“It’s Miss Ironhorn again, Mr. Simmons,” Emile said acidly.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Later, Mr. Simmons. Let us get out of this wind!”
Orianna suddenly gasped, a realization dawning on her face. “They don’t know!”
“Don’t know what, Ori?” Emile asked.
“That Baron Carver is alive!” Orianna exclaimed, face beaming. “That you’re divorced!”
“I’m sure they hardly care,” Emile grumped.
Arianne grinned at Emile’s disingenuous statement. During her two day diatribe about Davon, she repeatedly mentioned how infuriating it was that everyone at Frostbourne worshiped their Lord.
“Mr. Simmons,” Arianne said, “please send word to the staff and the town that Davon Carver lives. The Queen has stripped him of his title and his estate, but has expressed to me that she may restore them in the future. Also inform them that he and Miss Ironhorn are divorced and that she is returning to Ironhorn.”
“But of course, Miss…”
“I am Lady Arianne Hightower.”
His eyes widened and he stood a little straighter. “Yes, Milady. I will do it by and by.”
“Thank you.”
Emile’s eyes shot daggers at her, but Arianne hardly cared. Orianna was fit to burst and Missa smiled along with her. They stepped in out of the wind, their shoes scuffling along the thick wooden planks that comprised the floor. The door squeaked shut and Missa and Orianna began the work of collecting hats and shawls.
Arianne grinned as she noticed that the house’s decorations evidenced the divide of its Lord and Lady. The rustic and rough clashed with the fashionable and delicate. An exquisite white vase sat atop a beaten wooden stand that probably had once held pots in the kitchen. Simple wooden frames bordering pastoral scenes mixed with painted views of cities in curved, gilded ones. The furniture had largely been replaced to match Emile’s current tastes, but an old leather chair still lurked in a corner here and there.
Mr. Simmons approached. “We are preparing rooms for you and your Lady’s Maid, Lady Hightower,” he said. “Please give us a few moments. I apologize for the delay.”
“Take your time, Mr. Simmons,” she answered. “I’d like to look about.”
“There’s little to see,” Emile said. “This manor was hardly big enough for just Davon and his servants. We could hardly have guests without them feeling cramped. Come, Ori. Let’s get to my room and out of this dress. And my hair is just a fright.”
The two ascended a dark wooden stair to the second level, and Missa breathed a sigh of relief. Arianne turned to her Lady’s Maid and raised her eyebrows. Emile. What a miserable woman. She must have been truly desperate to fake being interested in Davon Carver. And an amazing actress to boot. And Davon must have been out of his wits.
Mr. Simmons left them to their own devices and they wandered about the bottom floor. The drawing room was clearly all Emile’s and hardly looked like it was a part of the same house. It had a large window looking out to the front of the manor, one of the offending spruce trees half concealing a view of the drive.
Arianne had to admit that the room felt the most familiar to her. She was used to the more refined styles that Emile favored, though the country manor appealed to her in the same way the Elder Wood had in Harrickshire. Something about raw, earthy nature spoke to her. It felt honest.
Still, she wondered how she would fare if she were to be taken so far away from society and its urban comforts. Would she be content if Davon brought her into his rural home as he had Emile? It would take some getting used to, but if Davon were near, she thought she could be very happy, indeed.
“Pleasant thoughts, Milady?” Missa asked, a smile on her lips. They both studied a board that displayed the teeth of a sabercat.
“This place fits him, doesn’t it?” Arianne said.
“By him, I suppose you mean Baron Carver?”
“Of course, Missa. Who else?”
“I suppose it does,” Missa answered. “It speaks to both his strength and his loneliness.”
Arianne regarded her Lady’s Maid. She was always a quiet girl, but she suspected the silence only made space for observation. “Has Orianna said anything of her master or her feelings on learning that he was alive?”
“Yes, of course,” Missa nodded. “She has nothing but respect for the man. Nothing but joy in her heart at his return.”
“But what of faking his own death?” Arianne pressed.
Missa frowned. “She doesn’t blame him.”
“And this troubles you?”
“I can hardly make sense of it, Lady Hightower. Though,” and she dropped her voice to a whisper, “after that carriage ride, I have a better idea of what his life was before. I still can’t think it well done. How could he give up everything to her when it was she that wronged him so terribly? How could he leave Frostbourne after he had worked so hard for it?”
