Chapter 5
The bath had been hot enough to sting, a heat that bit into my skin until every nerve sang.
I remained in the tub long past comfort, long past sense, until the water dulled into lukewarm gray and the steam thinned and vanished.
When at last I rose, my limbs felt boneless, my skin puckered, and a faint dizziness tugged at the edges of my sight.
Nelly fussed over me quietly as she laced me into a soft dove-gray gown, her fingers gentle, almost apologetic, as though she feared the fabric might bruise me.
She brushed out my hair and murmured something about how pretty the color looked against the firelight, before directing me to the dining room.
Then, she disappeared into the depths of the dimly lit manor, her footsteps swallowed quickly by distance.
The house was unnervingly quiet as I descended the staircase.
The sconces along the corridor burned low, small flickering islands fighting against the cavernous dark.
Candlelight rippled over the marble floor, warping the oil-painted faces that lined the walls.
Each portrait seemed to watch me pass, mouths poised as if holding back some whispered warning.
The dining doors stood open. I paused upon the threshold, breath held, as the immense room revealed itself.
The ceiling arched high above, painted with faded murals of storm-tossed seas and winged figures.
A table stretched nearly the entire length of the chamber, its polished surface gleaming with silver and crystal, arranged in solemn, ceremonial perfection.
But I wasn’t really looking at the table. I was looking for him.
My eyes darted toward the rafters, the mantel, the dark corners where the shadows pooled. I half-expected the flash of a wing, a glint of an intelligent black eye.
“Don’t worry,” came Sylum’s voice, warm and amused from the head of the table.
I startled, turning toward him.
He rose, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s not here.”
I exhaled, embarrassed by my own suspicion. “Forgive me. I half-expected him to swoop down and start quoting lines from a poetry book.”
Sylum’s smile deepened, the lines around his eyes softening. “He’s in my study. I thought it best to confine him to his perch for the night, lest he terrorize my new bride again.”
“Bride,” I echoed, the word strange and tender in equal measure. I smiled.
He approached, pulling a chair out for me to his right with unhurried grace. “Please. Sit.”
As I did, the doors at the far end opened and two footmen entered bearing trays heavy with food. Roast pheasant, buttered potatoes, sugared carrots, and a tureen of soup, fragrant with herbs. I hadn’t seen such abundance since my father’s estate thrived.
Sylum waited until the servants had withdrawn before seating himself beside me at the head of the table. “Blackthorn’s kitchen hasn’t been this industrious in years,” he mused with a faint laugh. “The cook takes her duties very seriously.”
“It’s beautiful,” I admitted, though my voice was soft. “All of it. I hardly know where to begin.”
“Begin anywhere. There’s enough here to feed the village twice over.”
The fire in the great hearth crackled, spilling warm shadows across his features. The severe chill that often clung to him seemed softened tonight, replaced by something gentler, something that tugged painfully at an old, stubborn part of my heart.
“How long have you had Poe?” I ventured.
He tilted his head, considering. “My father had him before I was born. He was a great fan of a certain poet and Poe was his muse.”
I smiled faintly. “Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Precisely. He taught the bird to mimic his verses. My father adored the creature. I… learned to tolerate him.”
“Yet you kept him all these years.”
A shadow crossed his face, gone almost before I could place it. “Some things refuse to leave, no matter how much we wish them to.”
I looked down at my plate, the weight of his words sinking in.
“Does he speak to you often?” I inquired softly.
“Only when he wishes to remind me of something I’d rather forget,” Sylum admitted with a rueful smile.
I studied him closely for a moment, his vague words stirring something uneasy inside me. There were pieces of him I had once thought I knew intimately—pieces now jagged, mismatched, and unfamiliar.
“You never mentioned him… well… before I mean.”
He nodded slowly, his fork clinking against the porcelain as he mindlessly shifted his food from one spot to another, as if lost in those memories too.
“Hmm, yes I suppose at the time I didn’t really think about Poe much. He was here being cared for by the staff while I was in London.”
“To find a wife,” I finished quietly.
Sylum looked up at me, guilt flickering unmistakably before he smothered it.
