Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

R uby bounded up the grand staircase, his barks echoing through the halls as he wagged his tail with infectious enthusiasm.

“Wait for me, you silly pup,” Edwin called, chasing after him with a wry smile.

They had just returned from one of their lengthy walks around the estate—something Ruby adored . Truth be told, Edwin had never been one for long walks, far preferring the speed and freedom of a good ride. Yet, since taking charge of Ruby, he had come to appreciate the tranquility such walks afforded. It allowed him a chance to let his mind wander, to enjoy a rare moment of peace. Although, more often than not, his thoughts strayed to unsettling matters.

Now that he had managed to entwine himself with the Hayward family, he needed to uncover Graham Hayward’s secrets. How best to do so was still unclear, but now he certainly found himself in a far more advantageous position than he had been before.

Tomorrow, he was to meet Graham to discuss their joint venture—the vineyard. The arrangement, of course, served merely as a pretext. The vineyard had been in the family for generations, but Graham did not need to know this.

All the funds Graham and Benjamin had raised supposedly went into mining—a profitable enterprise—as well as a shipping and import business. However, Edwin knew full well that in reality, those funds had been funneled into illegal gambling houses, all of which had been shut down and their profits seized by the Crown.

But to investigate Graham’s dealings further, Edwin needed a legitimate business connection to him—one that would not raise suspicion.

“Oh, dear!” a feminine voice suddenly cried out, followed by the frantic barking and the unmistakable sound of breaking china.

“Ruby!” Edwin called, hurrying down the corridor, but he was too late.

Viola, Hanna’s lady’s maid, was sitting on the floor with porridge and tea spilled all about her. Two slices of buttered bread lay discarded on the carpet, while shards of porcelain were scattered around her.

“Goodness, what a calamity,” Edwin murmured, shaking his head.

“I b-beg your pardon, Your Grace. I-I truly do,” Viola stammered, her face flushed with panic. “The dog startled me, and I lost my balance, and?—”

“It’s quite all right,” Edwin interrupted gently, recognizing the fear in her eyes. She was bracing herself for reprimand, perhaps even punishment, as she might have been accustomed to at Hayward Manor. He knelt beside her. “My frustration, which I am certain you heard, was directed at Ruby. He can be quite the mischievous, little thing. I know this wasn’t your doing.”

He took her by the forearm and helped her to her feet. As she rose, blobs of porridge fell from her skirts, landing with a soft, unsavory splat .

Viola looked mortified, eyes darting to the mess on the floor. “I’ll clean it up at once, Your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling. “I shall change my gown and return directly to?—”

“There is no need,” Edwin assured her. “I’ll have it seen to.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Rupert!” he called, summoning a nearby footman who had been discreetly lingering in the corridor. “Would you kindly attend to this mess while Miss Viola changes?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Rupert replied promptly, and without further ado, he set about gathering the broken pieces of porcelain.

Viola turned back to Edwin, her expression still one of deep distress. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am so very sorry…”

“There is no need to apologize,” Edwin said kindly. “I want you to know that such accidents are not matters of grave concern in this household. I am not a man who takes to anger over minor inconveniences.”

The maid nodded, though her face remained pale, and Edwin suddenly realized that her fear stemmed not solely from this incident. She had likely heard the rumors—tales of his supposed cruelty, his reputation as a ruthless and dangerous man—and, having been in the house for such a short time, she had not yet had the chance to learn otherwise from the other servants.

“You may go,” he added, offering her a reassuring smile.

Viola curtsied and turned to leave.

“Viola,” he suddenly called, causing her to pause and spin around, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Has Her Grace eaten anything this morning?”

Viola’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. “No, Your Grace. She took but a few bites of her porridge and barely sipped her tea. She examined her food but then pushed it aside. She has hardly eaten since her arrival.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Edwin’s face. Hanna had refused to join him for dinner on the first night he had brought her here. And she had not come down for breakfast, dinner, or supper in the following days either. Yesterday, she had ventured down for afternoon tea but took only a single cup and nibbled on a piece of marzipan before excusing herself, claiming a headache.

Edwin watched Viola scurry off, his chest tightening with an unease he could no longer dismiss. In truth, he had anticipated challenges in this marriage; no one wedded a stranger without expecting some level of discord. But he hadn’t imagined Hanna would be so… fragile. Her pallor, her refusal to leave her chamber, the way she picked at her food as though every bite might poison her—it was as if she’d resigned herself to a slow, miserable decline.

And all under his roof, all because of him.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and let out a sigh. “Have I made a grave mistake?” he murmured to himself.

This union was meant to serve his purposes, yes, but he had not intended to imprison his wife in a cage of fear and misery.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts later that afternoon. “Enter,” he called.

Viola reappeared, now in fresh attire, though her nervousness had not abated.

“Your Grace,” she began, curtsying deeply. “Her Grace is prepared to see you.”

“Very good,” he replied, rising from his seat.

