Chapter 5 #3
The journey continued in silence broken only by the rhythm of wheels and Thistle's occasional commentary on passing sheep. The mist had burned away, revealing a gloriously sunny day that seemed to mock the somber mood in the carriage.
"Tell me about Blackthorn Manor," Arabella said finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.
"What would you like to know?"
"Everything. If it's to be my home, I should know something about it."
He considered this. "It's old. Parts date back to the Tudors, though most was rebuilt in my grandfather's time. There are forty-three rooms, though many are closed up. The east wing, where your chambers are, was my mother's. It has the best views of the gardens."
"Gardens?"
"Rose gardens, primarily. My mother loved roses." His voice carried an unexpected softness. "They've been somewhat neglected since... recently. Perhaps you might take an interest."
"I know nothing about roses."
"Neither did she, at first. She learned."
"And your father?"
"Dead these fifteen years. Hunting accident." His tone suggested this topic was closed.
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
More silence. Arabella searched for safe topics, finally settling on, "Mr. Ashford seems nice."
"Julian is many things. Nice isn't usually the first that comes to mind."
"He called me brave for marrying you."
"Did he?" Lord Blackthorn's mouth twitched. "How flattering for us both."
"He also started to call you the Beast before catching himself."
"Ah." The almost-smile disappeared. "Yes, that charming sobriquet has quite taken hold, hasn't it?"
"Does it bother you?"
"Should it? It keeps people at a distance. I find that useful."
"Is that what you want? Distance?"
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment she thought he might say something real, something that wasn't wrapped in protective layers of sarcasm and indifference.
"It's what I've chosen," he said finally.
"And now you've chosen marriage. The two seem incompatible."
"Not in our arrangement. We've already agreed to separate rooms, separate lives. Distance maintained even in proximity."
"How lonely," she said before she could stop herself.
His expression shuttered completely. "I've never found my own company insufficient."
"What about my company?"
"What about it?"
"Will you find it insufficient?"
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then suddenly, he replied: "I don't know. I suppose we'll find out."
The carriage turned through massive iron gates bearing the Blackthorn crest—a thorny rose entwined with a sword. The drive was long, winding through parkland that showed signs of recent attention. The grass was freshly cut, the trees trimmed, as if the estate was being awakened after a long sleep.
"There," Lord Blackthorn said, gesturing to the window. "Blackthorn Manor."
Arabella's first glimpse of her new home stole her breath.
The house rose from the landscape like something from a fairy tale; part castle, part manor, all imposing stone and glittering windows.
Ivy climbed the walls in artistic abandon.
The promised rose gardens spread to the east, currently showing the last blooms of summer.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"It's drafty, expensive to maintain, and has more rooms than any reasonable person needs."
"It's still beautiful."
"If you say so."
The carriage pulled to a stop before the main entrance, where a line of servants had assembled. Arabella counted at least a dozen, all in pristine livery, all watching their new mistress with barely concealed curiosity.
"Ready?" Lord Blackthorn asked, his hand on the carriage door.
"No," Arabella admitted. "But I suppose that doesn't matter."
"Not particularly."
He descended first, then turned to help her down. His hand was warm and steady, and he held hers perhaps a moment longer than necessary before releasing it.
"Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, Lady Blackthorn," he said formally, loud enough for the servants to hear. "May you find it to your liking."
"Thank you, Lord Blackthorn," she replied, matching his formal tone. "I'm sure I shall."
Thistle chose that moment to burst from the carriage, having apparently reached his limit of contained enthusiasm. He ran through the carefully arranged line of servants, leaving chaos in his wake, and disappeared around the corner of the house, barking joyfully.
"The dog," Lord Blackthorn observed with resignation, "is going to be a problem."
"Almost certainly," Arabella agreed.
And despite everything, the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the sheer impossibility of their situation, she found herself smiling. Her husband looked at her, surprised, and for just a moment, she could have sworn she saw an answering spark of amusement in his dark eyes.
Then the moment passed, and they were strangers again, walking into a house that would shelter their separate lives, their practical arrangement, their marriage of inconvenience.
But still, she'd seen that spark. And Arabella found herself wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, there might be more to Lord Blackthorn than darkness and distance.
Time, she supposed, would tell.