Dreaming of a Fairytale Love (Preview)

Chapter One

The books were practically calling out to her, with each one intoning her name in its own peculiar voice with sweet, melodic cadence …

Charlotte

A soft sound like a mother hushing a sobbing child, followed by a breath of exhalation, and this followed by the click of a vowel and a hard consonant to finalize it.

Charlotte

She licked her lips as she stared at the row of books in her father’s office. It was like a table heaped with sumptuous fare, this shelf. Charlotte rubbed her palms together as she perused the titles, then proceeded to run her finger over the spines.

This one has an interesting title: Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus. She liked the stories of ancient Greece. Perhaps this was some new wily author’s take on that exciting old myth.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said her father as she was pulling the book off the shelf.
“But why?” said Charlotte.

Her father smiled, his face breaking into a roadmap of wrinkles as he took the book from her hand. “I know you, child. You would not like that one. You must trust my judgment here.”
“Papa,” she said, “I am not a child. And would you so quickly govern my sensibilities now that I am a woman?”

Her father smiled. “A woman? Well, tempus fugit, eh? Very well. You may read that one, but caveat lector.”

“What is it about?”

“’Tis a light sort of romance,” said Edmund, her father. “It deals with a young medical student who stitches together a man from the bodies of cadavers. He then proceeds to give the thing life and is for the rest of the novel tormented by the fiend.”

A cold shiver rippled its way down her spine. “Well, I suppose I had better find something else. Papa, did you really publish such a disgusting tale?”

Her father laughed. “My child, what do you take me for, really? That book was a gift from Mr Lackington, the book’s true publisher. He said it is a terrific read. I finished it last night, and I must say I have to agree with him.”

“Who is the author?”

“Anonymous,” said her father, taking the tome from her hands and replacing it on the shelf. “The author wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Surely you must have an idea of who it is,” said Charlotte, smiling knowingly.

“I shall say only that it is a woman, and that she is a protege of Mr Shelley.”

Charlotte’s mouth fell open. “A woman wrote of such horror? And a friend of Mr Shelley’s at that?”
Her father shrugged his shoulders. “The world is splashed with many different colours, my child, just like the rainbow.”

“I should hope I never come across her.”

“And do you think our Mr Shakespeare was as evil as his Richard the Third?”

She thought for a moment. “I suppose not.”

“Well, there you have it. If you were to meet this woman, this author of such horror as you see it, you might be surprised to find her as charming as a daffodil.”

“The devil hath such charms, Papa, you know that.”

Her father laughed. “Writers are a truly strange lot, child. They inhabit different worlds at different times, and they wear many masks. God gave them the talent to do so, so that we may learn what it is like to wear the clothes of different men and women. Do you understand?”

She stared at the tome. “I think so. But … dead bodies, Papa?”

“You suppose we have nothing to learn from the dead? Read the book if you must, child. As a matter of fact, I insist you read it. It is most illuminating.”

Charlotte looked at the spine and smiled. It was truly a marvel that one could learn so much about one’s fellow humans with so little effort. We live in a remarkable time, she thought. Oh, if she could only run her hand over each and every one of these spines and absorb the knowledge within like a succulent takes in water!

“I think I shall pass on this one, Papa, if you don’t mind.”

“It is a book ahead of its time,” said her father. “One day you shall read it. There will be volumes written in praise of it, mark my word.”

“What else do you have, Papa?”

“Try this one.” He handed her a manuscript bound in green cloth as a temporary cover. “The Orchids of Knightsbridge is the title. ’Tis a sequel to The Kensington Spring.”

Charlotte felt her heart flutter. The Kensington Spring was her favourite book to date. The author must be a truly remarkable woman, she thought. Pity that women had to hide their identities behind the bland moniker, ‘Anonymous’.

“You finished The Rogue’s Daughter, then, or did you abandon it?” said Papa.

“I finished it, Papa.”

Her father laughed, a joyous, melodic sound. “I would have sworn you’d be engaged with that one for at least another week.”

“Papa, what can I say? I devour words like a sop devours drink.”

“You are your father’s daughter, then, for certain.”

