2

I forced myself not to fall into a daydream as my husband, Lord Cabot, continued to yell at our new dining staff about the apples added to his porridge. The poor girl was shaking, clearly trying not to cry, and flinched with each hand gesture that waved too closely by her. Good instinct .

At this rate, she would quit before our Cook even decided what to make for lunch. I both pitied and envied her. At least you can leave. The bitter thought bubbled to the surface before I could control myself.

The only saving grace to the ostentatious dining table was that I was not within grabbing distance when he began his trivial fits of rage. The slightest inconveniences triggered his temper, and he would spend all of breakfast berating the innocent, mousey girl for doing her job and delivering the food. I forcibly swallowed a sigh and looked out of the window. The city’s busy streets were bustling, and I ached for the rolling hills upon which I had been raised.

With a slow inhale, I could close my eyes and picture in detail the farmland in the countryside outside of a small county—my childhood home, so near yet so far. The smell of blooming trees and the tall wheat waving in the breeze. I yearned for the simple days of being nothing more than a farm girl.

Despite what others believed was a homely upbringing, I had always been a voracious reader and thinker. I was the pride of my Father who, at every opportunity, taught me about the goings-on of the wildlife on our farm. I could birth a foal alone by the age of twelve. I spent most days waking early, helping with the daily chores, problem-solving missing sheep, engineering fences, and nursing sick animals back to health. Most evenings I spent content, reading by lamplight. But my Father had always wanted bigger things for me. When my mother passed in the childbirth of a sibling I was never to meet, she had made him promise not to keep me at the farm all my life. So, when I turned eighteen, regardless of my contempt for the idea, he began to take me into the county for social visits and salons to keep his promise.

It was there that I was introduced to Lord Cabot. When we first met, he had always referred to himself as Matthew and had appeared to be a sweet, pragmatic man. He arrived in the county briefly and impressed my Father with his title and seemingly strong morals. He charmed me with his smile and what I believed then to be shyness. Somehow, he had hidden his true self from us both. What I mistook for shyness was aloofness, and morals were always strongly inflated in his favor. I had fallen in love with the idea of him, his dark brown eyes and curly hair but, over the five years since we wed, I came to understand how foolish I had been to put my faith in a man. Especially this man.

During the first year of our marriage, I tried to learn to love him. Desperately seeking his approval and love in return. I was na?ve and wouldn’t allow myself to believe the man I had married was actually a monster in disguise. He uprooted me from everything I had known and loved, promising that high society would be a new adventure. Little did I know I was merely being primed for a cage so suffocating it almost rivaled that of my marriage. I hated the pleasantries and the expectations. I could not stand the etiquette of always having to be prim and proper. I yearned to get my fingers dirty and help something blossom, not just stand around and make tedious observations that no one actually bothered to listen to. My wild heart wept for the countryside. I tried to find solace in my garden, happy there for days at a time.

Matthew quickly became exasperated, constantly finding me with my fingers in the soil. Jealous and irate, he insisted we be moved into a grander estate further into the city.

“Groundskeeping is for the help, Florence. Really, don’t any of those books you insisted on bringing with you from the country have any examples of Lady-like behavior? You are Lady Cabot, and how you act reflects directly on me,” he shouted at me when I expressed my disappointment at moving further into the city and away from the garden I had spent a year cultivating. I could still feel the fear and disappointment that bubbled like nausea as he stepped onto the medicinal herb I had been coaxing to bloom and yanked me up by the scruff of my neck like an animal.

“Maybe if you spent less time on your knees fiddling with plants and more time on your back producing an heir, you’d have more appropriate ways to fill your time.” That was four years ago, but the memory still made me bristle, and I returned to the scene playing before me in the dining room.

The maid was in the midst of making unintelligible apologies and reaching out for the bowl in an effort to take it back to the kitchen, but Matthew grabbed her wrist and twisted it painfully to pull her closer to him.

“Darling,” I said through gritted teeth, in the closest approximation to sweetness I could muster. Matthew dropped his attention and grip on the maid to look at me.

“I suggested that Cook add the apples to the porridge this morning. We’ve been eating so decadently lately that my stomach has been out of sorts. Fruit is good for you, and apples are in season. The girl knew nothing about it. Can we let it rest, please?” I turned to the maid and gave her a small smile, nodding in dismissal.

Her eyes widened gratefully, and she curtsied quickly with a breathy “Ma’am” before she ran from the room without sparing one backward glance at the Lord, who was sitting red-faced at the end of the table.