He’d sent for Hanna, as he felt the need to have a conversation with her to set her on a better path.

“Please, let her in.”

Viola curtsied again and turned to leave.

Edwin took his place in the armchair beside the hearth, deliberately choosing it over the intimidating expanse of his mahogany desk. He needed to look approachable, nonthreatening. His mind wandered to the first time he had seen Hanna—how her eyes, so vivid and bright during their initial meeting, had dimmed with each passing day. He had watched the fight leave her, and now it seemed only a shadow of the woman remained.

The door creaked open, and Hanna stepped inside, her movements stiff, as though she were bracing herself for a confrontation. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her complexion even paler than he had remembered. It was painfully clear that she had spent hours crying.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying, but there was no strength in her voice.

“Please, sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite him, waiting as she sank into it.

Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring, and Edwin felt the weight of it, heavy and uncomfortable. For a moment, he simply studied her, noticing the way her hands trembled slightly in her lap, the way she avoided his gaze, staring fixedly at the ornate rug beneath her feet.

“I imagine you know why I sent for you,” he began, keeping his voice calm and even. “You have not been eating, and you have confined yourself to your chamber for the past two days.”

She stiffened at his words but did not respond. He could see the pulse in her throat, rapid and frantic.

“That cannot continue,” he said firmly. “It is not sustainable, nor is it healthy. I understand that you are unhappy?—”

“Unhappy?” she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper but laden with incredulity. “I am…” She struggled to find her words, her frustration palpable, and finally settled on, “I am miserable.”

“Yes,” he said, feeling a pang in his chest. “I can see that. And I assure you, I do not take pleasure in it. What concerns me now is your health.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “You must eat, Hanna. You cannot allow yourself to wither away.”

“I’m not hungry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Then you must make yourself eat,” he replied, more firmly. “What other choice do you have? Do you wish to waste away? Do you wish to die?”

Her eyes snapped up to his, wide with shock and something else—something that might have been fear.

“No,” she murmured, shaking her head. “No, I do not wish to die.”

“Good,” he uttered, his voice softening. “Because I do not wish it either. Despite what you may think of me, Hanna, I care about your well-being.” He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “I will not have you make yourself ill.”

Hanna swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “Why… why do you care?”

The question took Edwin aback, and for a moment, he struggled to find an answer.

“Because you are my wife,” he said at last, the words heavy with meaning. “And whether you like it or not, that means something to me.”

Hanna looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time since entering the room. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, she simply gave the smallest, most reluctant nod and rose to her feet.

“Will you… will you go and eat something now?” Edwin asked in a voice that sounded oddly strained, even to his own ears.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice thin and fragile, like the crackling embers in the hearth. “I will try.”

“Thank you,” he said, watching as she turned and left the room.

He remained where he was, listening to the sound of her retreating footsteps, and feeling the strangest mix of relief and despair.

An hour later, Mrs. Maple entered, her face drawn with concern. “Your Grace,” she began, curtsying deeply. “Her Grace did as you asked. She ate some porridge and a bit of fruit.”

Edwin exhaled slowly, a weight lifting from his chest. “That is… good news,” he said, though he could sense more in her tone. “But…?”

Mrs. Maple’s eyes softened, and she folded her hands in front of her apron. “She wept the entire time, Your Grace. It was as if each bite was a struggle—a punishment.”

A pang of guilt struck him, sharper than he cared to admit.

“I see,” he said, his voice hollow. “Thank you, Mrs. Maple.”

“Your Grace,” she ventured, “if I might offer a word of advice?”

He nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

“She is… frightened of you,” Mrs. Maple said gently. “And I daresay not without reason, given what she’s been told. She does not know you as we know you. And your ordering her to eat is certainly not helping. Plus, she is terrified of the dog—that might be part of the reason why she will not leave her chamber. It may be that you’ll need to show her more patience, more kindness, than you have shown others.”

“I was not unkind,” Edwin argued, though the words felt weak even as he spoke them.

“No, Your Grace, you were not,” Mrs. Maple agreed. “But neither were you gentle. She is not like others, this one. She needs time… and reassurance. If I may be so bold, she may still believe you capable of terrible things.”

Edwin stared into the fire, the flickering flames reflecting the turmoil in his heart. “You believe she thinks me a murderer?”

“I believe,” Mrs. Maple replied, carefully choosing her words, “that she has been told as much, and that she has no reason to doubt it.”

Edwin let out a long, weary sigh. “Thank you, Mrs. Maple. You may go.”

Mrs. Maple curtsied and left.

Edwin remained in his chair, staring into the flames. Hanna’s tearful face lingered in his mind, and he felt a heaviness settle over him, a sense of something lost, something broken that he wasn’t certain he could mend. He had been so focused on his objectives, his plans, that he hadn’t considered the consequences for the woman who had become a part of his household.

For the first time in a long while, Edwin allowed himself to feel the weight of his actions, the consequences of his choices. And for the first time, he wondered if he was capable of being the man Hanna needed him to be.