THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1888 - ALEXANDRA Read online

  THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1888 - ALEXANDRA

  Victoria Alexander

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

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  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1888 - Alexandra

  Copyright © 2020 by Chery Griffin

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64197-139-3

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  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  NYLA Publishing

  121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  This book is for Chuck,

  who from the very beginning has been my hero and the love of my life.

  The greatest magic of all really is love.

  Contents

  About This Book

  THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Discover More in the Nimway Hall Series

  Discover More by Victoria Alexander

  About the Author

  About This Book

  #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.

  THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL

  A love invested with mystery and magic sends ripples through the ages.

  Long ago in a cave obscured by the mists of time, Nimue, a powerful sorceress and Merlin’s beloved, took the energy of their passion and wove it into a potent love spell. Intending the spell to honor their love and enshrine it in immortality, she merged the spell into the large moonstone in the headpiece of Merlin’s staff. Thus, when Merlin was far from her, he still carried the aura of their love with him and, so they both believed, the moonstone would act as a catalyst for true love, inciting and encouraging love to blossom in the hearts of those frequently in the presence of the stone.

  Sadly, neither Merlin nor Nimue, despite all their power, foresaw the heart of Lancelot. A minor adept, he sensed both the presence of the spell in the moonstone and also the spell’s immense power. Driven by his own desires, Lancelot stole the headpiece and used the moonstone’s power to sway Guinevere to his side.

  Furious that the spell crafted from the pure love of his and his beloved’s hearts had been misused, Merlin smote Lancelot and seized back the headpiece. To protect it forevermore, Merlin laid upon the stone a web of control that restricted its power. Henceforth, it could act only in response to a genuine need for true love, and only when that need impacted one of his and Nimue’s blood, no matter how distant.

  Ultimately, Merlin sent the headpiece back to Nimue for safe keeping. As the Lady of the Lake, at that time, she lived in a cottage on an island surrounded by swiftly flowing streams, and it was in her power to see and watch over their now-dispersed offspring.

  Time passed, and even those of near-immortality faded and vanished.

  The land about Nimue’s cottage drained, and the region eventually became known as Somerset.

  Generations came and went, but crafted of spelled gold, the headpiece endured and continued to hold and protect the timeless moonstone imbued with Nimue’s and Merlin’s spells…

  Over time, a house, crafted of sound local stone and timbers from the surrounding Balesboro Wood, was built on the site of Nimue’s cottage. The house became known as Nimway Hall. From the first, the house remained in the hands and in the care of a female descendant of Nimue, on whom devolved the responsibilities of guardian of Nimway Hall. As decades and then centuries passed, the tradition was established that in each generation, the title of and responsibility for the house and associated estate passed to the eldest living and willing daughter of the previous female holder of the property, giving rise to the line of the Guardians of Nimway Hall.

  THE GUARDIANS OF NIMWAY HALL

  Nimue - Merlin.

  through the mists of time

  .

  Moira Elizabeth O’Shannessy b. 1692

  m. 1720 Phillip Tregarth

  .

  Jacqueline Vivienne Tregarth b. 1726

  m. 1750 Lord Richard Devries

  .

  Olivia Heather Devries b. 1751

  m. 1771 John “Jack” Harrington

  .

  Charlotte Anne Harrington b. 1776

  m. 1794 Marco de Rossi

  .

  Isabel Jacqueline de Rossi b. 1797

  m. 1818 Adam Driscoll

  .

  Miranda Rose Driscoll b. 1819

  m. 1839 Michael Eades

  .

  Georgia Isabel Eades b. 1841

  m. 1862 Frederick Hayden

  .

  Alexandra Edith Hayden b. 1864

  m. 1888 Robert Curtis, Viscount Brynmore

  .

  Fredericka “Freddy” Viviane Curtis b. 1890

  m. 1912 Anthony Marshall

  .

  Maddie Rose Devries b. 1904

  m. 1926 Declan Maclean

  .

  Jocelyn
Regina Stirling b. 1918

  m.1940 Lt. Col. 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.