A Song and a Snowflake

A woman seeking redemption at the end of a church aisle…
Beautiful songbird Charlise Hartright is ruined. Introverted, shy and grieving her mother’s loss, she would do anything to restore the family name, even commit to a loveless match, if it means her beloved sister Elise will have a chance at finding her own happiness.
A man out to make his own name…
Sinclair McIntyre has travelled halfway across the world to create his own destiny. Tired of being in the shadow of his older brothers, he is determined to do things his own way to become an independent, self-made man.
A future laid out before each of them.

But with a song
And a snowflake
Everything will change.

December 18, 1870
‘Allow me.’
The baron's white gloved hand intruded into the grey half-light of the carriage. From Charlise’s seat, his face remained shadowed, and she hesitated in reaching for him. The day before, she had almost taken a tumble because he hadn’t held her firm enough. Or maybe she had not held his hand as tight as she should.
As she gripped the rail to counter her balance, Charlise clasped his hand and gingerly stepped down, her boots clicking as she landed on the granite paved road. She brushed her skirts neat, even though in the dark chill of evening no one would see if her silks were crushed, but the baron always made a comment if she didn’t look her best.
The day had already started to fade, and evening crept across the sky. The little group clustered on the path—the baron, who had offered to escort them across town, her sister, Elise, her eyes bright and filled with the sparkles of youthful wonder, and Aunt Petunia, who ascended three steps before she spun to face them and spread her arms wide.
‘Welcome to Number 7 Honeysuckle Street,’ she said with unabashed pride. ‘What do you think?’
Last summer, their aunt had purchased one in an identical stretch of five white stucco-clad townhouses in a quiet part of London. A dedicated bluestocking and proud spinster, the townhouse represented the independence their aunt valued. She had written gushing letters detailing how elegant and modern her new home was—fitted with cast-iron pipes, a kitchen with a hot water boiler that also serviced the bathrooms, and gas lamps in every room. And even though Charlise, her sister, and their father lived only on the opposite side of London, the months had been cluttered with rehearsals and other commitments, and today was their first time visiting for themselves.
Looking along the short strip that was Honeysuckle Street, Charlise could see why her aunt loved it so much. Ancient trees, now stripped of leaves but likely rich and verdant in the summer, dotted the sidewalk. The houses opposite were a quaint, if slightly jumbled looking row of much older homes, a contrast to the modern townhouses. At one end of the street, a towering palatial villa glimmered in the afternoon light, while a warm orange glow emanated in the windows of its neighbour, a slightly smaller earth brown brick home. However, beside it, Number 6 and Number 8 looked completely uninhabited.
‘Aunt Petunia,’ Charlise called over her shoulder. ‘Why are those two houses opposite so dark?’
Her aunt clicked back down a couple of steps to join her on the path. ‘No one lives in Number 6. You can’t tell now, but it’s a terrible shamble. Broken windows, loose boards. Incredibly beautiful in its day, and it would be again if someone had the energy and funds to repair it. But it’s too run down for my tastes, despite the attractive price. At my age, I prefer the simplicity of the modern.’
‘And its neighbour?’ Charlise asked.
‘Since the Dalton tragedy seven years ago, the earl has not been to town. I heard that losing his wife and his heir in one day turned him cruel and jaded, although others say he always was. Apart from a caretaker, no one lives there, and probably just as well. My neighbour, Mrs Crofts, says the surviving son was quite a reprobate.’
‘Hamish? A reprobate?’ A warm, full-bodied peal of laughter came from an self-assured, red-haired woman who seemed to have appeared in their midst as they’d been looking across the street. ‘Petunia, you should not listen to gossip, especially that delivered by Mrs Crofts and her society. Hamish crushed her roses once, and she never forgave him, and has called him names ever since.’ She extended her hand. ‘Iris Abberton. You must be Petunia’s nieces. She speaks of you constantly. And are you Petunia’s brother Jonathon?’ she asked the baron.
The baron glowered. ‘I am Baron Thistledown.’ Charlise felt her smile freeze and fix itself in place as Elise smothered a giggle. In their few meetings, she’d already learnt that he liked to be recognised, and hated to introduce himself. His moustache twitched as his brows pulled together, but thankfully, when he spoke, his tone remained polite. ‘Charlise is my fiancé.’
‘Of course, the Christmas Eve wedding!’ Iris said, her eyes lighting in recollection. ‘It’s very… unique of you both.’