An Earl In Time Read online

  A Fairytale Regency Romance

  An Earl

  In Time

  Ruth Ann Nordin

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and also represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher.

  An Earl In Time

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright 2021 Ruth Ann Nordin

  V1.0

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  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without expressed written consent of the publisher/author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Dear Gentle Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Trivia Bonus Section

  All Books by Ruth Ann Nordin

  Where to find Ruth

  To Stephannie Beman, one of the best people I’ve had the fortune of meeting. My life has been so much better because of you. I’m grateful to call you my friend.

  Dear Gentle Reader,

  Welcome to my very first fairytale romance. My intention was to write a time travel romance with a gothic feel to it, but somewhere along the way, the story incorporated elements in it that involved a curse and magic. The focus is still on the romance, but this story is a slower build than what I typically do. I wanted to spend sufficient time in setting the stage for the events that will later transpire in the book. As a result, this book is about twice as long as the other romances I typically write.

  If you prefer fairy tales that are light and fluffy, this isn’t the book for you. I have incorporated darker themes in this book. This book follows the Grimm fairytale path. It’s not based off of any familiar fairy tales in modern times. I set out to do something new, but I did do research in different folklore regarding fairies to help get inspiration for how the magical elements should work in this book. As two author friends told me, make sure magic has some rules.

  This book is primarily about two people finding each other across the gulf of two centuries and falling in love. This is a romance, and since it’s a romance, there is a happy ending where true love conquers all.

  If this sounds like your kind of book, I welcome you to my dark and romantic world.

  Happy reading,

  Ruth Ann Nordin

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  June

  English Countryside

  Willow Knudson peered out the car window as the lawyer drove down the tree-lined path.

  “It’s not far now,” the lawyer told her. “We’ll be at Nightingale Hall in a few minutes.”

  She looked up at the tree branches that formed a canopy high above them. Whoever had planted all of the trees lining both sides of the road had been meticulous about it. The trees lined almost an entire mile of the road, and they were equally spaced one from the other.

  They provided more than enough shade for a traveler on a sunny day. It was ironic that the day should be so bright when it was a death that had brought her here. It was a shame she hadn’t known anything about the long distant cousin who left her an entire estate.

  “Up ahead is a moat,” the lawyer said as they approached the end of the trees. “There’s still water in it.”

  She glanced at Mr. Thompson. She probably should think of him by his first name. She was twenty-five. It wasn’t like she was a child. But he was significantly older than her. He could be her grandfather’s age. And that made her think of him as Mr. Thompson rather than Arnold Thompson.

  Mr. Thompson smiled at her. “I don’t think you’ll be prepared for what you’re about to see. You said you live in a flat in the United States?”

  “A flat?”

  He paused. “I bet you call it an apartment over there.”

  What a strange word for apartment. Keeping the thought to herself, she said, “Yes, I live in an apartment.”

  “Once you see Nightingale Hall, you might not want to sell it. It’s a lot different than an apartment.” He pointed up ahead. “There’s the bridge that will take us over the moat.”

  She turned her gaze to it. The stone bridge curved upward. Sure enough, it was over a moat. She’d only seen a moat in the movies. She tried to make out where the moat ended, but it seemed to go on forever.

  “How long is the moat?” she asked.

  “It goes in a complete circle. If I remember right, the realtor said it surrounds 120 acres.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Why would anyone make such a long moat?”

  “Who knows? The noble classes seem to do everything to excess. I’ve seen estates that have acres and acres of gardens and pathways. If nothing else, it keeps the gardeners employed.”

  Yes, she was sure it did. She turned her gaze back to the moat as they started to cross the bridge. She thought she saw the water give off a glow of purples and pinks. She blinked and studied the water again. Sure enough, she did see those colors, and they seemed to pulse and swirl in the water.

  “How did the gardener create that effect with the pink and purple colors?” she asked Mr. Thompson.

  He glanced at the moat. “I don’t see anything pink or purple in there.”

  He didn’t? She studied the water again and saw it. Maybe it wasn’t on his side of the bridge. She leaned behind his seat and looked out the window. It wasn’t as easy to see from this angle, but she could still see the colors. Maybe he was colorblind.

  She settled back into her seat and grabbed the will before it fell off of her lap.

  Once they were over the bridge, he drove up the road that wound its way through some shrubbery that was taller than the car. It, much like the trees, lined the car on both sides. This was turning out to be a much bigger place than she’d expected when Mr. Thompson told her he was taking her to the quaint English countryside. The word “quaint” made her assume they were going to a cozy little cottage outside of a major city. She had expected a rural setting, but this was far more elaborate than anything she had imagined.

