Chapter Sixteen
Thorn was entirely aware that since their unsatisfying, yet admittedly somewhat fruitful trip to market, he’d been something of an ass.
Skulking, grumbling, retreating, from Hypatia, and anyone else who dared come near.
He’d become himself as he’d been in the days, months, and yes, to a degree, years, after Helen and Frank’s betrayal; a mood, a melancholy, an anger, a feeling, whatever one would term it, which he’d only conquered through industriousness, and admittedly, a hardening of his heart.
He was also entirely aware that Hypatia had done nothing so treacherous, or repugnant; that all she’d done was work to the bone to help him make their home, their livelihood, a success, or like tonight, to make their neighbours and new friends, feel welcome, and thanked, for all the good fortune and grace they’d shared.
He was entirely aware that it was his own fault, his own problem, that he’d let some idiot he knew not one whit of twist his heart and mind with laughable and ridiculous words and opinions, said in passing, and that he himself was a better man than this—the thoughts, or the ensuing behaviour—and yet.
He couldn’t seem to stop any of it—the thoughts, or the behaviour—though he justified his recent behaviour on a strange case of preservation; distance meant he could sort out his mind, and his heart, and go back to the loveliness that had been, without saying or doing anything that might injure Hypatia, or anyone else for that matter.
He told himself that, all while he knew distance, silence, just made the thoughts rot and boil ever more.
She doesn’t need me.
She doesn’t want me.
I’m not good enough.
I could leave tomorrow, she’d be fine.
Does she even like me?
I suffer without her near, and she thrives, as ever, carrying on as if nothing were wrong.
Though of course, nothing truly was wrong. There were minor catastrophes, and problems, with straightforward solutions. Still, Thorn couldn’t snap out of it.
Tonight’s dinner, or party or whatever they were calling it, might’ve done the trick, had Hypatia not been so damned glorious.
Transforming their house into a welcome home, making it all so beautiful, and taking care of all the arrangements, and even thinking of doing it to thank all those who’d showed them kindness.
All he’d been able to think was: she didn’t need me but to supervise the butchering of the hogs, and their cooking, man that I am, those are my only duties.
He conveniently discarded the reminders his mind gave him that he might’ve very well made daisy chains with her if only he’d asked, talked to her, said one word; she wouldn’t have cared one whit, or perhaps she might’ve been happy for him to do so.
The evening had revived him in many ways.
It was easy not to maturate in one’s own poisonous thoughts when one was distracted by good food, good drink, conversations and games with children.
Except that one glance at Hypatia across the room, and how she held everyone’s attention, and shone so bright, and laughed so magnetically, and he would want to be there, by her side, soaking it in.
Soaking her in. He wanted her perhaps more than he’d wanted her thus far, and not just her body, but her heart, and her soul, and her thoughts, and her sorrows, and when she’d sung that song, he’d been transfixed, and yet so very sad, because she wouldn’t let him have any of it, and rightfully so, he had no business having any of it, he didn’t deserve it, her, not given the thoughts he was harbouring, and also he had no right, not given the nature of their relationship, agreed and shaken upon, and the fact they’d been married, what, just over a month now?
I can’t even recall—what day is it today?
And to make it all worse, Hypatia hadn’t allowed him to go back to his room and sulk further once the last of their guests departed, oh no, she had to lead him through woods, and paths, and fields, to who knew where, glancing back so often with hope and mischief in her eyes he wanted to get caught up in, but refused to be ensnared in, stubborn bastard that he was.
So he remained sulking, sullenly following through darkness, until finally Hypatia and her little lamp stopped bobbing, before a middling-sized stone cottage of some manner.
‘We’re here,’ she said, breathlessly, waiting for him to be excited, but quickly finding herself disappointed, so turning to open the door instead.
He followed, because something inside still refused to not obey her commands; refused to injure her and tell her he was going back to bed. Stepping inside, his nose began to recognise scents, and then she was lighting candles, and he realised…
‘This is a forge,’ he breathed, stunned, blinking as his eyes found the hearth, the bellows, the tools, the anvil, the tables…
‘Mrs Siddows mentioned there was one here,’ she told him excitedly, her eyes still searching him, hoping for approval, or excitement, or something he couldn’t find it in himself to give, as a turbulent whirlpool of feelings swept his insides bare and raw.
