Chapter 4
The evening of our wedding day, the sky wept.
Rain fell in long, silken strands, veiling the world in a mournful gray as though nature itself sought to warn me of the vows I had just spoken.
The carriage wheels hissed against the slick road, cutting through the ribbons of fog as we wound our way south toward the coast—away from London’s feverish gossip, its gnawing judgement, and its ravenous hunger for scandal.
I watched the city fade through the misted windowpane and told myself that what replaced it must surely be peace.
When we crested the final hill, the manor came into view.
Blackthorn Manor.
It rose from the sodden earth with terrible grandeur—dark stone thrust against a starless sky, its uneven tower jutting upward like broken teeth gnashing at the heavens.
Narrow windows glimmered through the veil of rain, their panes reflecting nothing but the storm.
Ivy and Wisteria clung to the walls in twisting, suffocating tendrils, as though trying to hold the great house upright…
or drag it down into the soil. Gargoyles crouched along the parapets, their grotesque faces slick with rain and watching with lifeless vigilance.
A shiver ran through me.
I turned instinctively toward my husband.
Sylum sat beside me, posture rigid with a tension he did not voice.
His gloved hands rested loosely upon his knees, but I saw the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into his palm.
His jaw tightened as he regarded the looming silhouette of his ancestral home.
His eyes, normally a warm honey, were storm-dark now, reflecting not the manor itself, but some memory it summoned.
“It’s larger than you imagined, isn’t it?” he asked at last, his voice soft and almost apologetic.
I gave a nervous laugh. “Larger… and darker.”
He smiled faintly, but his gaze never left the looming facade. “It does have a way of announcing itself.”
The wheels crunched to a halt upon the gravel drive. The door swung open and a footman appeared in the gray light, bowing low as he offered his hand.
“Your Grace,” he murmured, nodding toward Sylum first then me.
I took it, stepping down into the chill. The air smelled of rain and salt, tinged faintly with damp moss. My breath misted before me as I looked up at the manor again, its vast shadow spilling across the ground, swallowing the last of the daylight.
Sylum descended after me, his coat brushing against mine. For an instant, he hesitated beside me, eyes lifted toward the highest tower. I caught the faintest change in his expression—his jaw clenching, his chest rising unevenly—as though some unseen presence watched from within those stone walls.
Then, just as quickly, the look was gone. He turned to me, his tone gentle once more. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m only cold,” I lied.
He offered me his arm, his voice soft enough to make the lie unnecessary. “You’ll be warm soon. I promise.”
We moved together toward the grand steps, where three servants stood waiting in the bitter air—a tall, gray-haired butler, and two young maids with nervous eyes. The butler stepped forward, bowing deeply.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he beamed, his tone measured but respectful. Then, after a slight pause, he inclined his head toward me. “And welcome to you, Your Grace.”
It was the first time I had heard the title spoken aloud in reference to myself. The word felt strange, heavy upon the air as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
“Thank you,” I murmured, though my voice dissolved into the cavernous hall as we stepped inside.
The interior air was warmer, but only marginally.
The grand hall stretched before us in vast, echoing silence—vaulted ceilings, dark wood polished to a dull sheen, and chandeliers dulled by a fine layer of dust. Portraits of long-dead Deveroux ancestors glowered down from their gilt frames, their painted eyes following me with unsettling scrutiny.
The walls creaked as though adjusting to my presence and somewhere deep within the manor, I thought I heard movement, soft and hurried, like footsteps retreating before they could be seen.
My chest tightened.
A Duchess, I thought. A wife. A woman who once swore she would never belong to anyone, standing in a home that already felt like a mouth ready to swallow her whole.
Sylum stepped toward a woman who appeared to be in her later years.
She was dressed in a severe black gown trimmed with a high white lace collar.
Her dark hair was streaked with silver and coiled into a bun so taut it pulled the edges of her face so severely that the lines of age appeared to smooth slightly.
“This is Mrs. Ashby, our housekeeper,” he said, his tone polite yet oddly distant. He turned toward me, though his eyes did not quite meet mine. “She will see that you are settled.”
I offered the woman a small, courteous smile.
She returned it, a slow, measured curve of the mouth that never reached her eyes.
They were a cold steely gray and sharp as a blade as they swept over me.
