THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1888 - ALEXANDRA

By Victoria Alexander

#1 New York Times Bestselling author Victoria Alexander takes us back to Nimway Hall, where magic is as old as time and love is where you least expect it. . .

She's given up on love and magic.

He’s going to change her mind.

Alexandra Hayden, the current Guardian of Nimway Hall, is having a very bad day. Well, a very bad year. Or two.

Her third fiancé swindled her out of Nimway’s reserve funds, she’s spent her dowry to help her tenants, and everything on the estate is in need of repair. Even Nimway Hall itself is starting to look a bit shabby. Worse, legendary Nimway magic seems to have vanished. All her fault of course: She simply isn’t the guardian she should be.

Robert Curtis is one of America's wealthiest young captains of industry. Now he finds he’s inherited a title and an estate. But Brynmore Manor is long-abandoned and barely standing. It's not at all what Robert hoped to use for business and family holidays and not remotely what he wanted. What’s a rich American viscount to do? Buy the estate next door, of course—Nimway.

The last thing Alex needs is an arrogant American neighbor. What she needs is money—and fast. To further his acceptance in London society and his business interests, Robert could use a well-connected wife. A marriage of convenience will benefit them both.

But marriage is not at all the practical, sensible arrangement they expected. With their annoying attraction and strangely vivid dreams of each other, this marriage is anything but convenient. And with every passing day, and every sleepless night, the terms they agreed to are less and less important.

Still, it’s going to take a push from Nimway magic to make them finally realize that love is the greatest enchantment of all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781641971393

Victoria Alexander

#1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander was an award-winning television reporter until she discovered fiction was more fun than real life. She is the author of thirty-one novels, and her books have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Victoria lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with her long-suffering husband and two dogs, in a house under endless renovation and never-ending chaos.

Book preview

Gideon Fletcher

Chapter 1

Robert Evans Curtis stood in the open carriage parked on a slight rise and surveyed the property in front of him to his left. From here, he could see past the woods to the house and the lake in the distance. He focused his field glasses on the grand stone house on a hill. With its bay windows and crenellated towers, it resembled a castle in appearance, a small, friendly castle but a castle nonetheless. He liked that. It was a fitting home for a new viscount, especially an American who’d had no idea until recently that an English title was part of his heritage.

This will do, Comstock. Robert smiled with approval. This will do nicely.

William Comstock, the young solicitor who had accompanied him from London, consulted a map then glanced in the direction Robert was looking. I don’t think that’s your property, sir. He looked at the map again then pointed off to the right. I believe yours is over there.

Robert shifted his attention and the field glasses. There was indeed a large house far in the distance, too far to see detail even with the glasses. It didn’t look anything like a castle, though. It couldn’t be helped, he supposed. But he would have liked a castle. Are you sure?

It does appear that way. Comstock studied the map. The Brynmore property is somewhat smaller as well, sir.

Smaller?

I’m afraid so.

Still—Robert adopted his most optimistic tone—it is an estate in the English countryside and, as such, a valuable commodity. Wouldn’t you agree, Comstock?

Yes, my lord. Comstock nodded enthusiastically.

Robert bit back a grin. He wasn’t used to being my lord and still wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the title, although it did put him a step above his twin brother in their lifelong competition. Theirs was a rivalry the brothers had realized at a very young age was thwarted by their mother at every turn but spurred on by their father for reasons they never did understand. What Father never knew was that the boys had made a secret pact at the age of eleven that their loyalty to each other superseded anything else, and any future successes would be shared equally. And while it might appear at any given time that Robert with his investments in oil and property was, on some sort of paternal asset sheet, ahead of Andrew’s successes in steel and railroads or vice versa, privately, the brothers viewed their respective accomplishments as joint achievements. And indeed, within days of Father’s death, with Mother’s approval, they had changed the name of their company from Curtis Unlimited to Curtis Brothers, Unlimited. While Mother and their sister, Sarah, owned thirty percent of the company, Robert and Drew shared the rest equally. At the age of twenty-nine, the brothers were among the wealthiest men in America.

Now, Robert, by virtue of being some four minutes older, had alone inherited the title of Viscount Brynmore along with property in England. Drew thought it all rather amusing and had taken to calling his brother Lord Four Minutes, which really wasn’t as funny as Drew thought. But the title offered new opportunities for increasing their company’s holdings and expanding their London offices. Besides, Mother was thrilled at the idea of having an English country estate. The family agreed that Robert should travel to England and assess the situation for himself.

