Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The sky, an endless expanse, brightened by the minute above him. Faster and faster, Richard urged his horse on. Tall grass and wildflowers blended into a haze around him. A small hill crested a few miles away. He rode tight and pushed on.
The land around Granville House had not been familiar to him at all a mere week ago.
Now, after five mornings of frustrated, solitary riding, he and his aging mount could almost memorize every rut and stone.
With a practiced turn, horse and rider easily circled the small hill and routed themselves back towards the main house at Granville.
Even at a distance, Richard could spot the house readily.
There would be a shorter, trickier turn right before the building if he were to ride directly towards the stables.
But the topography proved otherwise mild.
It was his heart that was the problem.
Richard frowned as he leaned over Onyx. The creature responded instinctively to his moods, and they covered the miles easily.
When Richard had first laid eyes on Granville after it had been gifted to him, he’d thought it large and looming for a bachelor.
But ever since their arrival from London the prior week, the large square house had felt small, even suffocating—almost as if the entire building conspired to make him run into his wife as many times a day as it could.
It was not supposed to be a chore to see one’s wife, and Richard hardly hated the sight of Adelaide’s pretty figure in any of Granville’s rooms. But it was most certainly a distinct kind of torture to encounter again and again a woman who seemed his by name and in nothing else.
Richard slowed his horse as they closed in towards the house, though still maintaining half his speed. Onyx obliged, and they navigated the last turn with ease.
The dear creature might have lived through a few battles with him, but Onyx had probably never seen his master as bewildered as these past few days.
“Good ride, sir?” The boy, newly apprenticed to the coachman, and some sort of distant nephew of the housekeeper and butler, asked him cheerfully.
Was it a good ride? It did manage to distract Richard for a good hour. For that, it served its purpose.
“Good enough,” he answered.
The boy beamed as if he had personally ensured his master’s successful exercise and led Onyx away.
One of these days, Granville needed to start hiring servants for their qualifications rather than their blood relations to existing staff members.
But that was a challenge for another time.
At least the servants looked happier to see him than his wife did.
Richard sighed as he removed his riding garments.
For months, he’d considered life purposeless.
Marching around London’s streets listlessly had been the very reason he even met Adelaide in the first place.
But then she’d captured his attention immediately, and then their consequent marriage had led him to hope that here was something to live for again at last.
Was he to be as lonely in his marriage as he had been before it? Despite the inauspicious circumstances of their engagement, Richard had been ready to pursue a true marriage of devotion. He’d assumed the same for Adelaide.
But had he been little more than a convenient escape for her after Mr. Bamburst’s attack? Or worse, had she merely been forced to the altar under some threat or another from Miss Ravenstone?
Richard liked to think that he’d outmaneuvered the clawing woman.
His generous agreement when it came to forfeiting Adelaide’s dowry had been willingly given, a price paid in exchange for the promise of a fresh, private life.
He was saving Adelaide out from under her aunt’s thumb, and now they would be able to build a new, happy life together—the sort of life his brothers seemed to all have found with their respective wives.
And yet Adelaide did not seem happy at all. And despite his own perceived heroics, it almost appeared as if he had merely delivered Adelaide from one prison—and brought her to another, this time of his making.
Richard grumbled to himself as he trudged indoors. A small, neglected mountain of correspondence, no doubt mostly of the dry business variety, was growing on his desk by the day. And yet all he could think of was the puzzlement that was his wife.
It was some comfort that, ever since their relocation to Granville, Adelaide hadn’t exactly trembled or recoiled from him the way she had in their brief carriage ride after the wedding ceremony.
But she had been distant, and not in the aloof way of a duchess or a queen.
It was as if she were moving about on fragile glass slippers, taking extra care not to be heard or seen, even as their housekeeper and their cook paraded around the house with more confidence than their mistress.
Richard handed his coat and gloves to the butler as soon as he stepped inside.
Granville was no Beniton Hall. But it wasn’t entirely ill-named either.
The place boasted both a generous house and a generous portion of land.
A core group of staff members recommended by one Avington sister-in-law or another, along with their all and sundry relatives that seemed to appear overnight, proved themselves sufficient to run the estate.
The ledgers and the steward both consistently informed Richard that the place was neither in debt nor yielding a fortune.
And with his own inheritance and investments added to the mix, he and Adelaide as a household readily belonged to the wealthier half of the county’s gentry.
But Richard did not feel rich. If anything, he felt particularly hollow and bereft.
Lonely as he had been in his single state, he at least had the hope of future companionship to look forward to. Now, there was no more hope—not even the hope of a sturdy young son or two to walk beside him.
Richard stretched his neck and straightened his clothes, considering if he would now act the part of a gentleman of leisure in his room or in his study, even if there was nothing that required his attention.
A moment’s decision had him heading for the study, only for him to stop at a passing window.
It was her posture that caught him first.
Seated on a bench by their modest vegetable garden, his young wife observed the plants with a pretty tilt of the head. Even in a simple morning dress, she glowed in the sun—a fragile flower, untouchable.
But she shouldn’t be untouchable, not when she was his wife.
Richard sighed. He could demand his husbandly rights towards her. No man in England would fault him. In fact, the very law was on his side.
But there was a part of him, an unexpectedly sentimental part, that wanted her to come to him of her own accord.
