Chapter 7

CHAPTER7

“How much longer will it take to reach your residence?” Joanna asked, on what felt like the thousandth day of riding.

Edwin did not so much as glance in her direction. “I told you it would be a lengthy journey. You chose to ride.”

“I am not complaining,” Joanna shot back, “I am merely curious, for I am starting to think you might be a duke of the Scottish variety. Now, I do not profess to be adept in geography or arithmetic, but I am certain we are nearing the border. Either that or you have done something to twist the very construct of time and distance. Perhaps, you have frozen it, as you seem to freeze everything else around you.”

“We will be there soon,” he replied curtly.

She frowned at him, increasingly exasperated by the scarcity of conversation. “Are you unwell?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you unwell? Do you have a soreness of the throat, or a breathlessness when you speak?”

Edwin’s brow creased, his nose turning up in distaste. “Why would you ask that?”

“I am trying to decide what ailment you possess that makes it impossible for you to say more than a handful of words before falling silent again,” she explained wryly. “Indeed, I am also trying to discover a reason for the swiftness of this marriage, and sickness seemed like the obvious motive. Will you succumb to it soon?”

“If it was sickness, Lady Joanna, I would not have married at all,” he replied gruffly.

“You say that, but I wonder if you desired a feminine companion to tend to you in your hours of ailing health. Someone closer to you than a servant or a maid might be,” she pressed, determined to keep him talking, even if she wore out her voice trying.

After days of traveling, she could count on one hand the number of times he had engaged in brief conversation with her, and she dreaded the thought of spending a lifetime like that. She had endured enough awkward, stilted silences between her mother and father, and refused to repeat that discomfort in her own marriage.

“I see no need to make idle conversation,” he said, after a lengthy pause that made her think he was not going to respond at all. “What is the use of it?”

Joanna laughed, shaking her head at the situation. “Because it is a pleasant pastime. Do you not enjoy debate? What do you do when you dine—do you simply eat and say nothing? Is it not most diverting to have excellent conversation as you enjoy fine food and good wine? And what do you do when you read a splendid book? Do you keep your thoughts to yourself? Do you talk to yourself?”

A sudden flush of pink colored Edwin’s cheeks took Joanna by surprise. If someone had told her that Edwin could blush, she would have snorted and called them a liar. But there he was, blushing furiously as he turned his face away, pretending to stare off at something across the wild, stark moors that surrounded them—and had surrounded them for what seemed like an eternity.

“There is no shame in that,” she said softly, not wanting to embarrass him. “I talk to myself often, usually when my sister has tired of my twittering and my mother has sunk into one of her melancholies. When I ride, I like to talk to Pegasus, which is somewhat like talking to oneself, for he cannot talk back. Although, on occasion, I swear he understands everything I say.”

“That is… ridiculous,” Edwin huffed out, his body rigid. “A horse cannot understand English.”

Joanna chuckled, and his head snapped back toward her, wearing an expression of astonishment at the sound of her genuine laughter. She observed him for a moment, hoping to glimpse something of the man behind the icy, unforgiving mask. After all, he was behaving as if he had never heard anyone laugh before.

“Are you laughing at me?” he growled.

Joanna raised an eyebrow. “I was laughing at what you said, not at you. It does sound ridiculous, that a horse should be able to understand English, but my Pegasus knows the word “apple” and “shall we ride all afternoon.” You cannot convince me otherwise.”

To prove her point, Pegasus twisted his head back to stare at her, and snorted when an apple was not immediately presented. Chuckling despite Edwin’s apparent dislike of it, Joanna reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a shiny, red apple, leaning over to pass it to her beloved horse. Pegasus wiggled his lips over the shiny surface for a moment, before crunching into the fruit and nickering contentedly as she fed him the rest.

“See,” she remarked, smiling at her husband.

My husband… She still could not quite believe it, for though they had spent days riding together without any additional company, she knew nothing more of him than when she had consented to marry him. They had slept in separate chambers at the quaint, countryside inns they had stopped at. They had dined apart, at Edwin’s insistence. In truth, she wondered why he wanted her to reside with him at all, when she might as well have stayed at her own home.

