Chapter Three
Three
Dinner is in a room attached to the back of the tower.
The space is more conservatory than dining hall.
Pointed arches frame expensively large windows that give a view of the darkening woods at the back of the manor.
I feel like a butterfly trapped in a glass box and carried into an unnatural environment.
I’m safe within these walls, but only thin panes of glass separate me from whatever monstrosities live in the forest.
I walk to the windows at the back of the room and peer past my reflection and into the depths of the trees. The forest feels older here than it does back home. No, I correct myself, this place is my home now.
“How do you feel about roasted boar and wild vegetables?” Oren enters the room carrying a tray on his shoulder.
“I’m not picky when it comes to what I eat,” I say with a smile. I’ve had too many nights where hunger was the only thing on my plate for me to complain about any hot meal placed before me.
“Good,” he says. “We don’t have consistent food out here.
” He sets the tray at the head of the table.
“That isn’t to say we don’t have food. We have all we need.
But the menu is whatever the forest and gardens provide.
As you saw, the nearest village is a bit too far of a trip to go merely for provisions. ”
“I’d be happy to help you forage,” I say as I sit.
He looks aghast at the suggestion. “We are not scavengers rooting through the mud for food.”
“Of course not.” I laugh as if I would never think of doing such a thing.
But the need to scavenge was what prompted me to search my father’s library, hunting for books on the local terrain.
It’s how I can tell a safe mushroom from a poisonous one.
“I merely think wild mushrooms are delicious. And finding the ones that are safe to eat is an activity I enjoy.”
He pours me water from one carafe and wine from a different one. “It has been noted,” he says. But nothing will come of it. I can hear that in his voice.
“Will the master of the house be joining me for dinner?” I ask.
“No, he takes dinner in his quarters.”
I purse my lips. “Will I meet him after dinner?”
“Night will be upon us, then.”
“He can come and visit me in my chambers if it is late.”
“That is not appropriate.”
I cough and spit wine into my glass. “Not appropriate? Am I not his wife?”
“On paper, by the laws of this land, yes.” What an odd response.
“Then I think it is fine if he sees me in my quarters.” I put down the glass slowly, grateful that my hand doesn’t tremble so much that it clatters on the table or spills.
“The master is very busy.”
With what? I want to know. I’ve tried for hours to handle this whole situation as graciously as possible.
But I still have no idea who the man I married is.
I have no idea how he came into his fortune, where he came from, what he wants from me, and why he needed a book enough to agree to pay for a wife to have it.
I should be glad to have him not meddling in my affairs or being overbearing, but not knowing the extent of my circumstances is slightly unbearable.
“Could you please pass along to him that his wife would be very grateful if he could spend a few minutes with her this evening?” I look the butler in his beady black eyes as I make my demand.
“I will pass the word along.” He promptly leaves.
I eat dinner alone. It might be uncomfortable to some, but I’m used to solitude and time with just myself.
In fact, in some ways, I prefer it. Silence is consistent, and solitude is safe.
There is no one trying to take my food from me, no one demanding that I engage with them.
No one about to push me from my place at the table so I can go start on the dishes.
The plate is empty before I know it and my stomach slightly uncomfortable. I ate too fast and the food is richer than I’m accustomed to. I lean back in my chair, unladylike, and pat the bulge of my abdomen. It’s been a long time since I felt this full.
This could be worse—I return to my earlier thought.
My husband seems to have no real interest in me, which is better than a man expecting me to come to his bed immediately so I can begin work on my duty of giving him an heir to his fortune.
And I seem to have the same amount of—no, more freedom than I did back home.
Plus, no one will bother me here. I really should stop inquiring after him and let us never meet if that’s what he so desires.
Oren returns, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
“Was it enough?” He collects my cleaned plate.
“More than.” I sit up straighter. “Please tell the cook that it was delicious.”
He gives me a sly smile and nods. “I will.”
“Any word from my husband?” I ask, now unsure what I want the answer to be.
The butler sighs. Yet again, something that should have a simple answer leaves him stewing for far too long. “I believe he can make time—five or ten minutes, perhaps. I will start a fire in the study of your wing. You can wait for him there.”
The butler leaves quickly, carrying out the dishes.
I stand and do a lap around the table. I suddenly regret asking to see Lord Fenwood.
What if he’s upset with the request? What if he wants nothing to do with me and now I have only earned his ire?
Would it have been better to not question? I come to a halt and shake my head.
No, if I am to live here and be wed to this man, then I have a right to at least meet him once.
To know his first name. If we have nothing to do with each other day-to-day, that’s fine.
But we should both acknowledge the other’s presence.
I do not want a lover, and I dare not hope for a friend, but at the least we can be cordial.
My courage gathered, I leave the dining room and head to my right.
A different door has been left open, waiting for me.
A fire crackles in the hearth. Bookcases, mostly empty, line the walls.
A table has been pushed off to the side; I imagine it was once situated between the two chairs that are now back to back before the fire.
I cross the room and run my fingertips lightly over the leather. What a strange seating arrangement…I muse. It isn’t long before I learn why the chairs are arranged in such a manner.