“I wasn’t lying,” he began, voice soft, “when I said I did want to marry you.”
“I understand,” I replied, shrugging. Though a deep ache settled in my chest. “You needn’t explain.”
Outside, the wind moaned against the shutters, and I thought, just for an instant, I heard a faint tapping somewhere above.
But when I looked up, Sylum was grinning faintly at me, his dark eyes glinting in the candlelight.
“Just an old house,” he murmured. “The stones groan and creak when the wind turns.”
And though I tried to believe him, I could not shake the feeling that Blackthorn’s walls were listening, alive with watchful eyes.
For a time, our conversation drifted into gentler waters.
He spoke of the gardens—his mother’s beloved roses, long untended but stubbornly blooming.
I commented on the wine, and he confessed he often forgot he even owned the vineyard.
He told me he loathed London, found its noise and gossip suffocating.
It was easy then, to slip back into the rhythm of who we had been. To remember the young man who once read poetry at my knee, who kissed me beneath falling chestnut blossoms, who swore he would love me until death.
It was as if the years that had passed between us never existed. I realized then just how much I’d truly missed him. Despite the hurt he had caused me, I wanted to let the past go.
He was mine now. Perhaps not the way I wished it had come to be, but I could only hope that in the future, it could be a real marriage.
For the first time since our wedding, Sylum looked almost at ease. There were moments, fleeting but real, when I almost forgot the strange undercurrent that ran through the house and its inhabitants.
But the mind, treacherous organ that it is, rarely loosens its grip on unanswered questions. Perhaps it had been the easy flow of conversation or one too many glasses of wine, but I suddenly felt brave enough to ask.
I set my fork down, tracing a finger along the stem of my wine glass. “Sylum,” I began quietly, hesitating before I continued. “May I ask you something… personal?”
He lifted his gaze from his plate, amber hues dancing in his dark eyes. “You may ask me anything, Lucy.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s about your… your fiancé. Elizabeth.”
His expression didn’t change, but the air between us did. It felt heavy.
“I’ve tried not to pry,” I added quickly. “I only… people talk, you know how they are. I don’t believe any of it, of course. But I thought perhaps you might tell me the truth.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. The fire popped softly in the hearth, the only sound in the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“There isn’t much truth to tell.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He leaned back slightly, his gaze shifting toward the window, where rain had begun to gather against the glass. “Elizabeth was kind. Proper. Everything my aunt thought a Duchess should be.” He paused, his tone hollowing. “But she was never meant for this house.”
Something cold slipped down my spine. “Did she truly die here?”
He nodded once, the movement barely perceptible. “She fell from the east wing balcony. They said it was an accident.”
“They said?” I repeated, my brows furrowing.
He turned to face me then, his jaw set. “I wasn’t even here.”
A silence bloomed between us. I could hear the faint tick of the mantel clock, relentless and too loud.
“She was alone,” he went on, his voice roughened now, fraying at the edges. “I was away that night attending business in the village. When I returned, she was already gone.”
His hand tightened around the stem of his glass until I feared it might break.
“They assumed that I drove her to it,” he admitted. “That the manor was cursed. That madness runs in the Deveroux blood. Then, of course, there were others who claimed I had pushed her.”
I froze.
He met my eyes, and for a heartbeat the candlelight caught in them. They looked haunted, weary, and utterly sincere. “I stayed away for all those years because I thought it was my fault,” he went on quietly. “Not because I was guilty. I didn’t love her, Lucy… but I would never have hurt her.”
The admission hung between us like a confession.
I released a trembling breath. Somehow, I believed him. Despite the years that had stretched between us, I still knew the cadence of his honesty, the rawness behind his restraint. The pain in his eyes was too real to be rehearsed.
I lifted my glass, took a slow sip of wine to steady myself, then murmured, “I’m sorry, Sylum. I know what it is to be the subject of gossip.”
He gave a faint, humorless smile, then reached across the table for my hand. His fingers brushed mine, warm and steady. He lifted my hand to his lips, turning it slightly before pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist.
My breath caught. The heat of his mouth sent a tremor through me, the ghost of that touch radiating outward until it filled my chest.
