Too much like Austen’s Marianne and Elinor?
My stomach squeezed at the notion, especially in regard to Marianne and Lark. But was I like Elinor? I’d admired her patience and honorable responses, but had nearly thrown the book across the room when I thought she’d lost her chance at love from such a good man.
I blinked. An unequal match, even.
“I’d wager your sister will be happy.” She gave my hand another squeeze. “You should have seen her when she came by to tell me the news on her way to the train depot. She fairly glowed. And he looked so handsome and gentlemanly.” Aunt Elaine nodded with a little too much excitement. “He’d bought her a string of pearls to wear for their wedding day. She looked lovely. So much like your mother.”
My eyes burned with the warning of tears, but I swallowed the grief. What point was there in grieving now? I couldn’t stop what had happened. All I could do was pray. Pray for her happiness. Pray that her rash decision ended in a good match. A happy home.
“I’m glad she seemed happy.”
“Oh, she did, and he doted on her too. Wouldn’t leave her side for a second.” She tsked and walked to the stove, retrieving her teapot and a dainty, chipped cup. “This frees you to find your own way now.” She set the cup in front of me and filled it with the light, amber liquid. “I know you were waiting to make sure Lark was taken care of before you looked for your own beau, and now you can.”
I raised my eyes. The careworn ribbons over her forehead creased into deeper grooves as she searched my face. She’d worried over our futures and tried to take care of us after Mother died, though we’d been old enough to manage our own affairs. She never spoke of her story, of the childless home and her husband’s untimely death, but the ache lingered in her worry lines.
She’d taken every opportunity to encourage both me and Lark to “settle down” and “not wait too long” for marriage, love or not, because “a woman belongs in her own home with her own family.”
I wanted those things, but not at the expense of my heart.
Lark had made her choice. I couldn’t influence my sister’s life anymore. Nothing held me back from stepping into the impossible.
I kissed Aunt Elaine goodbye and walked out onto the street. The Brick House was settled among the trees at the far end of the street, as impossible a dream as a future with an English gentleman.
“I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” The Lewis Carroll quote teased into my mind. But a more treasured verse sank deeper into my spirit. “With God all things are possible.”
Even this?
I looked up into a sky of early autumn azure and offered an impossible prayer, because if hope lived anywhere, it was with the One who wrote the stories in the stars.
Dear Book Goblin,
I have been called to another part of the house to assist other fairies, but I’ve left you with a dearly loved book of mine. Cinderella. The illustrations in this particular version are rather breathtaking, especially the next-to-last one. I hope you will find it especially meaningful, considering your earlier analogy of wealthy bachelor and poor housemaid.
Fairy tales carry with them a unique ability to unfurl deep truths in a whimsical way. They also, this one especially, offer hope for those who feel magic is out of their reach. Being a goblin yourself, I’m sure you know that humans have lived outside of magic for so long that they’ve forgotten how to believe in it. You might have to help them.
The Library Fairy
I’d barely made it to the walled garden entrance when the sky opened up in a full downpour. With a look over my shoulder toward the gardener’s cottage, where I’d just delivered some landscaping books to Mr. Leeds, I weighed my options. Dash to the conservatory to wait out the storm or attempt to make it back to the house.
Dampness seeped through my dress, chilling me to my bones, when my attention landed on the weeping willow just around the corner from the garden. Its thick branches draped to the ground and left a dry space beneath its canopy. I ran for it.
Barely had I made it within the haven of the branches and taken a seat against the tree’s dry trunk, when another form pushed through the boughs.
“A library fairy’s hiding place?” Oliver’s golden hair curled in wet ringlets around his face, his smile in full bloom. “Is this where you’ve been all morning?”
“What are you doing out here?” I laughed, taking in the sight of him after missing opportunities to speak with him over the past few days.
“Well, I badgered enough servants until someone finally told me you’d gone to the walled garden.” He nestled down beside me, dusting at the droplets on his coat. “Then, when the sky opened, I saw you dart in here, so I followed.”
“You didn’t have to risk the rain for me.” I rubbed my arms, wishing I’d taken the time to grab my coat before leaving the house, but I’d only planned a quick visit to the cottage and back. “You’re soaking wet.”
“Not as much as you.” He shrugged out of his coat and draped it over my shoulders. “Besides, after not having seen you for two whole days, I was determined.”
“I had to take over another housemaid’s duties.”
“I know. I badgered that information out of the servants as well.”
“Oh Oliver, what will they think of you searching for me?” I pulled his coat more closely around