The very idea of her possibly weeping alone in her room after he compelled her to share his bed was abhorrent, as hurtful as Macy’s revelation that Adelaide had spent the night of his proposal in tears.
Macy—now there was a thought.
What was it about the young girl that made Adelaide believe herself responsible for her?
Richard spent another moment observing his wife through the window.
At first glance, Adelaide appeared to be at ease, but there seemed to be a layer of lingering sadness when one looked closer.
Was she thinking of her family, of the mysterious Macy?
Perhaps, before he could compel her to be one with him, he had to first understand what was truly troubling her.
Perhaps it was time for a visit to the vegetable garden.
It was better than glaring at letters he had no interest in responding to anyway.
“The garden looks just like Mrs. Thompson said it would, Mrs. Avington.” Windles, Adelaide’s young new maid, reported quietly after her inspection of the modest vegetable patch.
Then again, Windles did everything quietly.
It was theoretically a welcome contrast from the nervous housekeeper and the loudmouthed cook or the bumbling butler.
But it wasn’t particularly helpful in easing the overwhelming sense of isolation that had begun the very first night of their arrival at Granville House, a feeling that never truly went away.
For the first time in her life, Adelaide was far away from all the people who hurt her most. And yet it was somehow lonelier than she had ever imagined freedom could be.
She sighed and flicked away a piece of stray soil on the garden bench. Granville House was not at all like the tall, manicured mansions Aunt Dinah liked to ogle in London. But it was well-stocked and well-kept. It was large and comfortable and not at all in need of a new mistress to rescue it.
It was good, Adelaide had to admit, for she hardly knew how she would begin to set up a household if Richard expected her to. A person who spent her entire childhood yearning to escape her home wasn’t exactly the sort to be ready to establish one.
She was safe now—safe from Mr. Bamburst, safe from her aunt’s machinations, safe from her late father’s moods. Whatever else she might or might not know about the colonel, Adelaide believed wholeheartedly that he would indeed keep her safe.
But that safety felt hollow and fragile, like some other sort of disaster was just lurking around the corner.
Adelaide knew, in the grand scheme of things, that she was considered young. But when one went through life holding one’s breath, eighteen years was a very long time to go before one breathed again.
Now her lungs faltered, unused to the rush of air.
She had no fear of Richard being able to protect her from all the other forces of life that had threatened her before.
But just how much was he willing to protect her from himself?
All men failed. All men broke promises. All men eventually showed their true colors underneath a gentlemanly facade.
How long would her husband’s facade last?
“Mrs. Avington.” A man’s voice greeted her.
Adelaide turned and rose.
“Colonel.” She curtsied.
A wry smile crossed his lips. “I suppose I deserve that after my own formal address.”
Ever since their relocation to the country, he’d dressed in less formal clothes. But not even the well-worn coats and less ornate waistcoats could hide his broad frame or arresting presence.
He stepped closer and cleared his throat. “Allow me to begin again. Good morning, Adelaide.”
The simple way he addressed her by name sent a warm rush to her cheeks. Adelaide huffed under her breath. “Good morning, Richard.”
“I see that you are inspecting the gardens this morning.”
“They are growing well.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Mrs. Thompson complained about the carrots last night. I thought to see if we truly were running short.”
A low chuckle escaped her husband. He must have noticed their cranky cook’s inclination for complaining as well. “If the woman did not cook so well, I reckon most masters would rather do without the ruckus in the kitchen.”
Did he blame her for the mismanagement? “I am sorry that the noise has been disturbing you.”
“Hardly. Soldiers snore louder than that woman hollers.”
The panic in her chest subsided by the slightest of increments. Did she dare to let it subside even further? It was difficult when she could not be certain just how long his patience would hold.
Adelaide steeled herself and looked up fully at her husband. “I will try my best to manage the household well.”
Her simple promise somehow required him to think very long before responding. “I am glad to hear it, although I do not see any deficiencies in the way Granville currently carries on.”
She nodded. “But if you change your mind—”
“I see no reason to.” He lifted a hand to her shoulder.
It was a benign touch, a gentle one. But she froze nonetheless.
Her heart stopped for a moment before breaking into a frantic gallop. Her breathing grew shallower and harsher. Was this the moment he snapped? One week’s reprieve did not guarantee a lifetime’s. She had been right to be afraid.
“Colonel Avington,” she said, not entirely certain what excuses she could come up with this time, “I think that we need—”
“Is anything lacking in the house?” His hand remained on her upper arm, although at least he did not move it anywhere else. “I am of a mind to take a trip to the nearest village today. If there are any supplies we need to replenish—”
“Paper,” Adelaide blurted. “We have ink aplenty, but if I may purchase some paper—”
“Of course. You wish to write to Macy.”
The matter-of-fact way he summarized the deepest concerns of her heart shocked Adelaide back to a more realistic emotional state. He was not about to throw her over his shoulder and haul her to the bedroom. He came to offer help—not to command her to his will.
Slowly, her breathing eased.
“I do,” she acknowledged. “I do hope to write to my—to Macy.”
His brow darkened ever-so-briefly before his features regained their usual neutrality. “Of course. I shall call for the gig. We can meet at the front door in a quarter hour.”
And with that, he turned away. The implication that this would be a shopping trip for only the two of them lingered in the air after him. Adelaide could hardly decide to be relieved, hopeful, nervous, or a little bit of everything.