The Fairmounts

By Valerie Nifora

He's ready to hang up his uniform. Until the woman of his dreams spurs a mysterious adventure...

The turn of the 19th century. Harry LaCroix yearns to make up for lost time. After spending several years serving in the war in Africa, the English

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Academy Elite
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885830386

Valerie Nifora

Valerie Nifora is a Storyteller, and a respected Marketing and Communications Strategist and Leader for a Fortune 50. She has a B.A. in Communications from Emerson College and an M.B.A in Marketing from Fordham University. In this collection, she uses her unique talents to illuminate the universal journey of love and loss.

Book preview

"The Fairmounts is a story about true love, heartbreak, and deep family secrets. Author Valerie Nifora captures a vulnerability in the main character Harry LaCroix as he rides a rollercoaster of emotions. A truly beautiful story encapsulating the themes of love, life, and deception with an exquisite cast of strong characters." – Kristi Elizabeth, Manhattan Book Review.

Nifora has truly constructed a beautiful romance novel, full of suspense, mystery, tales of old legends, and so much more. The plot is concise and unique, with the perfect balance of an old-fashioned type of love and mystery. – Theresa Kadair, Seattle Book Review

"In The Fairmounts, Ms. Nifora has crafted a captivating story that is both intriguing and mysterious and is reminiscent of a Brontë novel." – Theresa Dodaro, Author of The Porcelain Doll and The Bayman’s Daughter

"The Fairmounts is a book of secrets that keeps you turning the pages to unfurl the truth like a sail in the wind until the end." – Andi Pray, Author of the Rescue Me series

Other books by Valerie Nifora

I Asked the Wind: A Collection of Romantic Poetry

The Fairmounts

VALERIE NIFORA

The Fairmounts © 2022 by Valerie Nifora. All rights reserved.

Published by Author Academy Elite

PO Box 43, Powell, OH 43065

www.AuthorAcademyElite.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Identifiers:

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904603

ISBN: 979-8-88583-036-2 (paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-88583-037-9 (hardback)

ISBN: 979-8-88583-038-6 (ebook)

Available in hardcover, softcover, e-book and audiobook.

To Alan—

my North Star,

my always.

To love is to will the good of another.

—St. Thomas Aquinas

Chapter 1

It was always hard loving John. He was beyond himself—dashing, charismatic, charitable, self-involved—and above all, astonishingly handsome. His whims changed with no regard for others. And yet, with his polished guile, one would find oneself immersed in a dream like no other. It was a dream that John carefully spun until he was satisfied, and then . . . well, and then it was over. One would awaken to reality.

This was true for everyone—except for his devoted wife Lois; Lois, who pined away quietly while John frolicked as he chose. Lois, who loved John as well as any wife could. Lois—oh, poor, beautiful Lois—who stood by her husband’s side enduring cocktail party after cocktail party and shattered illusion after shattered illusion. For she knew in her heart she would always belong to John.

To say that my part in the entire affair was completely coincidental would probably be dishonest. I was, after all, Lois’s nephew and was certainly delighted when I received the invitation to attend the New Year’s Eve gala at Huntington House.

The mansion was named after John’s great uncle who was childless and passed the inheritance down to John. He was the third Huntington Winthrop, and seemingly the last. With no other living heir to inherit the Winthrop fortune, his uncle groomed John to be his successor. He taught him not only to run his business with a keen eye but also to find the smallest speck of human insecurity in any opponent and exploit it. I cannot say for certain what moral compass it was that directed John, but his ability to amass great wealth was evident from his youth, and his uncle cultivated it.

John would joke with his hunting friends that it was a miracle his uncle survived that awful gunshot wound to the groin, for the resulting impotence gave John his opulent home. At such clandestine gatherings, John would raise a glass and shout, To all balls great and small and their loss and fury! Long live the mighty musket, to which came the response, Hear, hear! Having attended several of these events in the years I’ve known John, I can only state that whatever joviality followed is best left secured in the memories of those who were present.

