Chapter Six
Gabriel had endured greater physical discomfort than the persistent hum of awareness stirred by his wife’s presence.
Yet nothing in all his years of strict self-discipline had prepared him for the slow-burning disquiet that built with every passing mile.
Each accidental touch, a brush of her skirt against his boot or her knee lightly against his when the coach rocked, unsettled him more than he wished to admit.
She is my wife, he reminded himself, attempting to summon a sense of duty. Instead, the truth of it sparked something warmer than obligation, more dangerous than he liked. He did not know her. Not truly. And yet she had listened to him, not with empty courtesy, but with real interest.
“How did you decide which crops to introduce first?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
He hesitated, caught off guard by the question.
“I considered the soil’s condition,” he said. “Much of the land had been neglected. Potatoes, oats, and rye could be sown with minimal risk.”
She nodded, looking at him with a respect that no one had shown him since his time in the military.
“And you managed this yourself?” she asked.
Gabriel gave a curt nod.
“With help, naturally,” he said. “Still, I oversaw the planning and implementation.”
She had grown quiet for a moment.
“I do not find it strange,” she said. “My father believed knowledge was not confined to scholars or institutions. He let me study anatomy when I was twelve, so long as I could explain what I learned.”
Gabriel gaped at his wife, even more surprised than he had been when she began discussing agriculture with him.
“You studied anatomy?” he asked.
She nodded. He noticed her lips twitch, as if she was hiding another smile. He noticed her doing so when she first confessed her interest in plants.
“Father was a well-rounded man,” she said. “All he wanted was for the same for me.”
Gabriel nodded slowly, falling silent once more.
What a wonderful job he did, instilling these things in you, he thought, trying to suppress his awe.
Yet it stayed with him as the carriage finally slowed before a modest coaching inn.
He descended first and gave instructions to the stable hands.
The air had cooled with the coming dusk, and clouds pressed low over the horizon.
Sophia arrived moments later. She waved off her driver and climbed down without assistance.
“Gabriel, you look like thunder,” she said.
Gabriel waved his hand, too overwhelmed to discuss his tumultuous thoughts with his sister.
“Only tired,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, questioning him, but eventually, she turned to Genevieve.
“You are here in one piece,” she said, smiling warmly as she embraced her new sister-in-law. “I take it my brother did not frighten you with his gruff silences?”
Gabriel stiffened. He had wondered if he had prattled on too long, or conversely, or had been too silent in the times between conversations. Yet Genevieve gave his sister a warm, polite smile and shook her head.
“I found his conversation engaging,” she said, her cheeks turning into a deep shade of pink as she glanced at him.
While Genevieve went upstairs with her maid, Gabriel arranged their individual lodgings for the evening. Then, he lingered in the entryway until Sophia appeared at his elbow.
“You might at least try to look pleased,” she said with a wry smile.
Gabriel exhaled through his nose.
“I am not a man given to performances,” he said.
Sophia shook her head, patting her brother’s arm gently.
“No. That much has always been clear,” she said with a soft giggle.
Dinner proved more manageable than he had feared, largely due to Sophia’s determination to speak enough for all three. She launched into her account of the estate’s progress with a familiar flair, directing much of it toward Genevieve.
“You would hardly believe the state of Mountwood when Gabriel inherited it,” she said. “The dwelling's very roof threatened to give way, and its inhabitants, suffering from lack of proper nourishment, grew increasingly restless and ill-tempered. He had half the village rebuilt in two years.”
Gabriel grinded his teeth. Sophia was making it sound as though he had done everything to care for his family’s home on his own. That was very untrue.
“I had assistance,” he said evenly. “You must not forget that, Sister.”
Sophia shrugged gently.
“You financed it,” she said. “You planned every bit of it. If not for your stubbornness, Mountwood would have been sold off and divided by now.”
Genevieve looked at him then, her features thoughtful.
“That kind of work requires more than money,” she said softly. “It requires vision.”
He said nothing, though her words lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She had not meant to flatter, and that only made it worse. Meanwhile, Sophia continued undeterred.