‘She said it hasn’t been used in years. They used to have a smith for the farm, but he was one of the first to go when the old earl was making cuts. ’
‘These tools, they’re new…’
‘I hope they’re right. I asked around, and read what I could, but if they’re not right, Rowan at the ironmongers said you could switch them without issue. As for the rest, gathered where I could, and Danny and Ian and Fred helped, cleaning it all up, and getting it back into shape.’
‘You used your money for all this, didn’t you?’
‘Of course. This was my surprise, for you.’
It was…
So much.
Too much.
Thoughtful, and kind-hearted, and wonderful, and excessive, and the most incredible gift he’d perhaps been given, and it filled him with such joy, wonder, and marvel, and bewilderment that guilt, remorse, and self-hatred, also reared their ugly heads.
And in their true destructive fashion, they dimmed the rest, until all Thorn could see, or taste, or speak, was the worst of himself, and his mind.
‘Is this your roundabout way of telling me I should go back to what I’m good at?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Surely you can’t have failed to hear them at market,’ he spat, rounding back on her, her dumbfounded expression worsening everything, rather than forcing him to take a proper step back, and look at himself, and his egregious behaviour.
‘If such things were said to me, I can’t imagine what was said to you.
And I expect everyone on this bloody farm, on this estate, and in the village, is thinking such things.
Saying such things. That I’ve no idea what I’m doing, that you’re the one who knows everything, who’s out there negotiating prices, and fixing roofs, and handling pigs, and running things.
You’ve been doing so from the first, without any aid from me, and so I must wonder, what purpose do I serve beyond being the imposter of an earl? ’
‘I didn’t think you minded,’ Hypatia said quietly, searching her brain he could see for examples to prove his point. Part of him knew she would find none; the more cruel part told him she would find countless. ‘I’ve asked you, I thought we were working together…’
‘But we’re not doing it together, are we?
’ he near shouted, throwing up his hands like the petulant, insecure child he knew he was.
But he just couldn’t stop. ‘You do it all, and I’m just here to sign papers, or say yes, Hypatia, or lift pigs from the muck, and even then, how many times have you done that yourself?
You make the decisions, and you know what’s best, and why shouldn’t I just step back, and go back to my old work, and let you save my legacy and restore the title, and do it all, and there we go. ’
‘You don’t just… I want to do it with you,’ she told him, her earnestness chafing as she took a step towards him.
‘Why? Do you even like me, Hypatia?’ That one stopped her, and he saw a doubt, a questioning, an examination of her mind that fuelled his anger.
‘You leave my bed when you’ve had your pleasure, and you never touch me otherwise, I am always the one holding your hand, or caressing your cheek, or…
anything. Some days I wonder if you even like me touching you, or if you’re just enduring it to get what you want. ’
‘I don’t mind it—’
‘You don’t mind it?’
Aghast, her answer proving him right on all counts, even if it did no such thing, he shook his head, laughing bitterly.
‘Thorn, please, don’t misunderstand me.’
‘Actually, for the first time, I think I understand you very well. It was my mistake again, believing something other than what was before me.’
‘Thorn—’
Even if he hadn’t waved her off, like some dismissive arse, and walked out into the warm, but cold to him night, her words would’ve been stopped by the crack he heard in her voice; a complement to those heart-wrenching tears he’d seen dancing on her lashes before he’d turned away.
Another man, a better one, worthier one, would’ve immediately turned on his heel, and marched straight back in there, and begged forgiveness for having injured her, as he knew he had.
Not only by spouting some ridiculous nonsense he’d allowed to fester inside him, not only by saying very cruel things, but mainly, by being unwilling to talk, as they had so readily until now.
Certes, he had valid feelings, doubts, questions—does she like me, do I serve a purpose, does she need or want me—but he’d not taken the time to open himself up to her.
To be vulnerable, to express it all, and ask, in a civilised, cool, and ready-to-hear-the-answer way.
For that sin, and perhaps, many others, he’d likely be punished with what might prove to be the worst fate possible; the loss of an incredible woman. One he cared for so deeply, and he…
She’d be better off. What have I to give?
And perhaps, that was truly at the root of it all, that very question; or so he purported, and pondered, as he attempted to find his way home in the dark, having paid little attention to where he truly was.
This is going to be a long night. Mayhaps the longest of my life.