Edwin tilted his head to one side, watching Pegasus finish the last chunk of apple. “But your horse does not know what an apple is.”

Pegasus tossed his head, nickering for another apple.

“You must stop saying that word, or he might halt and refuse to continue,” Joanna warned playfully, patting the side of her mount’s neck to coax him into pressing on. “Would your horse like a treat?”

Edwin sniffed. “Bellerophon does not eat treats.”

“Pardon?” The air rushed out of her lungs, hearing that name. “Your stallion is named Bellerophon?”

He nodded.

“Then, these two are destined to be great friends!” Joanna cheered, her mind whirling with wonder. “Did you name him yourself?”

“I did.”

“Are you fond of the myths and legends of ancient Greece? Oh, do tell me what your favorite is!” Joanna urged, hoping she had finally stumbled upon some common ground that would invite further conversation. Lengthy conversation. As much as possible, to distract herself from the fact that she was far away from her family, married to a rumored killer who might turn those violent tendencies upon her.

But Edwin just shook his head, mumbling, “I see no need.”

I swear upon my life, if you say that one more time, I shall turn to find the highest point of your residence and I shall scream until they can hear me in London! she vowed, rankling at the phrase he seemed to repeat as often as he breathed.

Exhausted by his lack of willingness to engage in anything more than silent riding, Joanna settled into the sway of Pegasus’s sturdy body, letting it lull her into a feeling of serenity. It was a dreary day, overcast and chilly, and the endless, brown-green spread of moorland offered nothing new or exciting to please the eye, but she would not let it defeat her.

Gazing out across the undulating landscape, she spied a lamb jumping underneath the tangled boughs of a tree, apparently trying to catch a leaf from one of the lowest hanging branches and smiled at the joyful sight. A moment later, she spotted a kestrel overhead, hovering in the sky as it fixated on some unseen prey below. Though it was a rather blustery day, the kestrel was unaffected, holding its position as it waited to strike.

Am I the kestrel or the prey? she wondered with a sigh, turning her attention back to the lamb, who had been joined by another. The two sweet creatures frolicked in the shade of the tree, while the ewes looked on.

Cresting a hill, Joanna’s heart lurched as her eyes fell upon a structure in the near distance. After hours of trudging across nothing but grass and peat bogs, a true path finally appeared in the mossy moorland, weaving toward that solitary, isolated lump of dismal gray. And off to the right, following a different road, she saw the carriage they had left behind the day before, trundling along.

“Is that your residence?” Joanna gulped.

Edwin nodded. “Yes, that is Bruxton Hall.”

“And why did we not also take the proper road?”

Edwin gestured vaguely at the moors. “I prefer this way.”

All of a sudden, Joanna no longer felt like jesting or conversing or riding toward that gloomy building. Every inch of her screamed for her to turn her horse around and race as fast as she could, back to Tillington House and everything familiar. But as Edwin urged his horse on, she had no choice but to follow, not least because she had no notion of where she was or how she might find her way back home.

Before long, they arrived at the gates of Bruxton Hall. Or, rather, what might once have been gated, though the gates themselves were nowhere to be seen, leaving behind vestigial, rusted hinges and twin gargoyles that glowered down at her from the gateposts with eroded, moss-covered faces.

The straight path up to the house was in no better condition: a dirt road, nothing more. The lawns that flanked both sides of the path were overgrown and weed-ridden, sprouting skeletal trees that twisted as if in agony, their bony branches clawing up toward the sky in desperation. Spiny gorse bushes bloomed with small flowers, but those bursts of yellow were the only color that dared to defy the palette of gray and brown that reigned over the estate.

As for the manor itself, withered ivy clung to the dark gray walls, several windows were cobwebbed with cracks, and gaping holes yawned in the slate roof, exposing timbers. The colonnaded front terrace resembled broken teeth, missing more flagstones than it possessed, while the pillars appeared to have been nibbled upon by giant beasts; great chunks of stone crumbling out of each one. More spiny bushes bordered the terrace, devoid of the green life of spring.