Something in her gaze prickled at the back of my neck, a faint, instinctive warning I couldn’t name.
“Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, Your Grace,” she said, lifting her chin with practiced grace. “I trust your journey was not too taxing?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ashby,” I replied, smoothing my gloves though my fingers trembled slightly. “It was… a pleasant enough ride.”
“Mrs. Ashby will ensure your comfort,” Sylum assured, stepping back, his voice gentling as he turned to me. “There’s a matter that needs my attention, but I won’t be long.”
I forced a small smile, though disappointment tugged at me. “Of course. I’ll be fine.”
His eyes searched mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead so unexpectedly gentle that it sent a strange ache through my chest.
“Rest,” he murmured. “You’ve had a long journey.”
Before I could gather a reply, he turned and walked away. His boots echoed over the marble, each step measured, each fading note swallowed by the vast throat of the corridor beyond. I watched the blue-black silhouette of him dissolve into the shadows.
Mrs. Ashby stepped neatly into the empty space he left behind. Her faintly powdery perfume drifted between us. Her expression remained precisely as it had been since my arrival. Polite, impersonal, and cool enough to chill my bones.
“I’ve had your rooms prepared, Your Grace,” she said, her voice precise as a pin. “Nelly will attend you until you’ve selected a permanent maid.”
Her tone did not suggest she believed I would ever be capable of doing so.
“I was told you had none to bring with you,” she added, her lips tightening as though the very thought of my impoverished circumstances was aesthetically displeasing.
“Yes,” I said softly, feeling the heat of embarrassment touch my cheeks. “That’s correct. Thank you, Mrs. Ashby.”
She inclined her head with mechanical precision, a practiced motion that suggested her respect belonged strictly to the title and not the woman who held it.
“Come, then. You’ll want to meet the rest of the staff.”
Nearly an hour passed in a blur of names and nods, and stiff, measuring glances.
Mr. Hollis, the butler, tall and carved from patience.
A fleet of footmen, whose eyes slid away quickly when I met them.
The cook, Mrs. Griggs, who bowed curtly and muttered something unintelligible about preferences and schedules.
An army of scullery maids. The stable boy. And even the garden hands.
All polite smiles and guarded eyes. I couldn’t decide if they were merely cautious of their new mistress or if there was something else lurking beneath their courtesy.
At last, Mrs. Ashby dismissed them and gestured toward a young woman lingering near the staircase, a silver tray clutched in her hands.
The hint of cloying tea wafted from the porcelain kettle, perfectly arranged on the platter with a dish of fresh fruit and tiny sandwiches cut into perfect triangles.
“This is Nelly Hart. She’ll see you to your chamber.”
Nelly curtsied quickly, her head bowed. She was a slight thing, fair and soft-featured, with mousy brown hair and eyes the color of the sea.
The housekeeper gave an effortless curtsy before leaving me alone with the girl. I stepped toward her, smiling.
“Have you worked here long, Nelly?” I asked as we began to ascend the stairs together, my hand trailing the smooth banister.
She looked over her shoulder at me, her smile small but sincere. “Just over a year, Your Grace.”
“And do you enjoy it here?”
We reached a landing lined with portraits—stern men in black coats, pale women draped in pearls, each pair of painted eyes seeming to follow us down the corridor. The sconces along the wall sputtered, casting the faces in an uneasy glow.
Nelly hesitated before answering. “His Grace is a very kind man.”
“He is,” I agreed quietly, my lips turning up in a smile.
“I don’t know him well though,” she added quietly.
She said nothing more as we stopped at a door near the end of the hall. Nelly pushed it open, stepping aside for me to enter.
The room was… beautiful.
High ceilings arched above a canopied bed dressed in ivory lace. A fire glowed softly in the hearth, filling the chamber with golden warmth. Heavy velvet curtains framed tall windows, and the air was thick with the faint perfume of roses.
I turned slowly in a circle, my fingers brushing the ornate mahogany furniture.
Then my gaze fell upon a brass vase on the mantel, brimming with freshly cut crimson roses, their petals glistening as if wet with dew.
I moved toward them without thinking, my hand rising of its own accord. The petals were soft beneath my fingers, cool and slick.
A droplet slid down my fingertip, red against my skin.
I blinked, heart lurching, but when I looked again, it was only water.
Only water.