Matthew sat there and stared at me, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, turning a shade of crimson that I have long since given up hope were the early signs of angina. I knew what I had done. I had just taken away his favorite toy. Even more outrageous, I had done it in front of the staff. The other waitstaff shifted uncomfortably in the corners of the room where they loomed until they were called upon. I knew I would pay for my outburst later, behind the privacy of closed doors. But undoubtedly, I would have regardless- at least now I could feel relief that yet another young girl was not in his grasp.

“Thank you, wife .” It came out staccato, each word short and clipped but with a significant emphasis on the last. “Perhaps I need to remind our staff who approves those suggestions in the future.”

“Yes, my Lord,” I hummed, sliding back into the uncomfortable yet familiar shape of ‘obedient wife ’ to make the rest of our spoiled meal go by quicker. We ate in silence. His eyes were always on me, never relaxing. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably; the laces of my corset pulled so tightly it made it difficult to breathe, let alone eat.

Never missing a moment to enjoy my contrived discomfort, my cruel husband smiled. Cold and prideful. “Not hungry this morning, dear wife? We don’t want the fruit to go to waste now, do we?” He reminded me mockingly, picking up his spoon and bringing it to his mouth, his lips twisted into a snicker. “I noticed your clothing has appeared a bit tight as of late, so I suggested your Lady’s Maid may not be tying your laces correctly. I am glad to see that the issue seems to have been remedied.”

I had questioned Aisling this morning as to why she was pulling me in so tightly. She had mumbled something noncommittal under her breath in apology—I should have guessed it would have been at his insistence.

“God forbid I actually do get pregnant if this is what awaits me,” I scoffed, then froze, my blood turning to ice.

It had left my mouth before I had even finished forming the thought. I cursed myself—it had been so long since I had accidentally thought out loud, and to have mocked him in such a way… in front of him? His spoon clattered to the table, and I barely had the chance to register the sound of his chair screeching across the floor before his hand was at my throat, lifting me out of my seat.

His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were dark with rage as he spat at me, “God forbid? Yes, God does seem to forbid, doesn’t he, Florence?” Lord Cabot hissed out my name less like a question and more like an accusation.

With my heart in my throat, I did everything I could to keep the panic from showing in my eyes. His fingers squeezed tightly around my neck, forcing me on tiptoe to meet his glare. He pushed me backward until my shoulders grazed the wall, and he leaned in so closely that I could feel his hot breath in my ear.

“God knows I have enough bastards in Ireland so we both know I am not the problem don’t we, wife?” His voice was pitched low so only I could hear. Nausea rolled in the pit of my stomach. “If I find out you are somehow keeping yourself from bearing me my rightful heirs, not even God Himself will be able to help you.” He squeezed tightly until I saw black spots and what little breath I had left my lips in a high whine.

Over his shoulder, I saw the waitstaff looking at each other nervously, no doubt wondering the same thing I was; if this was the time he took it too far… My vision darkened as my lungs burned, his fingers flexing deeper when a throat was cleared. Kingsley, our doorman, arrived. His eyes widened upon realizing what he had interrupted as he announced himself formally and waited. Lord Cabot’s grip relaxed slightly, and I could touch my heels back on the floor.

“Do not fret, dear wife. I have set up a meeting with the physician for this week. I do so know how the lack of your fertility troubles you,” he said this loud enough for the trapped spectators to hear, but his eyes were daggers and clearly conveyed a different message.

I was on borrowed time.

Lord Cabot’s hand snaked around my head and gripped the hair at the nape of my neck, using it to force my gaze to meet his. Leaning in, he pushed his lips against mine, forcing them open with his tongue in a sick pantomime of romantic gesture, with bitterness and hatred behind it. It fooled no one, least of all me. He returned to the table where the doorman stood, waiting at attention .

I stifled a harsh breath of air and blinked away painful tears that prickled at the corners of my eyes. I would never shed them for him but his grip burned against my skin and pulled them from me. I readjusted myself as he moved across the room like a cold shadow.

“Kingsley! What have you there?” He spoke jovially, as if he hadn’t just threatened me in the middle of the dining room. The older gentleman padded to the table and laid out that morning’s papers, a few handwritten notes addressed to Lord Cabot, and, lastly, a sealed envelope. He looked at me with kind gray eyes.

“This one is for the Lady, m’Lord.”

My eyebrows shot up, I hadn’t received any letters since the one that announced my Father’s passing. My fingers trembled at my side as I stepped towards the table in confusion. Lord Cabot swiped the letter up before I could fully take in the envelope.