Indeed, to Joanna’s eyes, the manor looked abandoned: a pale ghost of the grand residence it had once been.

At the base of the front steps, Edwin got down from the saddle and put his fingers to his lips, blasting a high-pitched whistle. A minute later, a young boy came haring around the side of the manor, running toward Edwin.

“Are you going to get down, or are you going to sit up there indefinitely?” Edwin demanded to know, making no effort to help her down.

Joanna drew in a shaky breath and slipped down from the saddle, pausing to rest her forehead against Pegasus’s and stroke his muscular neck, needing the familiar sensation of his soft hide against her palm if she was to face whatever awaited her inside.

“This is a proud beast,” she said to the waiting stable hand, who stared at Pegasus in awe. “Treat him well and he will do as you ask. If you do something he does not like, he will bite.”

The stable hand nodded eagerly. “I’ll tend to him well, M’Lady!”

“Your Grace,” Edwin corrected sharply. “This is the Duchess of Bruxton, and you will refer to her as such.”

The stable hand’s mouth fell open as he hurried into a deep, amusingly dramatic bow. “Apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t know His Grace was bringin’ home a duchess.” He stood upright once more. “I’ll tend to your horse even better than I planned to. He’s a beauty, Your Grace. Never seen one so white.”

Joanna’s nerves calmed for a moment. “I think he favors you,” she said as Pegasus nosed the boy’s fluffy, dark hair.

“My pa will be pleased as aught to see this ’un,” the boy urged, tugging lightly on the reins to see if Pegasus would follow. Choosing to be on his best behavior, the horse allowed himself to be led, leaving Edwin and Joanna alone at the bottom of the porch steps. The carriage had already disappeared somewhere, giving her no indication of when she might have her belongings returned to her.

“Follow me,” Edwin said, heading up the steps to the front door.

If Joanna had expected a welcome party, she was to be sorely disappointed as she stepped into the drafty, cavernous entrance hall of Bruxton Hall. There, a sole figure waited patiently: an older lady with bright white hair, pulled back in a severe bun. Her pale blue eyes were sharp, and she wore long black skirts, and a black pelisse, with just the smallest hint of a frilly white collar poking out of the top. At her waist, she wore a silver chatelaine—a large kind of brooch that attached to a belt, with several chains dangling from it that held the tools of a woman’s trade. In this lady’s case, she wore the keys to the household.

The housekeeper, Joanna realized.

“Welcome to Bruxton Hall, Your Grace,” the old lady said in a soft, kindly voice that did not match her severe face. “I had expected you both sooner, but I am pleased to see that you made it here in one piece. The moors are treacherous in the rain.” She flashed a discreetly pointed look at Edwin, who did not notice. “Although, I was mightily surprised to see you riding, Your Grace. Do you ride often?”

Joanna’s cheeks warmed with a rush of gratitude. “As often as I—”

“Show her the house,” Edwin interrupted. “I will be in my study until morning. Have a tray sent at eight o’clock.”

Without another word, he marched up a creaking, structurally suspect staircase that curved up to a weathered landing, and continued up a second, narrower stairwell before disappearing into the upper eaves of the manor. Joanna watched him go, her mouth wide open in shock. Was he really going to just… abandon her like that?

“Never you mind him,” the housekeeper said, taking Joanna by the arm. “The name’s Mrs. Hislop, or Betty if you prefer. I don’t yet know what manner of noblewoman you are, so I’ll leave it to your discretion. Either way, you’re very welcome here, Your Grace. Now, what would you like to see first? Are you weary from your travels? How does a tea tray, some cakes if I can swipe them from under the cook’s nose, and a nap sound?”

To young, noble ladies who were better prepared to become duchesses, the housekeeper’s words might have sounded condescending but, to Joanna, they were precisely what she needed to hear. A warm, comforting suggestion from a warm, comforting person.

“That sounds… perfect, Mrs. Hislop,” Joanna replied.

“This way, then,” the older woman said, guiding Joanna up the stairs. “And mind your footing as you go. We’ve done our best to patch things, but there are a few steps that you’ll fall right through if you don’t know where to tread. They’re marked with that red paint there. In truth, anything marked with that bit of red is to be avoided.”