“I have wondered the same,” Arianne concurred. “But one question bothers me more.”
“And what is that, Milady?”
“How can a man who has suffered as much horror and shame and disappointment as Baron Carver act with such natural compassion rather than bitterness and revenge? The way he cared for me in Bellshire…” She couldn’t speak, emotion welling up and choking off her voice. She put her hand to her mouth and tried to clear her throat.
Missa squeezed her arm sympathetically. “He was peculiarly ardent in his ministrations, Lady Hightower. I believe he holds you in high regard. Well, now that he is divorced we can only hope he can find someone who can return his affections properly.”
“I wish that as well,” Arianne said, ignoring Missa’s knowing look.
Orianna found them a short while later. “Miss Ironhorn is busy packing for her departure and she asked me to let you know that we shall have supper soon. Let me show you to where you’ll be staying, Lady Hightower. The only room worthy of such an illustrious guest as yourself is Baron Carver’s room where he kept to himself during the, um, difficulties. I hope that this does not make you uncomfortable.”
She was thrilled. “Not in the least, I assure you.”
Orianna led them upstairs to the second level, the lanterns casting a happy yellow glow along the hall. She turned right down a hallway lined with more framed specimens from Davon’s adventures in the wild—pressed flowers, enormous leaves from Elder Oaks, and more teeth and bones from creatures vicious and tame. They reached an intersecting hall and turned left. As they passed an aging door, Orianna suddenly moved from the center of the hallway to scrape along the right wall as if afraid something might jump out.
Arianne stopped. “Are we quite safe, Orianna?”
She turned, red blooming on her cheeks. “I am sorry, Milady. Old habit. That door, well, it is the room where Davon’s father, Asper Carver, took his own life while Davon watched. Some of the servants say it is haunted. It’s silly. Baron Carver expressly prohibited anyone from entering that room. He never went in it himself. From the stories in town, not a soul has been inside since the funeral. Not that anyone would want to go in.”
So that is where Davon’s trial of life began, Arianne mused, wondering what witnessing such an act might do to a young man. She remembered the Queen telling her that most boys would have crumbled under the weight of such a burden. Mother dead. Father dead. Estate indebted. How had he carried on? Where had the mettle come from?
“Come,” Orianna prodded. “We’re almost there.”
As she passed the door, Arianna let her fingers trail along the discolored iron lock with its gaping keyhole. A cold draft wafted from beneath the door like a spectral hand reaching out to touch her. The skin on her legs goosebumped. As the frigid feeling faded, the idea wormed its way into her head.
She wanted to see inside.
She wanted to know what Davon saw, know what it felt like. If he had shut the door and never reentered, then the pain of memory was locked inside, locked away so he wouldn’t have
to face it again.
Orianna opened the door to Davon’s old room at the far end of the hall. It was clean and modestly appointed. A fire burned in a hearth nearly bereft of old ash. The room had lain dormant for some time. A darkly stained wood made up the bed frame, appointments, and the trim, but the room was plastered white and was more genteel than Arianne had expected. None of the walls held any of the collected flora and fauna found in the rest of the house, excepting Emile’s drawing room. Delicate white drapes swooped to the floor, pleasant paintings of people and buildings lining the wall. Delicately tooled boxes and glass figurines sat atop the fireplace mantle and on decorative shelves.
“Is this the way Baron Carver kept the room?” Arianne asked.
“Yes, Milady,” Orianna said. “Doesn’t seem much like him, does it?”
“My thought exactly.”
“Lady Hightower, if I may be so bold,” Orianna said, fidgeting nervously with her hands, “I think he kept it this way as an invitation to the Lady of the house, if you take my meaning.”
Arianne cast a meaningful glance at the door and Missa shut it.
“I know I have no right to pry, Orianna,” Arianne said, “but were things very miserable here?”
Tears welled in Orianna’s eyes, and she looked away for a moment. “There wasn’t yelling and fighting. It was just the cold torture of her neglect and cruelty that stung him. Never have I seen a man try so hard to win a woman over, and she treated every attempt with poisonous contempt. I, well, all of us were relieved when he stopped trying. We thought perhaps that he would move on, but I could see that it ate at him day after day. He took to long excursions in the outdoors. She took to dreaming of big cities and high society.”
She wiped her eyes before continuing. “We were attending a party at the Tahbors when word came that Baron Carver had died. I nearly fainted. She had to stifle a giggle. I have hated her ever since. I have been searching for other employment for some time, but without success. I am trapped with her, for the time being.”
