Chapter Twelve #2
Something was wrong. From the moment they’d left the station, Jacob’s countenance had shifted, and that shift had increased when the carriage had turned into the grounds of his estate.
He still wore that charming smile, but somehow it didn’t quite fit, as if he was forcing himself to remain light-hearted for Margaret’s benefit.
And she couldn’t fail to see his reaction when he’d looked up at his father’s portrait. A visible shudder had run through him and his features had momentarily hardened, so she barely recognised him.
It was also apparent that he was anxious to get out of this house. So, instead of luxuriating in the warm bath, she quickly washed off the effects of the long train journey, wrapped herself in a thick white towel and went through to her bedchamber, where Molly had unpacked her clothing.
Her lady’s maid helped her into a dark grey skirt and white blouse suitable for a walk in the countryside, then she sat on the bed as Molly tied up the laces of her walking boots.
‘Do you think you should take your cloak?’ Molly said, eyeing the discarded travel cloak, draped over a chair and bearing coal smuts from the train trip. ‘I hear it rains all the time this far north.’
Margaret smiled at her lady’s maid, who had never travelled this far away from London.
‘I’m sure it will be all right. And don’t worry, Molly, we’ll be back in London soon.
’ How long that really would be, Margaret had no idea, her father not giving details on the exact time needed for her and Jacob to get to know each other.
‘That’s all right, miss… I mean, Your Grace. I think I’ll like it here well enough. I’ve already met His Grace’s valet. Mr Bates is a nice man and he says the servants up here are a friendly lot.’
Margaret was pleased that at least someone was happy with this arrangement. But, as Jacob had said, they had to make the best of things, so, with that in mind, she headed downstairs to join him.
She passed through the entranceway and was once again struck by how beautiful and well-designed it was.
The sun’s golden light was streaming in through the expansive windows and the glass dome topping the ceiling two storeys above and reflecting off the black-and-white marble floor and crisp white walls, making it an open, light and welcoming space.
The scent of beeswax hung in the air, suggesting it had recently been thoroughly cleaned and someone had thoughtfully placed a bunch of daffodils in a blue-and- white vase atop a marble pedestal.
She looked up at the portrait of the late Duke.
He really did look rather formidable and ruined what was otherwise a delightful space.
Given his reaction when they’d first arrived, it was unlikely that Jacob would wish to meet her under his father’s grim stare, so she walked out to the steps in front of the house and down to the forecourt, then turned back to admire the house.
It was one of the grandest Margaret had ever been in.
She hadn’t been joking when she’d said it was like something from a fairytale.
From the outside it resembled a magical castle, built in warm honey-toned stone.
Lichen and moss had burrowed their way into the stone over the years, giving it an ancient patina, and the ivy climbing up the north wall added to its romantic image.
While Jacob might not like this house, it was apparent that it had been designed by an architect with a masterful sense of proportion, symmetry and beauty.
She turned back towards the ornamental garden and could see that buds had started to appear on the rosebushes. To her right was a woodland, and to her left miles of rolling green countryside that seemed to stretch on forever.
There was no denying this was a magnificent estate.
The sound of boots on gravel caused her to turn towards the path that led around the side of the house and Jacob appeared, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond her and the surrounding garden, towards the distant horizon.
‘Shall we?’ he said, taking her arm as if anxious to be away from the house.
They walked in silence for a moment, his pace more rapid than one would normally take for a stroll in the gardens.
‘Was this your family’s main home when you were a child?’ she asked, gently broaching the subject.
‘Yes, I lived here until I was seven and sent away to boarding school,’ he said, his voice matter-of-fact, but his stiff posture suggesting there was much more to that statement than he was disclosing.
‘It’s so sad the way parents do that. My brother has been sent off to boarding school. Mother cried and cried for days after he left, and I’m sure Father would have done the same if men were allowed to do such things.’
‘I don’t imagine many tears were shed over my departure,’ he said. ‘My mother was dead by then and my father was no doubt pleased to see the back of me, and I was pleased to get away.’
‘Your father does look rather stern in that painting in the entranceway.’
He laughed, but it did not contain its usual humour. ‘I thought the artist rather flattered him and made him look much less of an ogre.’
‘I’d like to hear about your father’ she said gently.
‘I wouldn’t want to ruin a decent walk,’ he said, giving another of those mirthless laughs.
‘You won’t.’ Without intending to, she moved in closer to him, wanting to do something, anything, to give him comfort.
‘I hated him,’ he finally said. ‘I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your father, but it’s true.’
He continued walking for a few minutes in silence.
‘My parents wanted an heir, or should I say they were duty-bound to produce an heir for the Rosedale line, but they never wanted children, and that was constantly made clear to me.’
He huffed out another humourless laugh. ‘The ways in which he let me know how unwanted I was are countless, but one minor incident came to mind when we first arrived. He caught me running through the entranceway, grabbed me by the arm, almost wrenching it out of its socket, and shook me until my teeth rattled, all the while informing me that all children were an abomination, and I more than most.’
Margaret closed her eyes, horrified that anyone could treat a child like that, just for being a child and doing what children loved to do—run and play. ‘How old were you?’
‘I’m not sure. It was before I went to school, so younger than seven.’
‘And what of your mother?’ she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
‘I have no memory of her, which is probably all for the best. Along with informing me that I was an abomination, my father often reminded me how much of a disappointment I was to my mother and that was why she had never been able to love me the way a mother should.’
‘They were the ones who were an abomination,’ Margaret said, rage at those long-dead parents welling up inside her. ‘Children should be loved and cherished, and they should be allowed to be children, and that includes running through entranceways.’
She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry that you were cursed with such terrible parents.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said, once again his lips quirking into a smile that did not look genuine. ‘My childhood made me the man I am today.’
It was obvious he was trying to make light of what was a tragedy and she wondered how much of what he had said in jest was true.
The more time she spent with him, the less like that strutting peacock he became.
There were layers to him that she had not realised existed when she had dismissed him as a handsome rake who revelled in the effect he had on women.
But had he turned himself into a man who hid behind a charming facade because he wanted to push away the dark shadows of such an unhappy childhood?
Maybe that was something she would discover during this imposed time together.