Chapter 6
Six
The castle, which sat on Wolfe Estate, looked just as Clara remembered it, which didn’t bring her any comfort.
Although it was still the early hours of the afternoon, the sky was dark, and it cast a gloom over the grey stone castle as if the tall and imposing structure was the cause of the clouds that sat thick in the sky and blotted out the sun.
The way it rose from the flat earth, too, surrounded by flat plains in all directions, gave it a sense of isolation that suited its owner perfectly.
It was lived in, clearly Clara knew that, yet to look at it, one might think it long since abandoned.
“It is… quite big,” she said as she looked out the window of the carriage, eyeing the castle as they steadily approached. “And tall.”
“It has been in my family for generations,” the duke commented.
“I hope there are no ghosts,” she joked, even adding a little giggle in an effort to break the mood.
To this, the duke exhaled sharply from his nose and looked away. Likely there once were, but the duke long since scared them off.
The carriage pulled through the gate and then started down the winding drive.
The trip seemed to take an age, that sense of foreboding growing the closer they came.
She had to crane her neck to see the top of the tallest towers, and it seemed to bear over her as if even the building was trying to warn her away.
Once they arrived, the carriage came to a stop, and the duke was the first one down. Most surprisingly, he turned and offered her a hand to help her with the short step onto the ground, which she took with a smile. “Thank you.”
He offered a quick smile, seeming to regret it almost right away, snatching his hand and turning. “Follow me,” he then said, striding toward the huge front doors.
Clara stayed where she was, watching him go. He is hiding something from me. Or from himself, it seems. Whenever he does anything that even hints at warmth, he balks and reverts back to his detached self.
She hurried after him, reaching the bottom of the steps just as the duke opened the front door and strode inside.
From the depths of the home, a cold breeze rushed out, as if it, too, was trying to escape.
It wrapped her like a cold blanket, and she started to shake as she crept up the stairs and walked through the front doors. Her new home.
The foyer was expansive. The floors were marble.
The walls were decorated with portraits of family members.
A crystal chandelier hung low, its dozens of candles casting the open chamber in an orange gloom that was bright yet somehow felt dark.
It was moody in the foyer, nothing to suggest a warm, welcoming home that Clara might look forward to one day being a part of.
“Your Grace,” the duke began. “Welcome.”
Standing in the center of the foyer were eight members of staff. They stood with their heads bowed, no smiles worn, almost statues rather than people. Alaric stood to face them, observing them as if he might chastise them should they dare to show too much emotion.
“Good evening,” she said with a smile that was friendly on her lips but seemed to die before reaching the staff. “I am pleased to meet you all.”
“They are here to assist in anything you require,” the duke said simply. “Mr. Winters…” From the eight members of staff, an elderly man stepped forward. His head remained bowed, but his posture was straight. “Mr. Winters is the head of staff. All questions you have may be directed at him.”
“Wonderful.” She approached him, holding her smile as she did. “It is good to make your acquaintance,” she offered him. “I think you will find I am rather easy to get along with. I promise not to be too demanding,” she laughed to no reaction.
“Mr. Winters,” the duke said. “Show Her Grace to her quarters.”
“At once, Your Grace.” He bowed deeply and then turned and made for the staircase that rose to the second floor. He did not look back to see if she would follow, taking the stairs slowly.
“Are you not coming?” she asked the duke.
“No,” he said. “Mr. Winters will take care of you.”
“Oh…” She blinked with confusion, doing her best not to look disappointed. Or surprised, perhaps. This may not be a love match or a marriage of companionship, but even I had not guessed just how distantly the duke planned on behaving. “That is… I thought you might wish to show me around?”
“As I said, Mr. Winters will take care of you.” His expression was stern, but a shadow passed behind his eyes, which looked like regret. “This is your home now,” he made sure to clarify. “You are free to do as you wish, when you wish it.”
“That is nice to know.”
“I am under no false illusions concerning this marriage,” he continued. “I know what it is, as I am sure that you do. All I ask is that you stay away from the western wing. The rest is yours to explore.”
“What is in the western wing?” she asked immediately.
His face hardened, and his jaw tightened. No doubt he thought to rebuke her, but stayed his tongue. Although why he bothers at this point, I have no idea. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes…” Clara considered, desperate to breach the gap between them even a little. “Will I be seeing you for supper?”
The duke considered the question. Again, there was a fight raging behind his eyes. That desire to say no outright, pushing back against something else. She only wished she knew what on earth he was so concerned with.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Appearances are important, and we should strive to meet them. I will see you for supper.”
“Perfect.” She smiled, wanting him to see that she was grateful. “I am looking forward to –” The duke turned and strode away, cutting her off before she had a chance to finish.