“He used to ride the fields before dawn,” she said. “I assure you there were weeks I thought he had taken a monk’s vow of silence.”
Gabriel pushed away his plate.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked.
Sophia nodded, batting her eyelashes in a rather exaggerated fashion.
“For now,” she said.
After dinner, the ladies departed for their chambers. Sophia pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Be gentle,” she said quietly. “She is not made of glass, but nor is she you.”
Gabriel tried not to roll his eyes as he looked back toward his wife.
Genevieve offered a silent nod as she withdrew.
Gabriel returned it, though he could not bring himself to speak.
Why was it suddenly so difficult to speak to the woman who had offered such stimulating conversation just hours prior?
Later, alone in the quiet of his room, he stood at the fire with his hands braced on the mantel, watching the flames burn low.
Her words returned to him again, quiet and assured.
She had not said as much, but there was an implication as she had spoken about her drawings.
She drew what truly existed in nature, not what others perceived or assumed.
He sat down, the bed creaking beneath him, and let the silence settle.
There was more to her than he had expected.
Not just a pleasant manner or a quick mind, but something else.
She had spoken of her father not with sentiment, but with a kind of clear sorrow he recognized.
She had seen things, perhaps not the same things he had, but enough to understand that the world did not always conform to polite illusions.
That kind of recognition had startled him. And he was drawn to it.
He rose again and walked to the window. The pane was cool against his hand as he looked into the still dark beyond the yard.
Tomorrow, they would reach Mountwood. Then the true test would begin.
She would live beneath his roof, walk his halls, and see the broken edges of the man who had built it back piece by piece.
She deserves better, he thought with a sigh.
She deserves ease, affection, and some measure of warmth.
And he knew that he was a man made of rough-hewn parts, stitched together by obligation and battle-earned silence.
He could not possibly offer more than the institution of matrimony that he had proposed.
Not without risking the tattered remains of his composure.
And yet, when he closed his eyes, he felt again the warmth of her hand against his.
He had not pulled away at once. Nor had she.
That, too, was a mistake. One he could not afford to repeat.
***
Genevieve lifted the curtain just as the carriage rounded a gentle bend and began the final ascent.
A brief dip in the road gave way to a slow rise, the wheels crunching softly over gravel as the crest approached.
Then, with a subtle jolt, the hill broke, and Mountwood came into view. She drew in a breath.
The estate stretched across a green rise, its stone facade rising solid and clean against the sweep of cultivated land behind it.
Far from the crumbling gothic ruin whispered of in London parlors, Mountwood presented itself as a place of strength and care, its tall windows shining clear, its hedgerows trimmed with neat precision.
Beyond the house, orderly paths carved through the surrounding parkland, and her gaze alighted upon a sudden gleam of glass structures nestled against a cluster of bare-limbed trees.
So this was the beast’s lair, she thought wryly.
And yet, there was no menace here. Only evidence of toil and long labor.
Sophia stood at the top of the stone steps before the great entrance, her traveling cloak tossed over one arm. She smiled with the easy warmth that Genevieve had come to recognize as sincere.
“You have arrived,” Sophia said. “And not a moment too soon. Mrs. Cartwright has been pacing like a general awaiting review.”
Genevieve descended with care. The air carried the scent of moss and distant smoke.
“I hope we are not too late in the day,” she said.
Sophia shook her head.
“Not at all,” she said, looping her arm through Genevieve’s. “You shall have a proper tour. But first, you must see what your husband has neglected to mention.”
As they turned toward the entry, Genevieve caught a flash of motion near the hedge. A man stood there, half-obscured by trimmed laurel. His shears dangled idly in one hand, though his eyes were fixed on her with a peculiar intensity.
She met his gaze.
He started slightly, then turned, lowering his head and resuming the careful snip of the shears.
“Who is that?” Genevieve asked, keeping her voice low.
Sophia followed her glance.
“Thomas Wilkins,” she said. He is the head gardener. Loyal to Gabriel beyond all reason.”
Genevieve nodded, her brow wrinkling.
“He was watching us,” he said.
Sophia did not seem surprised.
“He watches everything,” she said. “He has a soldier’s habits; I suspect.”