Bellevere House: The Americana Trilogy, #2

By Sarah Scheele

A 1930s romantic comedy brought straight from the pages of Jane Austen . . .

 

Faye Powell is a typical girl from Tennessee during the Depression. Her parents are struggling, their large family isn't easy to support, and the few people with good fortune are objects of envy, similar to the Hollywood stars whose faces appear at the movies each week. Except that it's hard to feel that way if you actually live with them and know what they're like.

 

Faye's aunt and uncle live in a lovely house in Illinois, so fine it's actually been given a name like it's some kind of country estate. Bellevere House. And that's where Faye is staying. After being semi-adopted by her relatives, she drifts around accompanying her silly, spoiled cousins on their rounds of clueless insulation, irresponsible schemes, romantic entanglements that lead to disaster, and affectations of stardom. It's hard to be jealous of people when she sees the sometimes painful reality under the surface. And it's downright impossible when arrogant Ed believes she has a thing for him when she doesn't.

 

At least—she doesn't yet.

 

You Can't Take It with You meets Mansfield Park in this sparkling and creative revision of one of Austen's great novels. Set in a charming, chic 1930s setting, Bellevere House is soaked in vintage Americana.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Scheele
• Release date: May 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386021254

Sarah Scheele

​Sarah Scheele is the author of numerous books for younger readers. Her books often appeal to a "for the whole family" sensibility making them accessible to adults, as well as bridging numerous age subcategories within YA, from Middle Grade to New Adult.  She lives on a third-generation family farm in Texas, was homeschooled long before other people had even heard of the idea, and grew up surrounded by big blue skies, winding gravel roads, and the great classics of literature. Her independent, somewhat isolated existence meant the friends she made in these books--titles as varied as Little Women and The Lord of the Rings--had a reality to her almost equal to the close-knit circle of people she knew in real life. This sense of respect for people in general, which sprang from having very few in her life, permeates her books with emotional nuance and terse interactions between people expressed with simplicity. In her style of fiction, every detail matters--most of all the little things and the things we take for granted.  A published author for the last 15 years, she has an extensive repertoire of young adult fiction titles, divided into four trilogies. 2023 saw the beginning of the publication of complete trilogy editions for the first three trilogies. Her next standalone title will be Temmark Osteraith, the third book in the Prince's Invite Trilogy. She was also for 8 years a Pomeranian owner--and Pom would undoubtedly have said she was a devoted fan as well.  Her website is www.sarahscheele.com and her newsletter can be subscribed to by email by visiting the website or by RSS here http://feeds.feedburner.com/SarahScheelecom-News 

Book preview

Bellevere House

The Americana Trilogy #2

Also #3 in the multi-author Vintage Jane Austen series

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By

Sarah Scheele

Copyright © 2017 by Sarah Scheele. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including digital, webpage use, photocopying, or any information storage or retrieval system without the express written consent of the author, except where permitted by law or by the author.

All characters and incidents in this work are fictional, and any resemblance to actual personages or situations is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781521388426

For information regarding the use of this book, or for other information about this or upcoming publications, visit the author’s blog at www.sarahscheele.com

Cover design by Isabelle Hoffman

March 1937

Chapter One

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Warren Haverton, head of the Haverton family, ran the First National Bank of Parkdale. Bankers are always viewed as faintly doomsday—no matter how sunny their dispositions—and at this time they were especially feared because so many people and institutions still suffered from the financial crisis. But within his family, old Warren was a bit of a prankster and always had a twinkle in his eye. He liked to scare his adult children, still living at home, by threatening drastic steps such as lessening their allowance. (Or worse yet, withdrawing Myrtle and BeBe from the B College up near Chicago. But he’d never really been cruel enough to do that. Myrtle and BeBe couldn’t live without school.) The brothers of the girls were both noticeably older than their sisters and worked in business. Grover was on the New York stock exchange and rarely came home these days. His mother worried about him sometimes, but only to show maternal affection. Grover was not the sort of person you worry about.

Faye Powell was their cousin from Tennessee. Her mother, their aunt, hadn’t done well, and neither had most of Faye’s siblings. But Faye had found a good fit with the Havertons and now lived with them as a sort of permanent assistant—no, that wasn’t it. The Havertons didn’t need assistance and wouldn’t have found her much help if they had. Permanent servant? Impossible, offensive even. Besides, they always cleaned up their own rooms before coming downstairs, as they’d been taught. There was nothing for her to do. Secretary? Closer, but too official; she only sorted the mail and answered a few phone calls now and then. Uncle Warren had often had a secretary suggested to him and had always defiantly shot the idea down. He was a dragon on a gold mine about his papers—and unlike the proverbial dragon, had chosen to hoard something no one else considered interesting. But I digress.

Anyway, Faye was a Something or Other, now permanently attached to her cousins the Havertons. And since no one, including Faye, ever asked them about the situation, it would probably never be clarified.

