Chapter Eight #3
The roads had narrowed hours ago, winding through hills covered in heather and long grasses that shifted beneath the evening wind. Ancient trees stood in dark clusters against the horizon, while distant stone walls divided fields stretching endlessly beneath fading light.
Then Blackwood Hall appeared.
Evangeline saw it through the carriage window as they rounded a bend in the road, and her breath caught in her throat.
The house rose from the moors like something from an old story—vast and imposing beneath the deepening evening sky.
Pale stone walls climbed several stories high, softened in places by ivy that had claimed portions of the exterior.
Towers and gables rose against the horizon while tall windows reflected the last traces of sunset.
She thought it looked beautiful, but also lonely.
The house seemed to stand apart from the rest of the world, surrounded by sweeping moorland and open sky.
Beside her, Anthony was still. For the first time since leaving London, something shifted in his expression. Something that looked almost like relief.
The carriage rolled beneath the archway and came to a stop before the wide front steps.
Servants had gathered outside awaiting their arrival.
As Anthony descended first and turned to offer his hand, Evangeline looked up at the enormous house once more. Then slowly placed her fingers into his. There was no returning now.
Moments later she stepped inside, and warmth greeted her immediately.
Candles glowed throughout the entrance hall, casting soft golden light across polished floors and sweeping staircases. Portraits of long-dead Hawthornes lined the walls while a fire burned steadily nearby, taking the chill from the evening air.
"If you will excuse me," Anthony said. "There are matters I must attend to."
Before Evangeline had time to respond he was gone, marching across the entrance hall and out of sight.
She watched him go before turning her head back to the staff.
A stout woman, perhaps in her sixties, dressed in immaculate black with iron-grey hair arranged beneath a crisp cap, stepped forward. Her expression was warm but observant, the sort of face that suggested she missed very little that happened beneath her roof.
"Welcome to Blackwood Hall, Your Grace. I am the housekeeper, Mrs Dearwell."
"Thank you," she managed softly.
Mrs Dearwell smiled kindly. "I am certain you must be tired after such a long journey. If you wish, I can show you to your rooms."
Evangeline nodded. "Thank you."
Mrs Dearwell turned, and Evangeline followed her through the entrance hall, her footsteps sounding faintly upon polished stone.
As they moved farther into the house, she found herself looking everywhere at once.
Blackwood Hall was enormous.
She had understood that Anthony possessed great estates and ancestral homes, of course she had, but hearing such things and seeing them were entirely different matters.
Massive portraits lined the walls of the hallways—generations of Hawthornes gazing down with solemn expressions from gilded frames. Heavy chandeliers hung overhead, their candles casting warm pools of light across dark wood panelling and polished floors.
The ceilings seemed impossibly high, but the house was not echoey. In fact, it possessed a quietness unlike any London townhouse she had been inside.
There, silence was never truly silence. One always heard carriage wheels in the distance or voices from neighbouring houses drifting through open windows.
But here there was only the soft crackling of distant fires and the low murmur of servants moving somewhere beyond sight.
Evangeline suddenly became acutely aware that she had stepped into a world entirely unfamiliar to her.
This was Anthony's world, not hers.
She passed enormous windows overlooking darkness beyond the glass, and for brief moments she caught glimpses of moonlit moors stretching into the distance.
Nothing but open land and sky. No neighbouring houses or crowded streets. No Rosalind knocking on her door in the morning or Daphne stealing ribbons and denying it with complete confidence.
In that moment, a deep feeling of loneliness settled over her.
"Your Grace?" Mrs Farewell pressed, pulled her from her thoughts. "Is everything alright?" "Yes," Evangeline lied. "Of course."
The older woman nodded and then continued leading her along another corridor before stopping at a set of double doors.
When they opened them, warm candlelight spilled softly outward.
"This is your bedchamber, Your Grace."
Evangeline stepped slowly inside.
The room was beautiful, with cream-coloured walls that glowed warmly beneath candlelight while a fire burned steadily in the hearth.
Fresh flowers had been arranged upon nearby tables, filling the air with the faint scent of roses and lavender.
Long curtains stirred gently beside tall windows where moonlight touched the glass.
Yet standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by unfamiliar beauty and unfamiliar quiet, Evangeline suddenly felt very small. Because this was no longer simply a grand house.
This was her home now.