Chapter 55
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
ROWEN
Redthorne rose out of the low valley, its long Tudor rooflines slanting under age. Clustered chimneys leaned slightly, and its gabled wings were a jagged silhouette against the pale sky.
This house looked as if it had risen from the very earth of their village, not imposed upon it, like Tidesfar. The air here was warm and still, unlike the bracing wind at Tidesfar.
Tall mullioned windows were clouded, and a number of shutters hung crooked. Ivy and lichen crawled up the sides of the ruddy reddish-brown stone walls, darkened like dried blood, giving the manor a bruised appearance. Bruised, forgotten, but still here, still standing.
There was no more formal front lawn, and the carriage sweep was barely visible as Rowen reined in the horses, bringing the curricle to a stop.
Now, tall grasses and wildflowers had taken claim, foxglove and briar rose tangling by the front steps.
A cracked stone coat of arms still clung over a heavy wood door swollen with damp.
In another age, it most certainly had been a grand entrance.
Cassandra and Tristan stared at their ancestral home in silence. Rowen now understood how a girl might have learned to endure here, to listen and wait, and how a boy might have burned to leave.
This was a house that had been stranded by neglect, abandoned by fortune, left behind by fashion. Yet its proud bones remained and told a story of an aristocratic family.
They wandered about the property. Bees hummed in the rose arbour.
“Mother’s roses look as if they are choking, do they not?” Cassandra said.
“And the blackberry brambles are nothing but thorns now.” Tristan glanced up at the broken eaves where birds now nested.
“Viscount Redthorne.” Cassandra took her brother’s arm. “As owner of this estate, what say you? Will you save her?”
His lips tipped up ever so slightly. “Her strange beauty, that old world quality of her that I always admired, is now tangled with decay. To fortify and restore her, to make her new again, would be good work. And I am not afraid of work.”
“I want to help you do it.” Cassandra squeezed his hand with hers.
Redthorne would give him purpose, thought Rowen. In restoring it, he might yet restore himself. It could become a place where a deeply scarred man could stand still and breathe. A home where he would belong on his own terms.
Cassandra glanced at Rowen, and he gestured at her with a dip of his head. She began, “Tristan, there is something we must tell you. You told us last night about Frederica.”
Tristan’s body stiffened, and he turned away from them, toward the ancient twisted yew tree that towered above them, clawing the sky.
Cassandra continued, pressing her other hand on his arm. “Rowen and I knew Frederica in England, and I spent much time with her in Jersey. She was indeed a widow. In fact, her late husband was Lord Enggers’s brother.”
Tristan stilled. “Is she…”
“She is dead. Remember I told you about our uncle attempting to poison me? He’d sent me a bottle of French perfume that he had poisoned.
Frederica adored the scent, and I gave it to her.
Within days, she became ill with fever and…
” Cassandra swallowed hard. “I put his poison in her hands, believing it was kindness.”
“He killed her,” he grit out.
“There is more,” Rowen said.
“Frederica had recently given birth to a baby. She had entrusted me with the truth. A Frenchman, she said, a stranger she’d met one night, badly scarred, lost—”
“Stop!”
“I took the child.”
He only stared at her, his face pale.
“I would not let him be lost. I brought him to Tidesfar. And when I saw you at the temple, when I saw your scars, and then you shared that story with us, I knew with certainty that Frederica’s story was true.”
“Nathaniel...” Tristan’s lips trembled.
“Yes.”
His chest heaved, and he turned away from them, stumbling on the red bricks that lay scattered on the ground. Steadying himself, he inhaled. “You did well, Cassie. You did well. He is yours, yours for your bravery and your love.”
She went to her brother and took his hands in hers. “You give us your permission then?” she whispered.
“I?” Tristan twisted away from her and clutched at his chest. “I am not worthy of him. I am not capable of … I am fit only to steal, to make war…” His voice broke.
Rowen gripped Tristan’s arm and steadied him. Tristan’s eyes were red and full of water. “He is yours, Oakley.” He pressed a hand into Rowen’s chest. “Yours.”
Rowen reached for Cassandra, and she took his hand, her watery gaze meeting his. Her heart beating with his.
Ours. By choice, by oath. By love.