Robert sat down in the carriage. Well, let’s see what I’ve gotten myself into.

Shall we proceed to the house, then, sir? Comstock asked even as he signaled to Mr. Wilcox, their driver.

Wilcox looked to be a few years older than Robert and hired out his carriage when he wasn’t busy. But the man was by trade a carpenter, which Robert thought might be useful depending on the condition of the estate. Wilcox and his carriage had been hired at the inn in the village of Balesborough, a charming, picturesque spot with thatched-roof houses and shops that looked like they’d stepped out of something written by Charles Dickens. But the village was not easy to reach. They’d taken an early train for the four-hour trip to Glastonbury then another hired carriage to Balesborough.

I can hardly wait, Robert said wryly, although he was eager to see his family’s legacy.

He settled back against the worn seat squibs and surveyed the property as they passed. According to the map, the Balesboro Woods—a fine stand of old-growth forest—stretched from the property he had assumed was his to his own. He had the oddest thought that surely its lush green depths provided homes for fairy folk and other magical creatures, and he almost laughed aloud at the fanciful notion, blaming stories his mother had read to him and his brother as children, as well as those by England’s most famous writer. Surely woods like these might have inspired Shakespeare to write Robert’s favorite work, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In spite of Father’s stern, no-nonsense disposition and his drive to succeed in all things, Mother, and her relatives, had managed to infuse her boys with an appreciation for art and literature as well as a bit of whimsy and a desire for adventure. No one was more pleased than Mother when Robert had announced he intended to see Brynmore for himself. She proclaimed it a grand adventure and had to be talked out of accompanying him, which had been surprisingly difficult given Sarah, some ten years younger than her brothers, had just been launched on the seas of New York society. Mother had been planning that campaign since Sarah was born and would not allow even mourning to interfere. The temptation of an English country estate was apparently another matter.

They turned off the main road and passed through an open gate barely clinging to brick pillars. They rounded a curve, and the trees abruptly opened up to reveal the house. The lawns on either side of the poorly maintained drive were overgrown with tall grasses waving in the breeze, vaguely reminiscent of the American prairie. And there, directly in front of them, was Brynmore Manor, perhaps the ugliest house Robert had ever seen.

It looks like a box. Robert stared at the grim stone building. Some three stories in height, it was nearly as tall as it was wide with a roof that seemed too short to balance the rest of the structure. Its only saving grace was the perfectly aligned rows of windows on each floor.

I believe that was the style then, sir, Comstock said weakly.

And when would that have been? The dawn of creation?

I don’t think it’s that old, sir. Comstock paged through his notebook.

Did the man have no sense of humor?

I don’t have any information as to the age of the house, but there are some notations on the boundary review that indicate it was in some disrepair.

When was that review again?

Just short of two years ago, sir.

If it was in disrepair then, I’m afraid to see what it’s like now. And indeed, the closer they came, the more apparent the condition of the building was. There was no more than a sliver of glass in any of the windows. The stone walls had darkened with weather and age. Vines of some sort had crept up the building and chiseled out chunks of the stone. Brynmore Manor was not only ugly, it was also depressing and sad, as if the poor place had given up any hope of repair and salvation.

Robert was out of the carriage the moment it stopped in front of the steps leading to the huge front door. Come on, Comstock. This should be interesting.

"I’m not sure interesting is the right word," Comstock said under his breath and climbed out of the carriage.

What about you, Wilcox? Robert asked the driver. Want to join us?

Thank you for asking, my lord. The villager stared at the manor and shuddered. I think I’d best be waiting here.

Robert grinned. Not scared, are you?

No, sir. Wilcox returned Robert’s grin. Just smart, my lord. Don’t believe in ghosts and the like, but Balesboro Woods had always been said to be a place of magic. This house is damned close to the woods.

It did indeed seem as if the woods were encroaching on the house in a menacing manner.

Wilcox considered the manor warily. I’ve never been inside this place. Don’t know anyone who has. No knowing what might be in there.

Maybe the last viscount, Comstock murmured then winced. My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean your father but the viscount before him. Comstock grimaced. Of course, that would have been your uncle, so again, my apologies.