I remember the imposing nature of Huntington House the first time I saw it—the grand marble steps reminiscent of ancient temples and white Doric columns stretching up toward the sky. Lanterns on each step flickered in the brisk wind, and the faint rhythmic pounding of a trumpet could be heard. Open windows carried the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation and, although invited, I felt as though I were imposing. My cold breath danced on the wind. As I stood regarding the final step, a chill ran down my spine. It was there, frozen in time, that I sensed one more step would seal my fate and fortune. One small step into that grand Huntington House and my life would take a turn that would determine its course, and forevermore I would be the bit player in a grander scheme.

Perhaps it was the automobile—a machine recently introduced to the world to compete with the horse and carriage—pulling up behind me that disrupted my premonition. Perhaps it was the folly of youth. But, the warning subverted, I yielded as if to a siren’s call and entered through the grand doorway to the warming lights and illusions of the underworld.

I might have yet felt another warning and reconsidered fleeing down the enormous steps, across the lawn, and out into the engulfing trees to be sheltered by the moon if it were not for an imposing baritone that interrupted my final urge to escape and instantly diminished my ability to retreat. Your coat, sir? that baritone voice asked, and I, like an obedient schoolboy, removed my trench coat and handed it to the butler. You are Harry LaCroix, no doubt. Your Aunt Lois will be delighted you were able to join us, he concluded.

But how do you . . . ? But before I could finish my sentence, he was off. I suppose, like all demons, he knew best how to serve his master.

Several white-coated waiters passed through the crowd with trays of food while others carried silver trays of bubbling champagne. I was jostled without regard for the champagne in my hand. Juggling my glass, I was surrounded by over-enthusiastic guests basking in the warmth of gas lights.

Harry! I looked in the direction of the exuberant cry and saw Lois waving her hand in the air to get my attention as she navigated skillfully through the engulfing crowd and approached my side.

Oh, Harry! I am ever so delighted you could come! she said, sipping her champagne. Then, raising her glass, she offered a toast. To me, Lois Fairmount! May my marriage be a long and prosperous one!

We happily clinked our glasses. This is quite a party, Lois.

Oh, indeed, Harry. I don’t care for a soul here besides you and John, and yet here they all are. Aren’t they ghastly? Standing close to me she whispered, See that horrid man in the corner there, by the statue of Athena? He’s the Honorable Mr. Frederick Long, and the woman in that violet monstrosity of a dress is his equally hideous wife, Lady Isabella. They are always interfering in John’s businesses and I find them in long debates.

And yet, here they are. I raised my eyebrow in mock confusion and took a sip from my glass. Must be something about a rushed engagement and a secret wedding I read about in the society pages.

Oh, don’t start with me, Harry. See that girl with them off to the left? At this I paused, for there was indeed a young woman, easily missed. She stood with her shoulders hunched, wringing her hands as if in great discomfort. Her dress was maroon with large white flowers, and she looked as though she would like to disappear into the tapestry behind her. That’s a new ward they’ve taken on. Whatever was her name? Margaret! No. Martha! No. Blast it all, I can’t remember. At this, dear Lois laughed.

She seems a little old to be a ward, I said, questioning Lois’s comment.

That is precisely what makes them horrid. That woman is old enough to be on her own, not a ward of the Longs. It’s unseemly, Lois said with a stern expression. She’s some artist or orphan or—I forget.

I’m sure my face carried a look of amusement since I was convinced this was a silly tale entirely for my benefit. Lois stared at me with much severity, and a long pause passed between us. This was our way when one of us did not believe the other—a stalemate of two opposing forces with neither desiring to yield.

Well, if you don’t believe me, she said, raising her right brow ever so slightly, then I suppose we’ll simply have to meet them, won’t we? And with that, she released an almost imperceptible smirk and, before I could offer any objection, Lois firmly gripped my arm and we were off to meet the Longs.

Lois had traveled in these wealthy and eccentric circles since she was a young girl. Her mother had married well, and so she was raised with a good dose of manners and decorum made only the more refined by frequent trips through Europe. She wanted for nothing and was always exceedingly generous to my mother, even though her fortune was not the same as dear Aunt Lois’s. To call her Aunt Lois always annoyed her, as we were almost equal in age, with Lois barely a year my senior depending on the time of year.

Your Honor, my lady, may I present my nephew, Harold LaCroix. Lois beamed.

Please, call me Harry. I offered my hand, though neither of them took it.

