years of age and fairytales were only for children, were they not?