Not necessary. Robert studied the building. I never met my uncle, and my father would have liked an imposing, threatening edifice designed to terrify even the most stalwart among us.

Although Father had died more than a year and a half ago, it wasn’t until recently that Comstock’s firm—Howard, Markham and Shaw—had contacted Robert about this viscount business. It was then the family had learned that not only was Father heir to an English title, but he had indeed inherited it seventeen years ago, when his twin brother had died. Father never said a word. Mother was furious. She knew he had emigrated to America from England at the age of twenty and had proceeded to build his empire, but he never mentioned his family. Mother had always assumed he had no family at all. It wasn’t so much that she would have liked to have been Lady Brynmore—although she did think that was exciting—but that Father had kept that secret and so many other things from her. It was then Robert realized that while his mother might have respected his father, who was some thirteen years older than she, and might well have been fond of him at some point, after thirty-one years of marriage, she wasn’t particularly distraught at his passing. It was a sobering realization. But the man did not engender overt feelings of love and affection in either his wife or his children. Mother was a different matter. Everyone adored Mother.

While Father had done nothing about his inheritance, he had apparently requested a review of the Brynmore property boundaries shortly before his death. Mother did find reference to that in Father’s private papers after the family was contacted by Howard, Markham and Shaw, but what Father intended to do with that information would probably never be known. To all appearances, he’d had no serious interest in the property, and the house had sat empty at least since his brother’s death. Looking at it now, Robert suspected the place had been unoccupied for far longer than that.

Robert started up the stairs, treading cautiously on the cracked and crumbled steps.

I have the key, sir, Comstock said behind him.

I don’t think we’ll need it.

The huge oak door sagged on its hinges and took no more than a mild shove to swing open with a horrid creaking noise that sounded suspiciously like the wail of a wounded beast.

Not afraid, Wilcox called. Just smart.

Robert chuckled and stepped into the house. The entry was spacious, dominated by a grand stairway that rose upward to the second floor. First floor in England, Robert corrected himself. Signs of neglect and time were evident in the discoloration of the marble floor and the peeling, shredded silk that still clung valiantly to the walls. The wood paneling was warped, and the smell of mold and mildew hung in the air. A heap of broken wood that looked like the remains of an armoire rotted off to one side of the entry.

At least the windows let in a lot of light, Robert said, trying to make the best of what was far worse than he had expected.

Not just the windows. Comstock stared at the ceiling, and Robert followed his gaze.

A large hole in the ceiling revealed water damage on the ceiling above. A small flock of birds, apparently disturbed by the men’s presence, flew past the opening.

Gonna need a new roof, Wilcox said in a matter-of-fact manner.

Robert glanced at him. I thought you weren’t coming in?

Curiosity. Wilcox shrugged. It’ll kill you, you know.

If the house doesn’t get you first, Comstock murmured.

Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing here that can hurt any of us. Robert strode to the stairway. This is good English construction, built to last. He emphasized his words with a firm pat on the banister, which promptly tipped over. It just needs a little repair, that’s all. Let’s see the rest of it.

An hour and a half later, the men returned to the front of the manor. They had been through the entire house, Comstock filling several pages in his notebook with notations on what needed to be repaired or replaced. Wilcox pronounced the structure of the building to be basically sound, but that was the only good news to be found on the premises. The hole in the entry ceiling—apparently the result of the floor being weakened by water and the armoire dropping through—was the largest hole but was by no means the only one. Most of the rooms were in disrepair, and there was evidence that any number of small creatures had called Brynmore Manor home. Rotting cloths covered the few pieces of furniture that remained in the building. The library was perhaps in the best state, with much of the woodwork remarkably intact and a fair percentage of the books protected behind unbroken glass doors. But a new roof was essential, the façade needed repair, and there was an alarming tilt to most of the floors.

What now, sir? Comstock picked a cobweb off his sleeve.

Back to the village, my lord? Wilcox asked a bit too eagerly. Wilcox had proven to be a great help, but he had looked over his shoulder at every new squeak or scurry, and it was obvious that the house made him uncomfortable. Understandable. Every step they took on every floor and in every room was accompanied by loud creaks eerily reminiscent of screams, as if the house was in a great deal of pain.