A flare of pride spread throughout her body when he uttered those words. She was her father’s daughter, and this fact was never more demonstrative than when it came to the girl’s reading habits. Charlotte Balfour was never more at home than when she was immersed in a tale of some other’s fabrication. For a few hours each day, she was instantly transported to some far off land. Whether that place was Sir Richard Burton’s Arabia or some Irish moor dense with fog and haunted by ghosts, she relished the opportunity to fall into a book and become as one with the character who traversed the fantastic country between the covers. And she did this now, taking a seat in the corner of the office and peeling open the book, eager to jump into the world created by her favourite author.
Woe to the man or woman who interrupted her while she was engaged in this pastime. Better to interrupt a magistrate in the middle of his duties, or a holy man in the midst of a benediction—Charlotte would not abide for a moment the intrusion of some foreign, real-world agent into the realm of her stories. Many a time she had snapped at her maid like some rabid dog when the foolish woman had dared to poke her nose into the book with a weak-voiced, “Excuse me, Miss Charlotte, but luncheon will be on the east deck this afternoon …”

There was nothing more needling than such an intrusion. After all, whether it was Mr Walpole, Mr Defoe, or Mrs Radcliffe, someone had sweated to ensure that every sentence be wrought with enough fortitude so that the entire structure remained steady. She knew this, being a writer herself. And to interrupt a reader’s pleasure while she admired such handiwork was tantamount to a cardinal sin.

And so, when Philip, her twin brother, entered the office and began speaking in his usual nasal tones, with his customary way of acting as though everyone in the room was entitled to hear him, she clapped the book shut with what she hoped was sufficient annoyance.

“It is but one of many of the world’s injustices,” her brother was saying, “that the whole of England must bear the brunt of that sawed-off little twit.”

Charlotte sighed discontentedly. Napoleon again. Philip seemed to be fixated more so than ever as of late.

“What is it this time, brother?” she said. “Taxes? The price of corn?”

“Well,” said Philip, “now that you mention it, I suppose it is the taxes and the price of corn to start.”

“Of course it is,” she said and re-opened her book.

“If it’s to be Napoleon again,” said Papa, then I shall take my business elsewhere. I am heading down to the post office.” With this, he gathered some papers off his desk and exited the office.

“What is that you’re reading?” said Philip, walking over and peering upside-down at the page.
She pressed the open book to her body so as to hide it from him. “Excuse me, Philip, this is a private matter between the author of this novel and myself, if you please.”

“She must be a wonderful companion,” he said, peeling off his riding gloves and tossing them atop their father’s desk.

“She is indeed,” said Charlotte.

“And what is it, pray tell, that gives her such distinction in your eyes?”

Charlotte looked up at the ceiling and thought for a moment. “’Tis her brilliant insight as to the workings of a woman’s heart.”

Her brother sat on the desk. “Is that so?”

“If I had to come up with a quick answer, yes.”

“Interesting. Perhaps I ought to read her work. I have been endeavouring to understand the hearts of women for years to no avail.”

“I believe it could do you no harm, at least none that you haven’t already done yourself.”

Philip smiled. “And just what are you implying, sister?”

“Nothing at all. I just happen to believe with all my heart that one can learn from the right books, especially those that engage in fantasy, more than one can learn in any classroom.”

“Explain,” he said, a curious grin on his face.

“Well, a writer puts her soul onto paper. I cannot conceive of anything more revealing than that. Even if it is entirely confected, the story will reveal the soul at some point. I ask you, can a lesson in history or naturalism do such a thing?”

His face was pondering. “I think not.”

Charlotte smiled gently at him. “Well, there you have it.”

“What of texts on philosophy?” he challenged.

“What of them?”

“There is much wisdom to be found in them. I ought to know. I have read quite a bit.”
She tapped the cover of the book. “There is nothing in any philosophical tome, no matter how unwieldy, that can compare with the concise insight into human nature that a good work of fiction can provide. I stand by my statement, dear brother. You are defeated once again.”

“Is that the author of The Kensington Spring?”

“One and the same,” she said, now getting thoroughly annoyed at the intrusion.

“Thank God for that woman,” said Philip, “for she seems to have saved Papa’s business singlehandedly.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Charlotte, clapping the book shut for a second and final time, realizing she was not to have a moment’s peace while Philip was here.

