Chapter Seven
Sleep eluded him. Gabriel lay motionless beneath the linen coverlet, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where moonlight filtered faintly through the drawn draperies.
Though his body ached from the long journey, rest would not come.
Each breath felt too shallow. The knowledge that she lay only a few paces away, separated by a discreet connecting door, rendered the distance meaningless.
Genevieve stirred something tight and restless in his chest. She was his wife, yet nothing between them resembled true union.
A practical arrangement, he had said, and he had meant it.
Still, the cold assertion rang hollow now, surrounded as he was by her scent lingering in the hall’s air, by the image of her soft features just before she had retired, the quiet grace in the way she had thanked him for the room.
With a muffled exhalation, he threw back the coverlet and rose in silence. He donned a shirt but left his coat and cravat untouched. The night was cool but not cold. Barefoot on the worn floorboards, he made his way down the dim corridor and into the study.
The small lamp offered little light but enough to reveal the estate ledgers and correspondence waiting in neat stacks where he had left them before supper. He lit the wick with practiced ease, its flickering glow casting long shadows across the desk.
He had hoped that drowning himself in figures, grain yields, livestock tallies, tenant rents in arrears, might dull the edges of what he refused to name. Discipline, he reminded himself. He had mastered his body under far harsher conditions. He would do so now.
The accounts did little to ease his mind. The columns blurred, but not from fatigue. He marked a sum that did not reconcile, circled it, and then let the quill rest.
The quiet of Mountwood at night had once brought comfort. Now, in this stillness, his senses strained toward the adjoining door. He could picture her, perhaps curled into the corner of the great bed, her hair unbound, her lashes brushing her cheeks. The image was too vivid.
A sound interrupted his imagination. It took him a moment to realize it was footsteps. He straightened at once. There was a soft rustle outside the door, then the faintest knock. He rose and crossed the room in two strides.
Genevieve stood at the threshold. She wore a modest dressing gown, cinched at the waist, her nightdress visible at the collar.
Her hair, no longer tamed into daytime restraint, spilled down her back and across one shoulder in loose waves.
No powder or pins, and nothing between her and the night but linen and breath.
She looked vulnerable and uncommonly lovely.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” she said softly. “I had hoped to find the library. I cannot sleep.”
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The room suddenly felt smaller.
“Of course,” he said, trying to keep his voice flat. “Please, come in.”
Genevieve looked nervous, even as she gave him a polite smile.
“I saw the light beneath your door and thought you might know where I could find a book,” she said. “Something botanical, if possible.”
Gabriel nodded. He could understand her confusion.
“There is a library,” he said. “It is likely that you saw it briefly. But it is poorly stocked. I keep my own collection here. You are welcome to any of them.”
She nodded, moving toward the books, trailing a hand lightly across the bindings. He watched her fingers pause over a familiar volume, Gerard’s Herbal, a battered edition that had belonged to his mother. She did not select it. Instead, she glanced toward him.
“You were working,” she said.
Gabriel nodded, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” he said, fighting a smirk at her gentle bluntness.
She turned to face him fully, glancing slyly at his desk. Normally, a woman poking about in his work would have angered him. But Genevieve, it seemed, was an exception, even with such pressing matters at hand.
“Estate matters?” she asked.
He gave a single nod.
“The northern fields suffered mildew,” he said. “I suspect the drainage failed during spring.”
Genevieve’s eyes widened.
“I should like to see them,” she said. “The fields. When the weather allows.”
Her interest surprised him, though it ought not to. She had spoken of botanical study with more knowledge than many men he had met in academic circles.
“I would be glad to show them to you, if you wish,” he said.
His new wife nodded and smiled again, seeming more relaxed despite the intimacy of their encounter.
“I do,” she said.
A pause stretched between them. Her eyes, though not searching, held his with unusual steadiness.
“I know this arrangement is not what either of us expected,” she said suddenly. “But I appreciate what you have done to make my arrival more comfortable.”