On a sunny morning in March, Faye was in the front room collecting her uncle’s mail. Nearly every letter was a condolence message, mostly from out-of-state old friends Faye had never heard of, on Uncle Bart’s death. Uncle Bart was the husband of her mother’s other sister, Aunt Cora. Aunt Betty, married to Uncle Warren, was the third and oldest of the sisters. (This may be confusing, but you will have to muddle through with only a general idea because that’s what the Havertons did.) Anyway, Uncle Bart had spent much more time with the Havertons than Faye’s parents had. The Powells were always moving around in the general area of Tennessee, whereas he and Cora had firmly settled in Parkdale to be near Betty and Warren. So nearly everyone in Parkdale had the semi-functional knowledge of his identity that the Havertons had and sent polite—and vague—notes accordingly. Nobody was sure what Uncle Bart had done with his life, except he had rather remotely been a sort of preacher in a denomination specializing in frequent revivals.

I’ll send these up to Aunt Betty—though I don’t know why she thinks it’s fun to read them. The telephone rang. What’s that? Yes? 3128 Park Street, Warren Haverton’s residence. Who is this?

A young man’s voice erupted out of the phone. "Faye, is that you? I’m just about in a red-hot pickle! A pickle, I tell you. What’s this deal about Uncle Bart? Do I even know the guy? I don’t think I do."

Oh, there you are. We’ve finally made contact. "Hello, Grover, she said, blithely. It wasn’t overly important what she said. If she was as muffled at his end as his voice sounded to her, he might not understand half of her words anyway. Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. You’ve got to come home for the funeral. Uncle’s orders."

Grover sounded really, really irritable. "Sure, I’d love to bounce home and see a good old landmark like Dad. But I’m kind of tied up right now. Can’t you send all the excuses or something? Say I’m in tears about Uncle Bart?"

Faye was very sorry, but it couldn’t be arranged. Uncle Warren laid down the law. Everyone must come. It would be disrespectful to your uncle’s memory to stay away. Your presence does matter, she finished. Besides, how could I sell the idea you were in tears? Guys don’t get that dinged up, especially not humdinger jokesters like you.

There was a pause. Grover’s voice sounded rather stiff. I’d . . . I’d hide them, of course. But they’re there, I promise you, Faye. I’ve got stuff in the core about Uncle Bart. If it will get me out of going to the funeral?

There was a creak from the front door and a murmur of voices. Faye looked around. Got to go, Grover. Call later to plead your case, and in the meantime, I’ll tell Uncle Warren your thoughts. Although don’t delay—else the funeral will be over, and your excuses redundant, and he’ll be madder than ever.

Quickly putting down the phone, she headed to the door to embrace Uncle Bart’s widow, a short old woman with a long red nose. Behind this woman stood a stocky boy holding several enormous bouquets from Courier and White. The family had been receiving courtesy bouquets for a week, purchased by acquaintances at the flower store’s brick building, which was three and a half blocks away past the railroad tracks. The company’s name was engraved over the door in a metal plate embedded two years ago.

Oh, Aunt Cora! You look well, Faye exclaimed. Do sit down.

There was much coyness about Aunt Cora’s red nose, within the family. Honestly, Faye had yet to figure out why. Were they saying Aunt Cora was ugly? Perhaps. She certainly wasn’t the most fashionable commodity, being after all—well, old. But the way their eyes always twinkled at each other over their coffee cups indicated there was something more. I’ll figure it out eventually if I need to. As I’ll figure out whatever Grover is up to. He sounded really testy. Stiff. He’s preoccupied with something, that’s for sure.

Aunt Cora stitched her lips and took off her gloves. They were expensive lace, manufactured before the Great War. Through a collision of her grief with her personality, she was not in a good mood. You’re a very lazy girl, you know that, Fa—Fa . . . what in heaven’s name is your name again, girl?

Faye.

Aunt Cora settled herself. "Yes, that’s right. When you brought me those flowers the other day, two of them were wilted. Wilted, I tell you! The buds had fallen off and turned brown."

That is typically what happens when flowers wilt, Aunt, chuckled Faye’s cousin Ed from where he was standing by the bar.

Faye looked down, frowning slightly. Ed always brightened up a room with his delightful smile and zest for living. Clever too—and handsome, at least, everyone else was certainly of that opinion. Everybody either liked Ed or was scared to say they didn’t. Faye had always secretly felt he was stuck-up and inattentive, without much to say for himself and a surprising lack of good nature. True, she should count herself very fortunate she was included in her uncle’s unusually pleasant life during these times when so many were still desperately struggling. And she was grateful. Nobody else ever made her feel different or seemed to believe she should be considered self-conscious—only Ed. Grover had already moved out on his own when she came and he knew her only a little. He wasn’t a very thoughtful person, but his behavior towards her was nothing special. In fact, she should probably be flattered it was the same mild, faintly never-listening arrogance he exhibited towards his girlfriends, every one of whom were swell dolls. Myrtle and BeBe didn’t have much in common with her, that was certain, but they had always had everything their own way and were far too self-absorbed to care if one random girl drifting around their home was different.