“Single-handedly?” said Papa, entering the room. “Why, I should like to think my acumen for business has done some good.”

“I meant nothing by it, Papa,” said Philip.

“I trust you did not. And kindly remove your person from atop my papers.”

Philip hopped off. Papa scrutinised his desk, re-ordering papers. Without looking up from the jumble, he lifted Philip’s riding gloves and held them in the air. Philip took them without a word and sat down in front of the desk.

“Why are you here?” Papa asked impatiently.

“I had only dropped by to say hello, Papa.”

“Hello,” said Papa.

“Hello,” returned his son.

“Is that all?”

“If that’s the way you feel, Papa, I shall leave England once and for all.”

“You will save a good deal on the price of corn.”

Charlotte stifled a giggle.

“We will see you at supper tonight, then?” said Philip.

“I would not miss it for all the ink in India.”

“Goodbye, then, Papa. Goodbye, sister.”

“Goodbye, brother. Try and keep your head about you.”

“I shall,” said Philip, and left the office.

Papa sat down and sighed. “I love him more than all the stars in heaven can attest, but he does tend to fray the nerves.

Charlotte laughed. “He is ours, Papa.”

“Mmm, and knows it. If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do. I will not be much company.”

This was the best news anyone could have delivered to her. “Of course, Papa. If you don’t mind, I shall dig into this book while you work.”

He peered at her over his spectacles. “That is why I gave it to you. First crack, as they say?”

She smiled, blushing a little, and opened the book.
 
Chapter Two

Every woman who has ever trod upon the earth has held the key to happiness within her own beating heart …

So began the novel.

Charlotte felt her smile widen. She knew what she was in for from here on in. The Kensington Spring had followed the life of a certain Lady Mary Moorcroft, an orchid collector who finds love in an arboretum she is helping to fund.

The story itself was a simple one. In it, Lady Mary meets Lord Grayson, a rake who cannot seem to bring himself to love anyone because of a past tragedy. Lady Mary breaks through his adamantine exterior and endears herself to him. He then becomes frightened by his own love for her and disappears, taking a navy vessel across the channel to Denmark, where he is set upon by pirates midway. He gallantly fights them and is the victor. His brush with death allows him to note his feelings with the truest clarity. All through the narrative, Lady Mary is struggling with her feelings for the rake, as he simultaneously embodies everything she hates in a man and everything she loves—his vulnerability chief among them. She rejects other suitors at the chagrin of everyone around her, defying even her own heart. In the end, they reunite, each of them having transcended their own spiritual and physical limitations.

As with all this writer’s work, everything that made The Kensington Spring worth reading was in the details. Aspects of the human heart were illuminated like nothing else Charlotte had ever read. This author was a talent unmatched by any contemporary, as far as Charlotte was concerned. Perhaps there were others more lauded by critics and scholars alike. She did not care tuppence for that. As far as she was concerned, she was this woman’s sole critic and sole scholar. She felt personally addressed by the prose, so how could it be otherwise?

There was one other person who understood this relationship, and that was Dorothea, her best friend in the world, and the only one she knew who devoured these books with the same voracity as she. She could not wait to tell her that the mysterious woman’s new book was available and that once again, she, Charlotte, was the first to lay eyes upon its luminous prose.

She was about to continue when she heard a commotion coming from outside the office. Annoyed once more, she looked up and saw that Papa was no longer at his desk. She got up and went to the small window of the office. Papa was standing just outside arguing with some man of modest means. Philip was there as well, acting as a sort of moderator.

Papa turned mid-sentence and walked hurriedly into the office with Philip and the strange man at his heels.

“I do not see why we should stand and have a row out in the middle of the street where we could be cited for public nuisance.”

“Nor do I,” said the gentleman.

“Now, forgive me,” said Papa, “where was I?”

“You were about to revert the rights of my client’s book back to her.”

“Now, see here,” said Philip.

“Listen, you,” said the gentleman, “it was only a matter of luck that I ran into you at the tavern.”

“The tavern!” said Papa.

“I was there to meet a friend,” Philip said.

“I do not approve of your frequenting those sorts of establishments.”

“Nonetheless,” said the gentleman, “he did. And I consider it a providence, for I was on my way here anyway. But I see now that your son either has no sway or no spine. Whatever the case, I must speak with you, Mr Balfour.”