She frowned after him. Despite how necessary this marriage was, and despite the conviction that it was better than a marriage to Lord Ayles or a life spent in a convent, Clara was beginning to have her doubts.
She did not expect to win the duke over to her cause, for him to warm to her and wish to spend time with her.
But at least, she hoped they might be friendly.
The Duke of Ravencourt. After the rumors I have heard of him, I suppose I should not be surprised.
Mr. Winters was waiting for her at the top of the staircase. He looked frustrated that he was made to do so. When she started her way up, she thought to apologize, but held back as she was a duchess now and needed to act like it. She did, however, smile still, a gesture which went unreturned.
Mr. Winters led Clara to the third level of the eastern wing to her bedroom.
It was an isolated part of the castle, and few of the halls they walked through were lit, and most of the doorways they passed were closed.
That same sense of foreboding hung in the air with each step taken, such that it was suffocating.
“Are His Grace’s chambers nearby?” she asked Mr. Winters as the silence stretched.
“His rooms are in the western wing,” he answered simply.
“Is that all that is in the western wing?” she pried, her curiosity getting the best of her. “Surely there is more there than His Grace’s bedroom.”
To this, Mr. Winters gave no answer.
Her room was a richly decorated affair, a contrast to the rest of the castle.
Rich satin sheets made the four-poster bed.
Finely carved furniture adorned the room.
And the view from the window was truly spectacular, as it looked over the grounds, stretching for miles to where just now the sun was sinking beneath the horizon.
It was a relief, to be sure, as she had worried that she might be led to a cell with a single cot.
Nothing would surprise me at this point.
With a few hours to kill before supper, Clara got to exploring.
She felt it was dangerous doing so, as the halls were not lit, they wound and snaked through the various towers in a way that was disorientating.
And although she lived here and this was her home, she still could not escape the feeling that she was trespassing.
Not that there was anything worth trespassing for.
Most of the rooms she came to were locked tight. Those few that were open were draped with sheets, covering everything, dust sitting thick on every surface. She had joked earlier to herself about ghosts living here, but even they would leave more of a presence than what this castle did.
In the end, she found her way outside and into the back garden. Like the rest of the castle, it was a morbid affair filled with empty flower beds, withered hedges, and trees on the cusp of death. But here, she saw an opportunity.
This marriage would not be a happy affair. This home was not warm or welcoming. The year she had before her was sure to be sullen and deadly and most certainly grim. But this garden… I have a good idea where I will be spending most of my time.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And as things currently stood, Clara needed to focus on these small victories as she sensed they would come at her few and far between.
Alaric stood by the window of his study in the western tower as he watched his new wife walk through the back garden. She did so with her hands folded behind her back, a determined scowl on her face, and a continual nodding of her head as if deciding something.
It looks to me as if she has found something to keep her interest. Perhaps I should send for supplies? Encourage her to occupy herself as much as possible. Although if I do that, she might get the wrong idea about me. Is it better to ignore her entirely than show any interest at all?
So far, he had chosen to distance himself from her, a decision which kept him pacing his study, constantly questioning himself.
He told himself that he was doing it for her benefit, to keep her safe, to stall any chance that she might see an opportunity to grow close to him as any wife might wish of her husband.
This marriage had an end date, one which would be easier to suffer if, when it came, she and he had nothing to do with one another.
Deep down, however, Alaric knew this to be a half-truth at best.
He kept his distance for his own sake, as well as Clara’s.
A promise he made to himself years ago that he would never allow anyone to breach the high walls he had erected around his heart.
It was easier that way, because if he did not let anyone in, then there was less chance of him being hurt.
I have felt that pain once already. Never again.
This reasoning made his decision no easier to stomach.
And he hated treating Clara so coldly. She was too kind for such antipathy.
Too innocent to be levelled with such apparent disdain.
He supposed that was why he had agreed to sup with her, the fight raging within tempered for just long enough to see him cave.
After all, she had done nothing wrong – nothing to deserve this.
Worse, in her, he saw a reminder of a woman he once knew.
Still, these self-imposed rules did not mean that Alaric could not look at her.
He did so with a soft smile, admiring her resilience as most in her position would surely wither and die rather than be faced with what she had been.
And she was indeed beautiful; it was a hidden beauty, one he suspected that even she was not aware of.
Yes… I can look, but I dare not touch. Never can I touch.
This marriage had never felt like a smart idea.
It was written with danger, and in his worst moments, Alaric feared it might destroy all he had worked so hard to do these last few years.
Cutting himself off from the world. Refusing to let anyone in.
Becoming invisible until he was forgotten entirely.
Keeping himself safe.