But Ed always had a little bit of an attitude towards her, a bad attitude she felt inclined to call it. He had always taken care to laugh if she tripped over something or didn’t know which wine glass was for her and brushed past her when doors were opened as if she was a butler. A female butler with curly blonde hair, a very common sight, she was sure. He never did anything that could be exactly detected and called into question by his parents or even by his friends, but if there is such a thing as a subtle atmosphere, lying several miles below the lowest stratosphere, of being a second-class citizen, it had continually blanketed Faye’s relationship with Ed from the moment she arrived all those years ago. Everything other people said was instantly agreed with or the arguments were heated banter among equals. Everything Faye ever said only received a smile from Ed and an immediate effort to include someone else in the conversation.

By now Faye had outgrown childish insecurities enough to know it was certainly his problem and his loss, not hers, since their never being close would benefit her much more than him. She tried to have an attentive ear to people’s needs, a quality valuable in a friend, and he was the one losing that friendship—whereas she only lost a shallow person whose friendship would never count for much at all and who would have nothing to offer her. Why he has such an attitude is beyond me. He’s always been the plain one of the family! If I’m good enough for the rest of them, I’m certainly good enough for a dull drip like that.

Of course, Faye had never told Ed she thought him the plain one of the family, or at the best indistinctive and typical of young men. So that might be why he didn’t know—assuming that no one else had ever made this clear to him. Which, apparently, they hadn’t! He really did live in a charmed bubble and she doubted it could continue much longer. It was shocking he hadn’t already been told his market value.

I see you’re in proper mourning, she said neutrally, approaching him.

No hint of how she really felt about his appearance was at all discernible. Ed most likely had developed an idea she thought him attractive. She was rather afraid of this, but it would be a natural side-effect of having to not be straight-out with him.

Yup. You seen Grover?

He doesn’t want to come home. He’s making a fuss about it and wants me to pass the message on to Uncle. Oh, and he’s starting to get a New York accent—don’t know how he does it.  I never could drop mine from Tennessee, and the comments about that never end.

Ed gave her an odd look out of his blue eyes. Well, what did he say?

She shrugged. Nothing. Just a . . . a demeanor. He didn’t communicate much of anything. I think the funeral came at a bad time, somehow.

Whatever the situation was, it seemed Ed had some clues to its identity. He looked thoughtful and drifted away. But Faye did not bother to play the sleuth in Grover’s affairs—especially since, as I mentioned earlier, Grover was the kind of person who easily slips out of the mind. Ed vanished around a corner, and in a few minutes Myrtle and BeBe breezed in. Faye scuttled to help with their towering shopping bags.

Cries of apology echoed. The girls had meant to come home right away after hearing of Uncle Bart’s tragic demise, but the college band committee had desperately needed their input on the new uniforms. They’d been to Chicago to pick them out. The uniforms were going to be a splendid and mature black with gold trim and fringe. The band would look like musical bumblebees. And while they’d been up there, some of their classmates had insisted on doing a little extra shopping . . . but they were heartbroken about Uncle Bart. Honestly.

The girls were both several years older than Faye, being the daughters of Uncle Warren’s second marriage. (His first had ended in a divorce, which like all divorces these days had been mildly—and only mildly—scandalous.) Grover and Ed as the children of the now distant Eleanor Wankle were not blood relatives to Faye at all, but she called them cousins anyway because it was faster. Myrtle and BeBe were three years apart but did everything together as if they were twins. Both were currently wearing fashionable, boxy fitted skirts and sheer professional-looking blouses. Myrtle was generally said to be very pretty. None of her features were exactly bad, and her figure was shapely, but she somehow gave an overwhelming impression of bottom, to which a large buckle lying on her rear end only added. She was enthusiastic about this annoying recent fashion. BeBe, several inches shorter, possessed dyed red hair in visibly artificial permanent waves, large earrings like curtain rings, and an awkward, blocky bosom she was trying to disguise beneath a short-waisted jacket that hitched up. However, she had a spunky personality that got her instant attention from bystanders, and was a devotee of the current trend for bright lipstick.

The electric doorbell buzzed through the house again. Myrtle and BeBe, busy with their packages and a hundred yards of hideous band uniform material, thought the phone was ringing. Faye, however, knew it was the door and almost fell backwards as Grover pushed through and breezed past her. He had gained a little weight, and his flat brown hair had visible comb tracks through the grease. He did not look happy, and his eyes were small and cranky.

Whoa. That was fast. Grover! Uh . . . weren’t you in New York a minute ago?

He folded his arms. Sure, sure. No, I wasn’t in New York when we talked. Right at the train station here. Ignoring her startled face, he headed towards the stairs. And where’s Mother, for heaven’s sake? I thought she’d be down here, what with the funeral and all.

Myrtle and BeBe exchanged a glance before shrugging and returning to their purchases. But this is so odd. If you didn’t want to leave New York, why were you here? And if you were that close nearby, why would it kill you to come two miles to see your family? I really thought I’d have to tell Uncle Warren you weren’t coming while he glared at me.

Oh, certainly, Grover. She’s resting upstairs.

Grover seemed perplexed, although his mother had been napping, off and on, for years. Well, what’s wrong with her? Nothing serious?

It’s not unusual, Grover, she said meekly, ignoring his tone. Yes, it was certainly her fault that her aunt constantly took naps