He tore it open roughly, pulled the letter out, and let the envelope fall to the table. I stood at his side and collected it, turning it over curiously in my hands. It was addressed to me but, strangely, there was no return address; it must have been hand-delivered. Curiosity tickled the back of my neck. Odd.

“How do you know Agatha Warren?” Lord Cabot sharply asked me.

I gaped at him blankly, turning the name over in my mind. Possibly one of the ladies I had met at tea last week? I grew so tired of the society events he insisted I attend that I often daydreamed through them, never really hearing any inane gossip or prattling the other ladies went on about.

Mostly they were willing to let me stare off into the distance and pass my time. The name sounded vaguely familiar, though, and I remembered one of the ladies mentioning the ‘local shut-in’ Agatha Warren. Deemed a bitter hermit, Widow Warren was how she was most often referred to.

“Agatha Warren? I have heard of her but never had the pleasure of her acquaintance. Miss Walsh mentioned her at tea on Thursday. She lives just outside of the city in one of the Manors. Why?” Curiosity raged beneath the calm appearance on my face. If I showed him that I had any interest in the letter, he would withhold it before I could figure out the meaning behind it.

“Apparently, she would like for you to visit her. It’s written here that she heard you were an excellent conversationalist and wants your company for tea.” He sneered. “I don’t know who she would have spoken to. That woman has been away with the faeries since her husband passed years before I was even born.” He looked to Kingsley for agreement, to which the old doorman gave a slight nod, though I could tell it was not meant with the same malice. “Somehow, despite being alone there, she’s held on to that Manor for ages. She has no children that I am aware of…” I could see a thought forming in his mind.

“Thank you, Kingsley,” he said, nodding to the doorman who bowed and excused himself. “Gentlemen, you are excused. We are finished with the meal.” The two remaining waitstaff collected our place settings and quickly removed themselves.

If there was one thing I was absolutely certain of, it was my ability to read my husband’s thoughts. Matthew was easy to read. His desires showed so plainly in both his features and his actions. He was a violent man— not a clever one. His utmost want in this world was status and power. Always wanted what others had and, if he could not earn it himself, he was happy to take it, maybe more so. If the widowed Ms. Warren had no children and no family to pass her Manor down to, perhaps there would be an opportunity to take it?

“May I please read the letter?” I asked, trying not to let the frustration of asking for something intended for me seep into my voice.

I thought he might deny me for a moment, but he handed it over. I could see the cogs in his mind working now, practically smoking, and if there was something equally frightening to Lord Cabot in a rage, it was when he started to plan. I looked down at the letter and could see the telltale signs of quill and ink, which softened my heart. My Father had never mastered the pen and preferred using the quill. I spared a moment of thought for him and continued reading until I confirmed the letter was as he had said. It was an invitation to the Manor on Orchid Lane for this afternoon’s tea. Questions about her intentions flooded me.

“I will arrange for the coach to take you this afternoon,” he said.

“What?” I sputtered, surprised at his willingness to send me away after his explosion over breakfast. I had expected the typical treatment of being locked in my room until he decided how best to punish my outburst.

“You are going to visit with the Widow Warren, and you are to charm her as best as you are able,” he said, sounding doubtful while he took in the length of me. “And I will arrive in the evening to escort you home, where you can make introductions.”

“Matthew, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know this woman. I–” I was interrupted by an explosive pain across the right side of my face that almost knocked me off my feet.

I looked back at him in surprise as he massaged the back of the hand that struck me. He never usually beat me in places where bruises could show so obviously. I swallowed down a surge of surprised tears for the second time this morning, feeling the blood trickle from my brow that was now split open.

“No. Don’t you be ridiculous, Florence. You seem to forget yourself today, wife . Serve your purpose and do your duty to your husband. You will go to the Manor, you will make pleasantries with the old woman, and you will do it with enthusiasm and, so help me, God, if you use your fecking tongue one more time to speak against me today, I will cut it out of you. Do you understand?” He seethes.

“Understood, my Lord.” The pit of despair and anger in my stomach grew.

“Good. Now go get your maid. She’ll be accompanying you since you obviously cannot be trusted to follow instructions today,” he spat disgustedly and waved me away. And tell her to clean you up; you look a fright.”

That time, I managed to keep my mouth closed, sick to my stomach and tired of him placing the blame. A disheveled mess was correct. I pressed my hands to my skirts and forced myself into compliance as I turned from the dining room. You look a fright.

And whose fault was that I wonder?