I had expected this place to need some work, but this is worse than I imagined. Robert and Drew had planned to use Brynmore Manor as a place to entertain, and hopefully impress, business associates from London with house parties and long weekends as well as serving as a vacation retreat for the entire family. Mother had mentioned how much she would enjoy spending time in the English countryside and was in fact already planning a trip sometime in the next few months. She had joined her sons on occasional business trips to London in the past and was delighted with the country houses of old school friends she’d visited. Father never accompanied them. What do you think, Wilcox?

I think it’s a good thing you have money, my lord. Wilcox shook his head. Never seen a house this bad.

But you think the structure is sound.

Don’t know for sure until you start taking it apart. Wilcox shrugged. I’d like to think I’m right about that, but there’s a more than even chance that I’m wrong.

Robert eyed the villager warily. Any thoughts on how long putting this place back in order might take?

Wilcox’s brow shot upward. All of it?

At least enough to make it habitable.

Can’t say. Wilcox frowned thoughtfully. A lot of problems ain’t easy to see. A house like this—bound to be surprises.

So, what are we talking about? Robert was almost afraid to ask. A few months?

Wilcox chuckled. I’d say upwards of a year. He paused. Maybe more.

That won’t do. Robert thought for a minute. He’d never liked having to wait for anything. Patience was not one of his virtues. His mother had her heart set on an English country house, and if truth were told, so did he. Even Drew and Sarah were intrigued by the idea. Not that anyone planned on taking up full-time residence, but one never knew what the future might hold. Regardless, Brynmore Manor was practically in ruins, and the property itself wasn’t what he had envisioned.

An idea popped into his head, fully formed.

What about the house next door? he asked without thinking. Odd. He was not prone to impulse. Robert glanced at Wilcox. Do you think the owners would be willing to sell?

Nimway? Wilcox’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. Oh, I wouldn’t think so, my lord. Nimway has been in the same family for generations. He paused. But life is hard all over these days.

And everything has its price. Optimism rang in Robert’s voice. Let’s pay a call on the owners and see what they have to say.

Excellent idea, sir, Comstock said eagerly, but then Robert suspected the man would have agreed with him about anything.

Well then, to Nimway it is.

Chapter 2

These were not the hands of a well-bred lady. At least not anymore.

Alexandra Edith Hayden rocked back on her heels and studied her hands. She knew she should have worn gloves, but it was difficult to be exact with gloves on. This was not her first day of yanking persistent weeds out of the front gardens that greeted visitors upon their approach to Nimway Hall, but it did seem an endless chore. Pity she’d had to let the gardener go as well as most of the house and stable staff, but she’d had no choice. Nor did she have any choice but to take on this particular job herself. Mother had directed the planting of all the gardens at Nimway, and should Mother and Father appear unexpectedly—as was their habit—Mother would take one look at the gardens and know things were not as they should be at Nimway. And know as well, the trust she put in her only daughter had been misplaced. Even if Alex had to do every blasted job on the entire estate by herself, she would not allow Mother to think her daughter had failed.

Worse yet—Mother would be right.

When Mother had at last decided to turn over Nimway and the ancient post of guardian to her only child, she had said she was fully confident Alex was up to the task. She and Father had then taken off to see what adventures the rest of the world held. On occasion, usually when Alex was least expecting it, Mother and Father would return to Nimway. Mother never warned her daughter about these visits in advance, claiming they weren’t for purposes of inspection but simply because she missed Nimway as well as Alex. Alex only partially believed her.

She brushed an annoying strand of hair away from her face. The good thing about the manual labor she was now engaged in was that it was essentially mindless and allowed her to think. Unfortunately, it also allowed her to dwell on her problems. In spite of the country’s current difficulties, poor harvests, and low grain prices, Alex had truly believed, thanks to Nimway’s financial reserves, that if she could simply hang on, things would improve. And aside from one tiny mistake nearly two years ago—well, two mistakes, really, but they were inseparable and not precisely tiny—she might have managed it. Now she had no idea what she was going to do. How she was going to save Nimway. She’d once put her faith in the magic that was part and parcel of Nimway, but thus far, that had failed her. Apparently, the punishment for being a poor guardian was a complete and utter lack of anything the least bit magical.

Good day, an unfamiliar male voice called from the drive.

Alex jerked her head toward the