“Now listen,” said Papa, “you have no right to come in here and insult my son.”

“Does he not have the authority to revert publication rights?”

“He does, but—”

“But what?” said the gentleman, who stood a good six inches taller than Papa.

“But,” Papa said, flustered, “never mind that. He did the right thing in referring the matter to me.”

The gentleman took a deep breath and paced towards Charlotte. He either did not care to acknowledge her or was too deep in thought to notice she was even there in the first place. He was a strikingly handsome fellow, smartly-dressed if a bit dishevelled, his top hat in his hands. He had bright blue eyes, a square jaw, and a kind, clean-shaven face save for robust brown whiskers on the sides. The kind face belied his apparently arrogant personality. Whatever author he represented must have a devil of a time with him, or was otherwise lucky to have this bulldog as a secretary or manager. The publishing business, Charlotte knew all too well, required a man to summon the tiger within at times.

The man spun on his heel. “A mere fortnight is all I ask.”

“We had a deal,” Philip said defiantly.

“Philip,” said Papa, “pray, be calm.”

“I will not have the integrity of this publishing house compromised by anyone, let alone some woman author!”

“That woman author,” said the man, “happens to be the most successful one this firm has ever known.”

At this, Charlotte felt a tinge of excitement. Could they be talking about …?

“It was not even the correct title,” the man continued. “Everything is wrong. A fortnight is all my client asks. A proper manuscript will be delivered in full by that time.”

“I think the title is a fine one,” said Papa. “The Orchids of Knightsbridge. It has a wonderful ring to it. Besides, it hearkens back to The Kensington Spring.”

Charlotte felt a flush of heat around her collar. They were talking about the author whose work she loved so dearly. She became even more interested in the man at this point.

The invocation of his client’s works seemed to provoke the man even further. He stamped his foot. “I demand you revert the rights, or I shall see you in court this day!”

“Don’t you threaten us,” said Philip. “We have a proper solicitor. Besides, would your client show her identity so freely?”

“Now, Philip,” Papa said, steadying the boy with a hand on his shoulder, “there is no need for that.”

“Your father speaks much sense,” said the man. “You ought to honour him.”

“I ought to spit at your feet,” said Philip.

This caused Charlotte to gasp audibly. And that caused the stranger to spin on his heel once more and notice her for the first time.

“Apologies, Miss,” the man said with a bow of the head, “I did not see you sitting there. I am afraid my tone has been rather harsh.”

“It has been, Mister …?”

“Colborne.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Colborne.”

“I’m afraid the circumstances do not permit the same pleasure—”

“I was being ironic, Mr Colborne,” she said with a half-smile.

“Yes,” the man said sheepishly, “I see. Well, in that case, might I—” His face changed suddenly, looking like a man who had been struck.

“Is something the matter, Mr Colborne?”

“Where did you get that?” he said, pointing to the manuscript in her hands.
Charlotte froze. “I—”

“I gave it to her to read,” said Papa.

“This is an outrage,” said the man.

“I give all your client’s books to Charlotte. She is my daughter, and I trust her literary judgement. And might I say, she is a fan of your client’s.”

“That notwithstanding,” said the gentleman, “it is still an outrage. I demand that you hand that over immediately.”

“I see no reason to be so demanding, Mr Colborne,” said Charlotte.

Before she could continue, Colborne reached down and swiped the manuscript out of her hands like a hawk snatching prey.

“Pardon me, Mr Colborne!”

“Apologies, Miss Balfour, but it is my duty to my client.”

“See here,” said Papa. “Your grievance is with me, Mr Colborne, not with my daughter. You make another such move, and I will first throw you out onto the street and then have you in irons for it.”

Colborne, now cowed, his jaw twitching, turned to Charlotte. “Miss Balfour, please forgive my violent actions. I am a passionate man, and I act at the behest of a passionate woman. I meant no harm to you.“

“I forgive you, Mr Colborne,” she said, “but you ought to keep your temper under control. What if I were a soldier or some ruffian? I would have you laid out on the floor like a carpet in seconds.”
At this, Philip let out such a laugh, it made her jump.

