Chapter 26
When Owen awoke the following morning, Beatrice was still sleeping beside him.
She looked so peaceful that he could not bear to awaken her and instead took himself to breakfast. It had been a long day, and a longer night, and he knew that in spite of how good it had all been, a difficult conversation would inevitably follow.
She would ask him why he was blocking off the forest, and he could not tell her the truth about it.
It killed him inside, for in every other way their marriage was only becoming stronger.
He enjoyed spending time with her, and the more he learned about her the more he fell for her, but that was precisely why she could not know the truth about him.
There was a chance she would hate him for what he had done, and he could not allow that to happen.
When he finished eating and went to the forest, he saw Mister Johnson at work already.
He was around halfway done, and it was an imposing structure.
Though not pleasant to look at, Owen was at least comforted by the fact that he could not see what was on the other side.
It brought him peace to know that he could no longer look at the place that had plagued him for so long.
“Do you like it?” the older man asked. “I thought that if I had some of it finished before you came to assist me, you might have thoughts.”
“It is perfect, though perhaps it could match the surroundings better?”
“We could use some of the branches from the trees,” he suggested, “or perhaps make it a darker wood? I do not mind starting again.”
Owen thought of all the work that had been done and shook his head.
“That will not be necessary. It is perfectly fine as it is.”
“Very well, then. Might your wife like to see it?”
“No, she has little interest in all of this. Should she come to see you, it would be best if you do not discuss it with her.”
“Ah, she is not happy about it then?”
“She is not best pleased, no. She rather likes the forest, but given the danger it presents, it is for the best that we do not go into it.”
“I understand, Your Grace. If you like, I can finish this myself, and you can take Her Grace to the village. I will be finished tomorrow.”
He was about to disagree, reminding him that he promised to help when he remembered something.
He had planned to take Beatrice to a local inn, and after everything that had happened they were yet to find the time.
The timing couldn't have been better; by the time they got back, the fence would be completed, bringing the matter to a close.
He returned to the dining hall and waited for her. Once she had eaten, he announced his plans, and she lit up at once.
“How splendid! I have been looking forward to this.”
“If you need rest after everything–”
“Not at all. We can rest after I have seen this inn of yours.”
He smiled, and they prepared to leave quickly.
The road to the village was one he knew like the back of his hand.
He had traveled it so many times that he could close his eyes and see the journey.
That day, however, was different. He was not the Duke returning to familiar ground; he was a husband bringing his wife there for the day, and he intended for her to enjoy it.
Owen glanced across the carriage. Beatrice sat opposite him, a soft light on her face from the window.
Her posture was composed, as always, but there was curiosity in her eyes that he had not seen before.
She had been quieter than usual that morning, which given what had happened the night before was no surprise.
He had been furious at the time. Nobody was going to be cruel to his wife, not if he was there to hear it. It was not how she would have handled it, and he knew that, but he could not allow it to continue for a moment longer. He needed it to stop, and he knew precisely how to do it.
“It is not far now,” he said, breaking the silence. “You shall see the church spire when we round that hill.”
She smiled faintly. “You’ve said that twice already.”
“My apologies. I am rather excited about this.”
“Given how highly you have spoken of it all, so am I.”
He wanted her to like the village. It was a small, simple thing to care about, and yet he did.
It was the one place that he could go where people did not fall at his feet.
They knew him, and they respected him enough to treat him like a person, rather than a duke.
It was how they had treated him since he was a boy, when he would go there to escape. It was some welcome respite.
The wheels of the carriage struck a patch of loose stones, jolting them both. Owen reached out instinctively as she fell forward slightly, and she accepted his help with a polite word of thanks, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
The contact sent a small, unwelcome rush through him.
It was ridiculous how easily he could be undone by a simple touch.
They had not been married long, and though they were more at ease with one another he still found himself unsettled by her presence.
She made him want something that he had never thought to want before, and he did not know what to do with that.
“Do they know we are coming?” she asked. “I would hate for there to be no room.”
“Fear not, Mrs. Pendle at the inn will find something for us.”
“You sound very certain.”
“Mrs. Pendle has run that inn longer than I’ve been Duke. She always plans for guests, whether they tell her they are going to arrive or not.”
The village came into view at last, and the inn stood in the center of the square. The sign swung in the breeze, and Owen watched it as they came to a stop. He stepped down first and turned to offer his hand. Beatrice then placed her gloved fingers in his, and he helped her down.
“Welcome to the best part of the village, Duchess,” he said, half-teasing.
She looked around with a small, genuine smile. It was only an inn, but Owen could only look upon it fondly.
“It is prettier than I expected,” she said softly.
Inside, the inn was exactly as he remembered from his youth; warm, low-ceilinged, with thick beams that stretched across. It was the meeting place for most of the village, and that day was no exception.
“Your Grace,” one of them said.
Owen nodded in return, Beatrice on his arm as they made their way to them.
“Good day, Harris. Is the harvest treating you well?”
“Well enough, sir,” the man said, smiling, before the others murmured greetings.
Mrs. Pendle emerged from behind the counter a moment later, wiping her hands on her apron frantically. It was clear that they had arrived as she was preparing for that night’s dinner, not that he cared about how she looked.
“Your Grace! And Her Grace, welcome. We are honored indeed to make your acquaintance.”
She curtseyed, and Beatrice returned the greeting kindly.
“It is so good to see you again, Mrs. Pendle,” Owen said. “I thought we might trouble you for lunch.”