Joanna mustered a nervous smile. “Does His Grace have one of those about his person?”

The housekeeper hid a snort of laughter behind her hand. “Oh, you’re a sharp one; I can tell. That’s just what I’d hoped for.” She flashed an encouraging wink. “I imagine His Grace doesn’t know what to make of you, but he soon will, and you’ll find the rest of us amenable enough—ah, except for the gardener. He’s got a foul temper and doesn’t care for people at all. I suppose that’s why he loves his plants so dearly.”

“You have a gardener?” Joanna’s voice strained, her gaze darting through the windows to the sparse and unwelcoming lawns and bushes beyond.

The housekeeper chuckled again, not bothering to hide it, this time. “I’ll show you the gardens he does tend to when you’ve rested. Goodness, what must you think of this place? Being here so long, I forget what it must look like to those who haven’t been here before.”

“I imagine it was grand once,” Joanna admitted shyly, not wanting to insult the pleasant housekeeper.

“Oh, it was,” Mrs. Hislop sighed. “I keep dreaming it will be again, but we’ll see about that. For now, let us get you settled.”

With the housekeeper’s guidance, Joanna noted the markings on the stairs and took care to avoid them, her heart thundering as she made her way up the perilous staircase to the landing. From there, Mrs. Hislop led her to the farthest end of the right-hand corridor and opened the door wide.

Joanna braced herself for another tumbledown, half-abandoned room, filled with cobwebs and dust and gloom. Instead, her eyes widened at the sight of a beautiful bedchamber; the silk-papered walls were adorned with pretty paintings, and there were fresh flowers in vases, dotted around the room, spilling their sweet perfume. A grand, four-poster bed of dark mahogany, that looked like it had been there since the sixteenth century, took pride of place, draped in gauzy material to offer some privacy. Meanwhile, mismatched armchairs, a vast armoire, a writing desk, and several bookshelves made the chamber seem less empty, though it was obvious that the furniture had all been brought in from other places. Nothing seemed like it belonged, which was rather fitting.

“Did you bring your lady’s maid?” Mrs. Hislop asked.

Joanna flushed with embarrassment. “My sister and I shared one, and she has remained at my family’s residence.”

“Not to worry. The maids are all desperate to meet you, so I shall send whichever I think will harass you the least,” Mrs. Hislop assured her with a cheery grin. “Shall I help you disrobe? Most of your belongings have been brought up already, and I think I saw a nightdress somewhere.”

Joanna shook her head. “Thank you, but I will manage for now.”

“As you wish.” Mrs. Hislop rested her hand upon Joanna’s forearm, like a well-meaning grandmother. “You are welcome here, you know? We are all thrilled to have you with us. So, do not worry about anything; we shall take care of you.”

Tears beaded in Joanna’s eyes, stinging as she tried to blink them away. After days of cold silence and dreading the future, she had not realized how desperately she needed to hear a kind word to bolster her courage.

“Thank you,” she choked, hurriedly brushing away a stray tear.

Mrs. Hislop took out a handkerchief and dabbed Joanna’s cheeks. “Rest now, Your Grace. All will seem brighter after you’ve slept. As for that tea and cake—I’ll bring them when you’ve awoken.”

“Thank you,” Joanna repeated for a third time, her heart sore as the housekeeper sketched a small curtsy and departed the room, closing the door behind her.

And as Joanna heard the door click into the jamb, leaving her entirely alone, the enormity of her new existence crashed down upon her. Tears sprang freely, her chest on fire as her lungs struggled to draw breath, her stomach twisting with the agony of missing home, as she sank to her knees right there on the chipped, ancient floorboards.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, holding her head in her hands as the tears raced in hot rivulets down her face, dripping onto the old varnish. “Please, I want to go home.”

But no one could hear her, no one was coming to her rescue, and with the promise she had made before God, she knew there was no home to go back to. This was her home now, and like the mismatched furniture that closed in around her, she sensed that she, too, would never belong.