Colborne shot a glance at her brother then back at her. “Are you a partner at this firm?”

“No, I am merely a judge of its wares.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you can talk some sense into your noble father and your noble, if hot-headed brother.”

“I have been trying to do so for well-nigh on nineteen years, Mr Colborne, to no effect whatsoever. But if you insist, I might try yet again.”

Colborne smiled gently. “My client wishes the rights to be reverted to her for as long as it takes to make certain changes to the manuscript. It is difficult to explain the relationship a writer has with her work, Miss Balfour. I don’t expect that you should understand.”

“I understand better than you think, sir,” said Charlotte. “I am an author myself.”

The man straightened. “Is that so?”

“It is. And I must say that were it not for the manner in which you came storming in like ten armies I should have taken your side at the outset.”

“Well,” said Colborne, fondling his hat uncomfortably. “I feel in somewhat of a bind. May I ask that you put your personal feelings towards me aside and consider the matter from a writer’s point of view?”

“I will do that,” said Charlotte, rising from her seat at last. “Papa, Philip, I think it would do you no harm to revert the rights of publication to this gentleman and his client.”
“Traitor!” said Philip.

“Oh, go and get stuffed, Philip. Papa, can you not see that this man is in earnest? I do not for one second believe that his client will take the work to be published elsewhere. After all, have you not treated her well up to now?”

Papa rubbed his forehead. “Charlotte, it is more complicated than that.”

“No, Papa, with all due respect, I do not think it is more complicated than that in the least. ‘Tis very simple, as a matter of cold fact. You are worried that you will lose his client, so covetous of her business you are. Well, you have her business. And if this woman sees the novel as imperfect, I for one, would not dare to question her artistic judgement. Therefore, it could only benefit you, Papa, for the work will be even more marvelllous than we can imagine, judging by what I’ve read so far, anyway. Won’t it, Mr Colborne?”

Colborne stood with his mouth agape. “Why-why yes,” he stammered. “Of course.”

“Then, it is settled,” said Charlotte. “Papa, you will allow Mr Colborne to leave peacefully, fully chastised for his behaviour here today. And in a month’s time, we shall have the completed and revised work.”

“I will not allow my daughter to run my business for me,” said Papa. “But … seeing as how I am a man of intellectual integrity, I must concede to her point. Take the manuscript back. Have it in my hands no later than a month’s time, or I will see you and your client in court.”

“Thank you, Mr Balfour,” said Colborne. He turned to Charlotte. “And thank you, Miss Balfour.”
With this, he exited the office.

“Well, that was a fine performance indeed,” said Philip. “It surely is a blessing from on high that I have a sister who can so casually overturn the family business.”

“Don’t be crass, Philip, and don’t be jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Indeed,” said Charlotte. “It seems as if I have a greater mind for the business than you do.”

“And how did you know that man was not some rival publisher looking to steal the work?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Now, now, you two, behave yourselves. Now it seems I’ve forgotten that there was another letter I wanted to post. Can I leave here without some version of fratricide committed in my absence?”

“That all depends on Charlotte’s next word, Papa.”

Papa shook his head. “If that is all it takes, dear boy, you may indeed deserve what is coming to you.”
 

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“Dreaming of a Fairytale Love” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Charlotte Balfour’s life revolves around books, as her father is a successful book publisher. This doesn’t however change that her strong passion for writing is to be kept a secret as her father would never approve. After an unexpected twist of fate, she meets one of her father’s clients, who is revealed to be her favourite author of all time. He is also the most dashing man he has ever seen. Little does she know that he is about to become so much more to her…Will she let her dreams get in the way of her chance of true love?

Devilishly handsome Arthur Colborne, who publishes anonymously, is immediately struck by his publisher’s charming daughter. It is not long before he enters into an agreement with her that she will help keep his secret authorship from his father, a respected parson, and in return, he will help her refine her own first novel. Neither of them expects though just how much this will take… Will he break free from his own constrictions and convince Charlotte of his powerful feelings for her?

Even though fate brought the two of them together, there is still so much that keeps them apart. It will take a lot of courage to admit their growing feelings for each other. Is their blossoming love strong enough to overlook society’s restricting rules?

“Dreaming of a Fairytale Love” is a historical romance novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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