“Trouble?” she echoed. “You could never be any trouble to me. I’ve a beef pie just out of the oven. Will you take the small parlor, sir? It’s quiet and near the fire.”
“That would do nicely,” he said.
As she led them through the doorway into a snug side room, Owen caught the faint murmur of voices behind them. Villagers were watching them, and they would inevitably also want to meet Beatrice, but he knew that she would not mind that.
The parlor was simple: a small fire already burning which drew his wife in the moment she saw it. The window looked out onto the green, where children were playing. Beatrice removed her gloves and set them neatly beside her plate.
“It is charming, here,” she said.
“I thought you might like it. It is quieter than the main room.”
“It is, though I would like to meet everyone too. Have you had the pie here?”
“Indeed, I have, and it is the best that you will ever try.”
Mrs. Pendle returned at that moment with two plates of food and a jug of cider.
“Mind you eat while it’s hot, Your Grace,” she explained. “As I told you, they are only just out of the oven. If you’ve time after, there’s a family who’d be glad of a visit.”
“Certainly,” Owen replied. “Who is it?”
“The Claytons. Their eldest lad took a spill from the cart last week, broke his leg. Nasty business, but he’ll mend.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pendle,” Owen said. “We shall call on them. Before you go, might you have a room for us tonight?”
“I always have a room for you, Your Grace,” she said softly, leaving the room.
The pie was rich, savory, and comforting, exactly as he remembered. Beatrice took a bite, then looked up at him with surprise.
“You were right,” she said. “This is indeed the very best.”
“It is as I told you, this is a wonderful inn.”
“You do speak of it fondly.”
It was the perfect time to tell her something about himself. It would not reveal too much, but it would be just enough for her to see that he was trying.
“I suppose I do. When I was a boy, this was where I escaped to. My father was impossible to reason with, and so I came here when I could not stand to look at him. Mrs. Pendle always gave me somewhere to stay, and that did not change even after I became the Duke.”
“It must have been a comfort to have somewhere to go. I like it. It feels lived in, rather than those manor houses that look like they were decorated only to be admired.”
“That is precisely why I like it too.”
When they finished their meal, they returned to the main room, where a larger gathering had formed to see them.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” one older man said. “I don’t mean to intrude, but Mrs. Pendle said you might have a word about the north field.”
“Of course, Mr. Linton. You have no need to apologize. What did you have to say?”
“Well, it is better than we hoped, though the lower field’s still waterlogged from the rain.”
“Then the drainage will be seen to before winter,” Owen promised. “Send word to the steward, and I will authorize the cost.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. This must be your lovely wife. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Beatrice greeted him in turn, followed by everyone else that wished to meet her. Owen facilitated the introductions, explaining who each person was, and when they had gone, Beatrice turned back to him, eyes wide.
“You know everyone by name.”
“Of course I do. It is expected of me.”
“Expected, perhaps,” she said softly, “but not always done. It is most admirable of you.”
He met her gaze for a moment longer than he meant to. The fire popped sharply in the grate, breaking the stillness. He reached for his cider to distract himself.
Later, Mrs. Pendle appeared with a bright smile.
“Your Grace, the villagers are hoping to see you both on the green. There’s talk enough already about your arrival.”
Owen glanced at Beatrice.
“Shall we?”
“It would be my pleasure. If we are to be talked about, we might as well give them something to discuss.”
Mrs. Pendle laughed as she left them.
Outside, the air had cooled. The sky had turned a deep, cloud-streaked blue, and children played near the well while women chatted beside baskets of apples.
A few men bowed as they passed, which Owen knew was only happening because Beatrice was present.
Had he been alone, they would have greeted him as if he were anyone else.
He watched Beatrice as she spoke to a group of village women, not needing his assistance after meeting them.
She had taken to her role beautifully, and it was better than Owen could have imagined.
The villagers truly enjoyed her company, and she enjoyed theirs in return.
By the time they returned to their room, the sky was dark, and they were ready to sleep and not much beyond.
Before they could enter, however, Beatrice paused beside him.
“I have enjoyed today,” she said softly.
“As have I. I am pleased I decided to bring you.”
“I was wondering why,” she continued, and he pushed the door open and led her inside. “And now I know. You want me to know who you are.”
He froze. That was the very opposite of what he wanted. He had brought her to quell her desire to learn the truth about him, not to interest her more.
“Beatrice, I–”
“I know that you are only here so that I will not see the fencing. I know that we have come to the village so that I cannot ask you questions about the estate.”
She looked up at him, her chin tilted upward so that he saw her lips, slightly parted and awfully tempting.
“My only question,” she continued, “is why?”
“Because--” he replied, more roughly than he expected, “I cannot let you see me. If I do that, everything will be ruined.”
“But it will not. I want to see all sides of you, Owen. Why are you hiding so much?”
“For your sake,” he explained. “I cannot tell you who I am, nor what I have done. I have been trying to keep it from you without having to say it, but as you insist, I will have to tell you. I do not want you to know me.”
“Why?” she whispered, suddenly trembling. “Do you not trust me?”
He wanted to. Truly, he did.
“No,” he replied curtly. “I do not trust anyone. No matter who they are, I will end up hurt, and so it is better that I do not let myself think that will not happen.”
In an instant, he regretted it. Her face fell, and he had done the one thing he swore to himself that he would not do.
In protecting himself, he had hurt her instead.