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  The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1818 - Isabel

  Suzanne Enoch

  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

  Discover More in the Nimway Hall Series

  Discover More by Suzanne Enoch

  About the Author

  Copyright

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

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

  * * *

  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.

  * * *

  The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1818 - Isabel

  Copyright © 2018 by Suzanne Enoch

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641970143

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  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.

  * * *

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Created with Vellum

  About This Book

  1818: ISABEL

  * * *

  New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Enoch spins a Regency-era tale at Nimway Hall, in a book series centered on an estate where love and magic entwine to bring romance to all who dwell there.

  * * *

  A passionate, determined young lady trying to prove herself worthy of a magic-touched legacy, and a steadfast gentleman looking for his own place in the world join forces to restore an abandoned estate to its former glory.

  The moment Isabel de Rossi turns eighteen, she takes charge of Nimway Hall, which has stood empty for the past ten years. Well-aware that all her female forebears found true love at Nimway, she can’t wait to discover her own destined match. Instead she’s faced with Adam Driscoll, the infuriatingly practical estate manager whose presence is a constant reminder that her own grandmother thinks she has no idea what she’s doing.

  Adam thought the recent offer of a position at Nimway Hall a godsend. After spending six years managing his elderly uncle’s estate he is facing either a dreary career in the army or the church. At Nimway his feet are on the ground, his hands in the earth, his mind on practical matters.

  The last complication he needs is a foreign-raised heiress intent on finding a magical orb; but Adam can’t help noticing that his strangely derailed repairs are suddenly on track, and that the clever, amusing mistress of the Hall is genuinely interested improving her estate and the lives of her tenants. And he is beginning to find it hard to resist his simmering attraction…

  Isabel though wonders if she isn’t worthy of becoming the property’s guardian. The famous orb – the artifact reputedly responsible for every love match made at Nimway Hall is nowhere to be found…until dreamy Lord Alton arrives and starts to pursue Isabel. The pesky orb suddenly appears, though it seems to have a preference for the strong and loyal Adam.

  For an unsophisticated young lady, the choice between a charming viscount and an interfering employee should be a simple one, but magic is a stubborn thing – and the heart is even more headstrong.

  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

  Dedication

/>   For my dad,

  Who read every one of my books except this one.

  I miss you.

  1

  None of the clocks at Harrington House in London seemed to be in working order. Isabel de Rossi had noted this oddity the moment she’d arrived in Town. As time passed – crawled by, really – she became convinced that every one of the clocks slowed even further. For the phenomenon to grow worse, the hands would have to begin moving backward.

  “It’s a clock, dear,” her grandmother commented, stepping into the morning room. “You must have had clocks in Italy.”

  Isabel blinked, turning her gaze from the ornate gold mantel timepiece. “Hmm? Oh, of course we have clocks. I’m only… I’m eager to see Nimway Hall. I’ve heard about it all my life, after all.”

  “Nimway isn’t going anywhere, I assure you.” Grandmama Olivia gave a brief smile as she put an arm across Isabel’s shoulders, guiding her granddaughter to the sofa. “Your grandfather and I haven’t seen you since you were twelve, however, and I am selfish enough to wish to keep you here in London for more than three days. For heaven’s sake, you’ve just turned eighteen, and you’re in London. You should be anticipating a season of balls and dashing young men paying you compliments.”

  If she was being honest with herself, perhaps Isabel had dreamed of that, from time to time. But having a Season meant an audience with royalty, doing perfect curtsies and knowing all the steps to every dance, and all the correct words to say to people with titles and gold-filigree names on their calling cards. Taking a deep breath, she suppressed a shudder. “I wasn’t raised in anticipation of any of that,” she offered.

  “No, you were raised by Italians, for heaven’s sake. Artistic Italians. I’m surprised you even wear clothes.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You did wear clothes in Florence, didn’t you?”

  “Grandmama! Of course we wore clothes.”

  “Well, how am I to know? Your mother allowed herself to be sculpted nearly nude by your father, before they were even married. And all of his people were artists, he said.”

  “Yes, many of the de Rossis are sculptors. Quite celebrated ones.” Olivia Harrington likely knew that already, but in Florence Isabel had grown up among some very talented sculptors, painters, musicians, and writers – even if none of those abilities had rubbed off on her. That didn’t signify. Neither did she wish to mention that her father hadn’t stopped at the Nimway Hall fireplace when it came to sculpting images of his wife Charlotte. And some of those had featured no clothing at all – including one displayed prominently on the landing of the main staircase at their home in Florence.

  “I suppose someone must provide decorations for homes,” her grandmother finally commented, with a smile that looked forced. “But my point is, you’re not there now. You’re here. And here, well-bred young ladies have Seasons.”

  “I don’t wish for one. I’ve been looking after the household in Italy practically since I was twelve, Grandmama. I am ready for this. Isn’t that why you wrote me that it was time I take over responsibility for Nimway Hall? Mama already gave me papers signing her ownership rights over to me. Was it all only a ruse to lure me here? Because I—”

  “Of course it wasn’t a ruse. I only hoped you would be more…reasonable than your mother.” She flipped a hand at the air as if batting away an insect – or some past annoyance. “I have learned my lesson, however. Whatever I might have wished for Charlotte, and whatever I might wish for you, I will satisfy myself with supporting whichever path you choose for yourself.” For a moment she looked not quite sad, but thoughtful. “I pushed your mother too hard, and so I can only blame myself for losing her to that Marco de Rossi and his gypsy Italians.” Olivia looked up again. “But I don’t wish to have to wait another twelve years to see you again. If you consider that a ruse, then I suppose I’m guilty.”