“I should have never left you,” he whispered, his lips brushing my skin again. “Please… forgive me.”
Something inside me softened, fractured, and gave way. I wasn’t sure when it happened, whether in that moment or long ago, but I forgave him completely. Every part of me that had once resented him dissolved beneath the weight of his voice.
Without thinking, I leaned forward, emboldened by wine and want. Our joined hands hovered between us, and I turned them slightly, mirroring his gesture. My lips met his knuckles, soft and uncertain.
When I looked up again, his gaze was already on me, his fascination almost reverent.
A corner of his mouth curved. “Lucy,” he murmured, and my name in his voice felt like a sin. His pupils darkened, swallowing the warm brown of his irises until only shadow remained. “Perhaps you should rest now. It’s been a long day.”
I frowned, our hands still entwined. “Did I do something wrong?”
His jaw flexed, and he drew a slow breath through his nose. “No,” he assured gently. “That’s precisely the problem.”
Heat bloomed up my throat, dizzying and reckless. “I don’t want to rest,” I said. The sound of my own voice startled me—low and husky with something I could neither name nor contain.
I wanted to be his wife. Truly.
He made a sound deep in his chest, a restrained groan that felt like a battle barely won. His fingers molded around mine as if holding himself still by will alone.
Something bloomed inside me, wild and bright. The room felt warmer, smaller, the air charged. I didn’t know if it was the wine or his nearness that made my blood heat beneath my skin.
But for the first time since stepping foot in Blackthorn Manor, I wasn’t afraid.
Not of him at least.
The moment stretched between us, fragile as spun glass. His thumb brushed over the back of my hand, slow and reverent. For a heartbeat, I could almost believe that the world had gone still and there was only us.
Then, from the corner of my eye, something moved.
A gentle stirring in the dark beyond the window.
I turned my head, drawn by the faintest sense of motion. The rain had thickened to a fine mist, painting the glass in silvery sheen. Yet through it—through the gentle shimmer of the candlelight’s reflection—I thought I saw the suggestion of a figure standing at the edge of the terrace.
It was little more than a blur, a pale light in the blackness, but as I stared, the shape seemed to tilt its head in a disturbingly human gesture. My breath hitched.
“Lucy?” Sylum’s voice was soft, uncertain. “What is it?”
I blinked rapidly, eyes darting back to the glass, realizing only then that my fingers had tightened around his. The terrace was empty. The only movement now was the restless sway of ivy in the wind.
I swallowed hard, forcing a trembling laugh. “It’s nothing. I thought I saw—” I stopped myself. The last thing I needed was for him to think I’d gone the way of my mother. “It must be the storm.”
His eyes searched mine, sharp and assessing. “You’ve gone pale.”
I shook my head, the room teetering slightly. The warmth that had filled my chest now burned oddly, spreading into my throat and behind my eyes. “I think… I’ve had too much wine.”
He hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You’re certain?”
“Quite,” I lied, pressing my fingers to my temple. “Just a touch lightheaded.”
For a moment he said nothing. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, the concerned tension in his stillness. Then, slowly, he rose from his chair and came to stand beside me.
“Lucy,” he said, his voice that same gentle note I’d always remembered. He reached out and drew me into his arms. I could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath his waistcoat, the scent of cedar and candle smoke clinging to him.
He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of my head. “You need to rest tonight.”
I nodded against his chest, the motion making the room tilt again. “Yes,” I whispered, though words suddenly felt strange in my mouth.
He drew back enough to meet my eyes, a faint crease between his brows. “I’ll send Nelly to help you prepare for bed.”
The fire popped, and I flinched at the sound.
Sylum gave me one last searching look, as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then he released me, the warmth of him fading as he stepped away.
“I’ll come by later,” he promised, his tone softening. “Sleep, Lucy. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
When the doors closed behind him, I turned slowly back toward the window.
The rain still fell in sheets across the terrace, the glass quivering with the weight of it. But just as I started to turn away, lightning split the sky—white and blinding—and for the briefest instant, I saw it again.
A pale face at the glass, staring back at me.