Page 1 of If The Fates Allow
Chapter 1
1887
Rain.
Wilhelmina Fairweather loved the rain.
She loved the thunder and the lightning, the way the sky melted from its usual colorful hues to a miserable gray, and how it washed away the stench of her father’s mill, forcing everyone indoors to live life as she did.
For as long as she could remember, rain always arrived whenever the clock struck three. Morning or night. In the summer, in the spring, or even now, during the autumnal march of the fall season, one could set a watch to the prompt torrential downpours that fell upon Haven House in the three o’clock hours.
And even though she might love the rain, it did not love her in return. The damp, sticky air never sat well in her lungs, and while beautiful to witness on days like today, it was yet another thing that kept her trapped inside.
Ignoring the book in her lap, Willa gazed up at the splatter of water beating down on the glass panes of the conservatory’s ceiling. The fall harvest would begin in a few days, and her afternoons of enjoying the roar of Mother Nature’s daily temper tantrums would end once winter approached.
Which was fine, in Willa’s opinion. Cooler weather meant more time outdoors and, most importantly, more freedom away from her family.
Thunder rumbled close enough to rattle the oil lamp on the table next to her lounger, and she reached over to twist the knob for a brighter flame. With the darkening clouds overhead, she didn’t want to waste another second of this perfectly cozy afternoon. The entire day was shaping up quite nicely between the dreary atmosphere and the deliciously gothic story in her book. If things continued as they were, she could read until nightfall, snuggled under a blanket, with no one else around to bother her.
“Your mother is looking for you.”
Or perhaps not.
Setting the book aside, Willa shifted to address her mother’s companion standing in the doorway on the conservatory’s upper level. The staff at Haven House understood to keep their distance, allowing her to have this slice of heaven to herself.
“Tell her I’m coming, Bonnie.”
Bonnie was the only exception to the unspoken no-entry rule, and as she crossed the room’s threshold, the woman's pert nose wrinkled at the chaos the space held. Riddled with stacks of books and various papers holding stories jotted down when the mood struck, the conservatory would appear out of sorts to most people. Yet for Willa, the books and foolish scribbles of her mind equated to a land of daydreams and lives lived far beyond Haven House.
Her imagination ran free in the conservatory, making this long, boring life bearable.
“It’s raining,” Bonnie observed. “You know I don’t like it when you sit down there during a storm. The dampness clings to the air on the lower level.”
“I’m fine, Bonnie.”
Sickly since childhood, Willa suffered bouts of lung spasms, which hindered her ability to breathe properly. She could never keep the company of crowds for too long or enjoy the outdoors throughout theyear like her siblings did. The conservatory functioned as a personal sanctuary, built exclusively for her use during one of the worst bouts of illness ever to strike. Those arduously painful months just so happened to coincide with a massive renovation under her mother’s direction, and, wanting to give her daughter some semblance of normalcy, Margaret Fairweather convinced her husband to build Willa a place that would allow her to experience the world without actually living in it.
“Always so stubborn,” Bonnie grumbled, snapping her fingers. At the popping sound, felines of every shape and color emerged from their hiding places, ready to follow their pied piper. “It’s the Fairweather in you.”
Her message delivered, Bonnie left with a parade of cats behind her, slipping off into the main hall where Haven’s staff rushed about in preparation for her brother’s arrival home. Wanting to have nothing to do with it, Willa’s shoulders slumped, and she groaned over being summoned. Cal had been away earning a college education this past year, which was a total waste of time, in her opinion. A college degree didn’t matter. Not when you were the sole male heir of the Fairweather family. The mill was Cal’s future, and there was no way to change that.
Swinging her feet to the ground, Willa stood with an annoyed huff. She took one last look at the watery view, extinguished the lamp, and placed her book on the nearest bookshelf. Undoubtedly, she wouldn’t be able to return to finish the novel today. If her mother wanted an audience, it wasn’t without good reason. As of late, Margaret Fairweather didn’t care to spend time with her offspring, finding them as dull as she did Haven House.
Taking the small set of steps to the upper level, she entered the hall and weaved through the bustling traffic of people. While searching for her mother, Willa waved a hand in front of her face, feeling a bit like an idiot as she did. On her last visit to Mr. Abernathy, he claimed that the flapping of one’s hand in front of the face was an effective method in warding off potential illnesses, and her mother had insisted she follow his instructions.
Personally, Willa thought the idea was a load of horse shit.
More than likely, her mother did as well, only forcing the ridiculous behavior on Willa to satisfy her never-ending desire for control. Alone in this vast wasteland of pine, without any hint of gentry or society for miles, no one was exempt from being used as entertainment for Margaret Fairweather.
Knowing she would probably find her mother in the newly expanded ballroom, Willa headed there first. With the upcoming fall harvest came the annual Fairweather Gathering, a hosted event for a handful of affluent Hollingsdale families—all two of them—and other fellow lumber barons within a close radius of the Fairweather Mill. Partners at the best of times, enemies at the worst, her father’s associates were a mixed lot of like-minded men who were as pleasant to be around as an agitated beehive.
As predicted, she found her mother in the ballroom, fussing at the staff while they decorated. Willa smartly waited in the doorway until noticed and catching sight of her, Margaret heaved out a sigh. “Wilhelmina, will you please straighten your spine. That posture of yours is atrocious.”
Out of reflex, Willa did as she was told. Her mother ruled with an iron fist, and disobedience was something that only occurred in other households.
“Did you need me?”
“Lucinda’s dress.” Margaret swept a hand in the direction of her youngest child standing in the ballroom’s corner. “Do you have an opinion on it?”