Gabriel nodded, surprised by his bride once more.
“I did not wish you to feel a stranger here,” he said.
She smirked, her eyes sparkling with humor.
“But I am a stranger, am I not?” she asked. The softness of it caught him off guard. “We barely know one another, after all.”
Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head.
“No,” he said. “I suppose we do not.”
There was another silence. The flicker of the lamp painted her face in muted light. He noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes and the curve of her mouth as she pressed her lips together.
“I never told you what happened,” he said, gesturing to his scars.
She blinked but did not glance away from the ruined side of his face.
“You do not have to,” she said gently. “Not if it is uncomfortable for you.”
Gabriel nodded, but his mind was set.
“I am aware,” he said. “But I believe that I should.”
Genevieve looked as though she wanted to insist that he not do anything he did not wish, but he did not give her the time.
“In the war,” he said, struggling to keep from hiding his face.
“There was an ambush in the Spanish hills. There was smoke and flames everywhere, and I was surrounded by the cries of men who had once shared my campfire. Then, the enemy launched artillery at my small camp. It struck me, yet I survived, while men far better than I did not.”
Her eyes never wavered. She did not murmur platitudes. She did not recoil. She is still not judging me, he realized, wondering if his wife would surprise him straight into a grave at that pace. She is patiently waiting for me to continue.
Stunned, he did.
“I still see them sometimes,” he said. “When I close my eyes, or when I am dreaming in a deep sleep.”
Again, Genevieve merely nodded, her eyes filled with warmth and sympathy he had never experienced.
“I imagine you always will,” she said softly.
That quiet acknowledgment moved him more than comfort might have. He had not known how desperately he needed someone to understand the burden without trying to carry it for him. But that was precisely what his wife was doing right then.
He lowered his gaze and noticed her hand resting lightly on the desk. Without thought, his own moved to cover it. Heat sparked at the contact. Not merely warmth, but something deeper, steady, and rooted. He held it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he withdrew, but with great care. He had not meant to trust his new bride so much so quickly. Now that he had, however, he did not wish to be any reason for her to lose sleep.
“You should rest,” he said.
She nodded, lifting a different book from the shelf, his mother’s copy of The Compleat Florist.
“May I borrow this?” she asked.
Gabriel gave her a conceding bow.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “This is your home now, too. I wish for you to feel as comfortable here as I do.”
She smiled faintly, then moved toward the door.
“Goodnight, Gabriel,” she said. “And thank you for trusting me.”
Her use of his name made something turn in his chest. His stomach felt tingly, and he could not help smiling back at her.
“Goodnight, Genevieve,” he said.
She disappeared into the corridor, leaving behind the scent of lavender and the unsettling trace of something unspoken. He remained standing long after the door had closed.
***
The morning passed in solitary exploration.
Genevieve had risen early, slipping from her chamber while the household remained quiet in sleep.
A faint mist hovered above the ground, softening the stone angles of the conservatories that stretched in a graceful arc behind the eastern wing.
She had intended only a brief inspection, yet curiosity lengthened her stride.
The glasshouses were old but well-constructed.
Iron ribbing framed the panes with remarkable precision, and within, rows of carefully tended plants thrived under the filtered light.
The air inside was dense with the scent of loam and green growth.
She passed benches of rosemary and lavender, then a quadrant of tender lettuces and alpine strawberries growing low to the ground.
It was not beauty that struck her most, but purpose.
There were no ornamental gardens arranged for admiration alone.
The décor served the kitchens and stillrooms, and their beds were placed for yield and access rather than idle display.
Someone had seen to the upkeep with diligence.
She found herself wondering whether Gabriel had a hand in it.
Her steps paused beside a broad-leafed fig whose branches brushed the glass in quiet insistence. Then, without warning, came a sharp cry from the direction of the stable yard. It was not the usual stir of morning activity. A louder shout followed, then a metallic crash that sent a jolt through her.