  Isabel was fairly certain no de Rossi had ever been a gypsy, but at the same time, her upbringing at the hands of her over-indulgent mother and her adoring father did seem a deliberate counterpoint to Olivia and Jack Harrington’s much stricter views. Somewhere in the middle would have been nice – and considerably more useful, really. “Somerset isn’t so very far from London. It’s much closer than Florence, certainly.”

  Grandmama Olivia smiled again. “It is much closer, yes.” The older woman reached beyond Isabel to pick up an embroidery hoop. She gave it a perfunctory glance and set it on Isabel’s lap. “I’m not one to criticize, but I believe even Miss Tatterbell could improve on this rose.”

  Isabel sighed, sending an annoyed glance at the tabby cat in the front window. “It’s supposed to be a strawberry.”

  “Ah.” Olivia rang the small bell on the side table, and a moment later a footman appeared in the doorway. “Tea if you please, Tom.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Biting her tongue against the wish to point out that she hadn’t journeyed all the way from Florence, Italy, to London, England, to embroider, Isabel poked the needle several times through the fabric. She had missed seeing her grandparents, and being in London was rather exciting. But she didn’t need anyone else to tell her that she wasn’t meant for proper Society, for soirees or evenings at the theater. For eighteen years she’d heard tales of Nimway Hall and its mysteries, and she wanted to see them for herself. The sooner, the better.

  Sighing, she dropped the embroidery hoop back onto her lap. “Grandmama, if you’ve changed your mind, or if you think I’m not…capable of taking over the care of Nimway, I wish you would simply say so.” It would be painful, but at least she would know. At least she would be able to stop waiting for…something. For this restlessness that had begun a year or so ago to stop pushing at her.

  “If I hadn’t thought you ready, I wouldn’t have written you and your mother about it.” Olivia nodded her thanks as tea appeared. “Shut the door, Tom,” she instructed, and the footman did so. “And I know how little Charlotte cares for household duties and that you’ve been seeing to them on your mother’s behalf. However, that said, your grandfather’s leg is likely to heal within a few weeks, and we could return to Nimway Hall with you. All see it together, as it were.”

  “Grandpapa Jack shouldn’t be fox hunting at his age,” Isabel returned, accepting the cup of tea her grandmother poured then adding three lumps of sugar and a splash of milk to the watery concoction. The secret to drinking tea, she’d discovered, was to make certain it didn’t taste like itself.

  “You are not the first one to say so,” Olivia commented, sitting back in her seat and sipping.

  “But his leg is not the reason you’ve been gone from the estate for ten years. His leg being healed is therefore not the reason you would wish to make a return to it.”

  Her grandmother eyed her over the rim on her porcelain cup, which was trimmed with silver and featured a flock of blue doves circling some sort of shrubbery. “You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

  “I do try to be.”

  “Cleverness isn’t always a welcome trait, especially when one is seeking a husband.”

  Isabel blinked. “I’m not seeking a husband. I’m seeking a chance to become Nimway Hall’s guardian, just as you did. And as Mother did not.”

  “She did, in her way. As long as her heart continues to beat, my Charlotte protects the land and our people. As do I. As will you. Nimway can be a large and demanding mistress, Isabel. And a duty not lightly taken, nor lightly set aside.” She sat forward again, lowering the cup and her voice. “And as you are the only daughter, the only child, of your generation, you will also be required to produce an heir. Which means that yes, you are seeking a husband. The female line must continue.”

  Well, she hadn’t thought of it that way. After eighteen years in Italy, broken by a holiday or two to England, she’d wanted to come home. And though she couldn’t explain it, and though she’d never even set eyes on it, Nimway Hall was home. Not the large, rambling house in Florence or her loving, contented parents, or the loud, boisterous extended
Italian family on her father’s side and the conclave of artists that had always surrounded them. Yes, she loved them all, and she missed them dearly, but for nearly all her life something had pulled at her. She needed to go home.

  Olivia patted her on the knee, making her jump. “Nimway Hall will affect you,” she said, her voice soft and her gaze unfocused, as if she’d become lost in a daydream. “It’s a busybody and has no qualms about pushing people into directions they would not choose to go if left to their own devices.” She shook herself a little, her gaze returning to her granddaughter. “You know your grandfather and I did not favor a match between Charlotte and Marco de Rossi. An artist – a sculptor, for heaven’s sake – and an Italian. He dared carve your mother’s half-clothed image on our dining room fireplace.” She shuddered, nearly spilling her tea. “I can assure you, that is nothing a mother or a father wants to see on a daily basis.”

  “But Papa is a master sculptor,” Isabel couldn’t help retorting.

  “Yes, he is, which means no one could mistake the identity of his subject, bared to the view of every diner from now to eternity.” She set her tea aside. “But the Hall thought nothing of that. I think it likes strong feelings, and…lustful thoughts, and all manner of unacceptable behaviors.”

  “You…talk about Nimway likes it’s alive,” Isabel commented. Her mother seemed to believe so, but Grandmama Olivia was so much more practical than her daughter Charlotte. “Surely—”