  As they wound around the last of the shrubs, an enormous two-story structure made of stone came into view. Her mouth almost fell open. It was huge.

  “This isn’t a house. This is a mansion,” she blurted out.

  “I was going to describe it to you, but since you’re not familiar with English estates, I didn’t know how to. It’s a Georgian manor built in the mid-1600s. It has sixteen bedrooms, six baths, and plenty of other rooms you can use however you wish. It could use a full-time occupant. Even though all of the updates have been done to it, no one has
lived here for longer than a few months at a time.”

  She glanced at her distant relative’s name on the will. “You mean, Greg Westmore didn’t live here?”

  “No, he had no interest in the place. In fact, it hasn’t been inhabited full time since 1817. It’s worth twelve million pounds. I’m not sure what that is in American dollars.”

  She didn’t, either, but she was sure it was a lot. “Didn’t Greg or any of his ancestors want to sell it for the money?” Why would anyone let this mansion just sit vacant for all of these years?

  “Greg told me he wasn’t able to sell it, no matter how many times he tried. He said the place wanted to stay with the rightful heirs.”

  She stared at him in surprise.

  He offered a shrug. “I’m sorry. I don’t know any more than that.”

  “So does that mean I can’t sell it, either?”

  “He would tell you that you can’t, but how can that be true? I don’t see how a property can stop the owner from selling it. I think he had an emotional attachment to it. You’d be amazed at how emotions make people do things they otherwise wouldn’t do.”

  He drove up to the wide stone steps that led to the large two doors that marked the entrance of the ginormous house. She saw a purple van not too far from them.

  “I took the liberty of using some of the money from the estate to hire a couple of people to get the place ready for you,” Mr. Thompson said. “There’s a small amount that’s been set aside for each generation to maintain things around here. That amount gets invested, and it’s enough to keep things going here. If you choose to stay here, you won’t have to worry about the upkeep. Though, since no one currently occupies the place, all of the furniture is covered in order to preserve it.”

  “The place is furnished?” She had assumed it didn’t have furnishings since no one lived here.

  He nodded. “It still has the furniture from when Julian Azazel, the Earl of Blackwell, assumed ownership of the estate.” He turned off the car and smiled in a wistful way. “Maybe I’m getting nostalgic in my old age, but I think it’s rather nice everything has been preserved. In some ways, it’s as if this estate is untouched by time.”

  Now Willow was intrigued. She’d never seen vintage furnishing before. This might be a treat.

  She got out of the car but waited for Mr. Thompson to lead the way before she went to the front door. As soon as she walked into the large foyer, she saw a woman who was wiping down the banister of the wide wooden staircase that had recently been cleaned. She was an attractive slender blonde who looked to be in her mid-forties.

  When the woman noticed them, she put the rag into the bucket and went over to them. “Are you the new owner?” she asked Willow.

  Willow nodded, but it was Mr. Thompson who spoke. “Yes, this is Willow Knudson. Willow, this is Violet. She is in charge of the staff who periodically comes out to maintain the place.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Violet said, extending her hand.

  Willow shook it, and as she did, she noticed the little tattoo on the woman’s wrist. It was a blend of one violet and one rose. “What a pretty tattoo,” Willow said as she studied it.

  “Thank you,” the woman replied with a friendly smile. “I decided to get it to go with my name.”

  “I like it,” Willow said, returning her smile.

  Violet let go of Willow’s hand then said, “We’re almost done cleaning everything. We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

  “Everything looks great,” Willow replied as she scanned the area. “It’s hard to believe no one has lived here for centuries.”

  “That’s because Violet and her team do a good job,” Mr. Thompson said. “Before we get into the details of what owning this estate will mean for you, I want to show you around. Maybe you’ll want to leave America and live here.”

  Live here? Willow had only learned this place existed. She couldn’t even think about living here. So much was happening so fast. It was hard to believe that just last week she was sitting in her apartment reading a book after coming home from her nine-to-five job that paid just enough to cover her bills. Her parents had never mentioned a distant relative in the UK.

  “I took the liberty of having the kitchen fully stocked for you,” Mr. Thompson added. “I figured since you have nowhere to stay in England, you might as well live here while you decide what to do with the place.”

  “I might as well sell it,” Willow said. Greg might have had an emotional attachment to this place, but she didn’t. “My life is in America. I told my boss I would be back in two weeks.”