A voice cuts through the silence and my thoughts, resonating deep in my core. It has the same quality as the low growl of a wolf, and sparks a prey instinct within me. Run, my better sense urges at the sound. Run far from here, this is not a place for you.
“Do not turn,” he says.
Despite myself, I glance back. Instinct, really. When someone speaks, I look. I’m not intentionally disobeying…not this time, at least.
“I said don’t turn.”
My eyes snap forward again. “I only saw a bit of your shoulder. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Oren has been over the rules with you, has he not?”
“Yes.” The man I’m speaking to is of tall build, judging from where his shoulder came up to on the doorframe. But that’s all I can tell about him. He’s leaning against the side of the doorway, as if he knew I would try to look upon him despite his order.
“There is a fourth rule that you must know,” he says. “Under no circumstances are you to ever lay eyes on me.”
“What?” I whisper, fighting every urge to look over my shoulder once more.
“Oren informed me that you wished to meet with me. I am obliging you, as is now my duty. However, I will do so only if you swear never to look at me.”
The chairs now make sense. I wonder if he is horribly disfigured. Maybe he’s just cripplingly shy. Whatever the reason, I have no desire to make him uncomfortable.
“That’s fine with me.” I take my seat in the wingback chair that faces the windows, my back to the door. “I’m grateful you took the time to meet with me.”
I hear his footsteps cross the floor. He has a wide gait, further confirmation that he’s as tall as I suspected.
His steps are light, almost silent. He walks the way I do, as if he’s trying not to make a sound.
I can’t imagine him being a very muscular man, given his footsteps.
No, I’m imagining him as a wiry individual.
Not much older than me, judging from the strength of his voice.
I try to steal a glimpse of him in the watery reflection of the windows, but the room is already much too dark for that.
He’s little more than a blurred shadow moving across the room.
The chair behind me sighs softly under his weight. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve never been more aware of someone’s presence. I have never been more tempted to do anything than I am to turn and see if my assessments about him are correct.
“Now, what is it that you would like to speak about?” he asks somewhat curtly.
“I merely wanted to meet you—that is all,” I say. “It seemed rather odd to be married to someone without ever”—I stop myself from saying “seeing him” and instead say—“speaking to him.”
“You married me without speaking to me, why does it matter now?”
I can’t tell if the fact wounds him or not. Did he hope that I would beg and plead to meet him before signing the papers? Does he even realize that my fate was sealed with a stroke of a pen that I wasn’t even holding?
“We are going to spend our lives together,” I say. “I’d like to make that as pleasant as possible.”
“There is nothing pleasant here.”
My husband is very cheerful, it seems. I roll my eyes, grateful he can’t see my expression. “You have a nice enough house, wealth enough to do as you please, no one telling you what to do—”
“Don’t presume to know me,” he interrupts sharply.
“I would be happy to know you if given the chance.”
“I have no interest in you knowing me because I have no interest in knowing you. This is a business arrangement, nothing more. All you are is part of a bargain, and I must keep up my end of it.”
I clutch my chest as if physically trying to shield myself from an invisible wound.
What did I expect? What was I really hoping for?
Some great romance? Ha. The type of love in the stories young girls read isn’t reality.
I’ve seen “love” between my father and Joyce.
That is the only love that’s real, and it is not something to want.
No, I don’t want him to love me. But I’d hoped I would not be seen as a burden for once.
“Fair enough,” I say softly.
“Is there anything else, or are you satisfied?”
“I’m satisfied.”
“Good. I expect to have no trouble from you while you are here. Heed the rules, and you will want for nothing. We will never have to cross paths again.”
The chair squeaks as he stands; his footsteps cross the room and fade.
I wish I had something else to say or a clear picture of what I want.
But the fact is I’ve never been allowed to want anything in my life.
I’ve been told what I can and can’t have for so long that I lost whatever skill a person is born with to make those choices.
It withered and died from never being used.
I sit for almost a full ten minutes after I’m certain he’s gone, just staring out into the dark woods.
Night has fallen and the moon is waning, so it’s almost impossible to make out the dark silhouettes of the forest. The longer I stare, the more I am filled with a strange sensation that something is staring back at me.
Unable to tolerate the uneasiness any longer, I head for my own room. But when I emerge into the hall I hear footsteps in the main entryway. My head slowly turns toward the door to my wing. Against my better judgment, I creep across the hall and press my ear to the door.
There are muffled voices on the other side, but I cannot make out what they are saying.
The words are strange and foreign, spoken in a tongue that I don’t recognize.
I tread lightly to one of the windows that overlooks the circular drive.
It’s empty. Not even the carriage that took me here is parked out front any longer.
Who is there? I wonder. Do others live here? Oren made it sound like there were only three of us in the manor. Would he lie? If so, why?
Heed the rules, and you will want for nothing, Lord Fenwood said. Oren had also made those rules clear: I am not to leave my wing at night, regardless of the sounds I hear. Whatever the lord gets up to in the late hours is not my business.
Fine. I don’t mind being more long-term houseguest than wife.
I retreat to my room and ready myself for bed. The mattress and duvet are among the most comfortable I’ve ever felt and I quickly fall into a dreamless sleep…
Only to be woken within an hour by a bloodcurdling scream.