The woman smiled politely and said, Indeed. She was much older than Mr. Long, with long streaks of white hair protruding through the feathered hat that hung over her eyes ever so slightly in an attempt to conceal her wrinkled brow. Her embroidered black cape was wrapped tightly about her bosom, which seemed to suffer severely for it. Her hooked nose did nothing to ease the rigidness of her presence. The gentleman stood a half foot taller than his wife; time had been more forgiving to his features. His finely trimmed mustache had a few white streaks as it hung around a smiling mouth. He held his cigar in one hand and his drink in the other, and his nod of hello referenced both Lois and me.

I was just about to tell Harold that you are great patrons of the arts, Lois began, when he insisted on being introduced.

And how precisely is he your nephew? Isabella asked, her plucked eyebrow raised.

Now, Lady Isabella, I would almost think that you were offending my sensibilities. He is my nephew precisely for all the reasons that people become nephews. He’s the son of my sister—

I interrupted. You are quite right in your question, uh, Lady Isabella. It seems that Aunt Lois was quite a surprise, as my mother was almost eighteen years her senior. I smiled and tipped my glass.

Lois has always been a miracle, a soothing voice interjected. And there he was, John Fairmount, approaching with his tailored suit and a broad smile. His dark hair gleamed from pomade with only one rogue strand hanging over his dark eyes that sparkled with amusement. His commanding presence made even Lady Isabella blush. Once I saw Lois, I knew that I would never be complete without her. And I am blessed to have her as my wife. Only a miracle could tame my wild heart. He bowed and kissed Lois’s hand and, having enchanted her thoroughly, whisked her away to dance.

The clearing of Long’s throat that broke the spell John had cast over us. You are interested in art?

Yes, I suppose I am, I offered, chuckling slightly.

And what sort of art do you prefer? I prefer Van Gogh, but the lady here prefers Matisse.

Actually, I like John William Waterhouse. I saw his installation recently.

Well, then you must meet Mary. She’s our new artist in residence at the manor, said Lady Isabella. Mary, do come here so that I might present you to Mrs. Fairmount’s nephew.

Harry. I reminded Long.

Yes, Harry.

At this beckon, Mary obeyed, walking slowly with her eyes fixed upon the floor before her, no doubt preferring that it would swallow her whole before she could arrive before me. She raised her eyes slowly and somehow found mine. There was no expression on her face. I could not read joy or sadness.

Yes, we found poor Mary at St. Agnes, that lovely convent up the hill, Lady Isabella explained, resting her large hand on Mary’s fragile shoulder. There was a lovely art exhibit, and Frederick was so taken by Mary’s art. We had to buy several pieces. And when we inquired after the artist, they presented us with poor, wretched Mary who had just lost her sponsor and was to be cast out into the cold.

We could not bear the mere thought of it! offered Frederick with indignation.

To be fair, Mary said timidly, I could have stayed in the convent if I were to take my vows.

Yes, quite right! Frederick corrected himself.

But what a solemn and solitary life for a young woman! And an orphan no less! We absolutely would not hear of it!

Her explanation was interrupted by the rapping of a utensil on glass. There was the dashing John Fairmount on the grand staircase, gazing down at us all with the widest smile, and right by his side stood Lois.

My dear and wonderful guests! John’s voice carried through the hallways, and a hushed silence followed while all eyes gazed upon him. I thank you for coming this evening, on the happiest occasion of my life thus far, and before the new year arrives, I am honored and humbled that so lovely a creature would ever consent to be my wife. May I present to you all Mrs. John Fairmount. Thus saying, he grabbed Lois by the waist and, dipping her slowly, kissed her passionately. Light flashed from a flock of cameras that appeared as if by some conjuring trick and assaulted the staircase to capture the delicate moment.

John restored, Lois flushed and beaming, and on cue, a battery of fireworks illuminated the lawn. A riotous cheer descended upon the great hall as guests rushed to find a spot from which to observe the display. All the guests, that is, but Mary. She leaned against the wall where I had originally spotted her, still attempting to vanish into the curtains.

I approached her. Can I track down a waiter for you?

She shook her head, staring at the floor again.

"What sort of art do you, uh, do? We never got that far in the conversation, as we had John’s announcement. I mean, do you sculpt?