  Mr. Thompson nodded. “Well, you have more than enough to eat for two weeks. When I return to the office, I’ll write up the contract for you to sell this place. For now, I’ll show you around.”

  “I’ll return to cleaning,” Violet spoke up. Turning to Willow, she added, “If you see anything I missed, let me know.”

  Willow nodded then followed Mr. Thompson up the stairs.

  As he showed her the very large and very luxurious bedrooms on the top floor, she felt like she was looking through a museum. The furniture was covered with heavy sheets that might have been white at one time but were now yellow. The windows were practically as big as the walls. They stretched for a good eight feet, and they were covered in heavy drapes that were pulled back to allow sunlight to come in.

  “Violet took the liberty of selecting one of these bedrooms for you to sleep in,” Mr. Thompson told her as they approached one of the bedrooms toward the end of the long hallway. “She had the sheets removed and everything made up for you.”

  Willow stepped into the room and inwardly gasped when she saw just how splendid a bedroom in this place was when the coverings were removed. There had been tall posts on the canopied beds in the other bedrooms, but this one had purple drapes hanging around the dark reddish-brown posts that almost reached the ceiling. The pillowcases, sheets, and comforter were purple, too. At the end of the bed was what Mr. Thompson called a settee.

  The room also had a fireplace, a couple of chairs, a small desk, a couple of lamps, a vanity, and a large armoire.

  “Through here is the bathroom,” Mr. Thompson said as he went off to the side of the room.

  She followed him and saw that the bathroom had a shower on one side and a bathtub on the other. There were also two sinks, modern lighting, and modern tile on the floor. It was a startling contrast to the bedroom which looked as if it belonged in the past, minus the lamps. She noticed the pile of neatly folded towels resting on the counter.

  “Everything in here works,” Mr. Thompson said. “Violet had the plumber make sure everything is up to code. And,” he added, “you’ll be happy to know there is a laundry room on the first floor, so you won’t have to wash anything by hand.”

  She smiled at the teasing tone in his voice. It would be nice to have access to a washer and dryer that she didn’t have to share with a bunch of other people in her apartment building, even if it was just for two weeks.

  They left the bathroom, and that was when she noticed the door that was close to the vanity. “Is this a closet?” she asked as she went to it. She tried to open it, but it was locked.

  “That’s actually the door that connects to the other bedroom,” Mr. Thompson said. “It’s been sealed shut. You can access that bedroom from the door in the hallway. I can show it to you. It’s the last room on this floor.”

  She left the room, and he took her to the last bedroom in the hallway. The hallway ended at a wall that had a sheet covering a long vertical flat object. Since no sunlight was peeking through the sheet, she knew the object behind it couldn’t be a window.

  Mr. Thompson opened the bedroom door, and she turned away from the object. She peered into the bedroom and saw that it was all covered up with sheets, just as the other bedrooms had been.

  “The fact that everything has been so well preserved will be a good selling point,” Mr. Thompson told her.

  He was probably right. If s
he was a history buff, she would absolutely love this place.

  She followed him back down the hall, and this time she noticed the paintings on the walls. They all looked as if they had been recently dusted, as did the small table with a lamp on it. She did wonder, however, why a sheet was still covering that object at the end of the hall. Perhaps Violet hadn’t noticed that one.

  “That’s it for the upstairs,” Mr. Thompson said, bringing Willow’s attention back to him. “We’ll go back down the main stairs. There are other stairs up here, but those have been boarded up. Servants used to go up and down them. If the new owner wants, they can always open those stairwells back up.”

  He took her back down the stairs, and it looked as if Violet had finished cleaning the bannister since Willow didn’t see her.

  “We did have the sheets removed from the furnishings in the sitting room,” Mr. Thompson said as he took her down a hallway. “Back in the 1800s, it would have been called a drawing room.”

  Willow didn’t even know what a drawing room was, but when she saw it was a room with chairs, a settee, a desk, and a fireplace, she realized it was a living room.

  “All of the furniture here is mahogany, and back then, it was crafted by hand instead of machine. I don’t care what people say; this kind of craftsmanship will always be superior to anything a machine can do.”

  As he continued to tell her about the furniture, her attention went to the portrait on the wall behind the huge desk. It was of a man who was probably in his early twenties. He was standing with his hand on the back of an empty chair. On closer inspection, she realized he was leaning toward the chair. It could be supporting him. She could only guess how many hours he had to stand for the artist to paint him. He was dressed in vintage clothes. Well, they were vintage in her time. No one dressed like that anymore unless they were actors in a movie that took place in the past.