Arianne nodded and took her hand. Orianna loved the Baron, too. “I am sorry. I will help you. I am well connected in Bellshire and will find you an escape.”
“Thank you, Milady.”
Dinner came and went in the company of jovial servants. Emile took her dinner alone upstairs, for which Arianne was grateful. Reports of singing and dancing in the town trickled in, all of Frostbourne celebrating the news of Baron Carver’s return to the world of the living, though Arianne had to think that some of the throaty cheers were for the departure of one Emile Ironhorn.
By the time she had cleared her plate of the stewed venison and hard bread, the weariness of the journey finally overtook the excitement of exploring Frostbourne. Orianna took leave to prepare her mistress for bed, and Arianne and Missa followed suit. Orianna came to collect Missa after she had combed out Arianne’s hair and trimmed the lamps, and the two lady’s maids left her to herself.
Outside, the wolves still howled into the night, always answered by the brusque braying of the huntmaster’s dogs. A chill was settling in, the banked fire losing its vigor. Arianne pulled her legs to her chest and started missing Davon, wondering where he was and what had called him away with such urgency.
No more fretting! she reminded herself. She had spent most of the carriage ride prognosticating about Davon’s whereabouts. If only he would come to Frostbourne while she was there. She wanted nothing more than to lavish him with attention while Emile gawked in horror. While Frostbourne was remote, if Baron Carver wanted her to leave Hightower and follow him to his lonely and wild estate, she would do it. She would go with him into the woods and hills and have him show her every view that inspired him. She might even take up shooting.
A sigh escaped her lips. Thoughts such as those had to be kept in check for now. She reached back and unclasped the rose pendant and willed the vines of her bracelet to pull apart. A small table with a drawer sat at the side of the bed, and she pulled it open, dropping her jewelry inside. As she went to shut it, she saw it: a heavy iron key lying on the bottom of the drawer.
Rust had nibbled away at it, mottling the metal. She carefully extracted the key, its rough and rusted exterior staining her hands. At first she thought it might be the key to her own room, but its disuse and size put her off that conclusion. Somehow, she knew what it was for. It called to her, a ghostly invitation spurring her desire to know what waited behind the long shut door.
But she had to wait. She extinguished the lamp at her bedside and pulled the blankets up around herself as the temperature plummeted. Only the flicker of a solitary candle and the lonely howling of distant dire wolves kept her company. The sliver of light beneath her door flickered and faded, and the rise and fall of the servants’ voices slowed and then fell silent. Finally, Frostbourne had laid itself to rest.
Arianne rose from her bed, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, though it did little against the chill. She grabbed the key and the candle. As silently as she could, she pulled open her door and stole into the hallway. The wood of the floor chilled her bare feet, but she didn’t want to waste time on stockings.
The floorboards creaked wildly in spots, and she paused to listen, fearful someone would wake to investigate. But the house remained still, and in moments she stood in front of the door, the icy air breathing underneath the crack to numb her toes.
The key slid into the lock with ease, and she twisted it. It hardly rotated. Gritting her teeth, she turned it harder. Nothing but a slight squeal. Frustrated, she was about to abandon her design when a thought struck her. She lifted the candle from its sconce and tilted it, letting the greasy liquid wax gather in the bowl. Before it could harden, she poured it in the keyhole and thrust in the key, twisting it back and forth.
Her hand was a mess of rust, but with one determined turn the lock gave one mighty wail and clicked open. To her, the sound was like a scream reverberating through the house, yelling for everyone to awake. She paused to listen. The house remained quiet.
She filled her lungs, a musty, dusty smell leaking out of the small crack in the door. Gathering her courage, she pushed it open—just enough so she could fit through—while the balky hinges popped and whined in protest. Candle first she went, feet collecting the thick dust on the floor. Once inside, the taste of dust filled her mouth, and she suppressed a sneeze threatening to escape from her tingling nose. Wild shadows danced in the abandoned study, candle flickering in a persistent draft.
For some reason, this room was colder than the rest of the house, and she shivered. Holding the candle aloft, she squinted, peering into the darkness. And then she saw it. Her hand shot to her mouth to stifle a scream she knew would bring everyone in the house running to a room Davon never wanted anyone to see.
Chapter 35
Arianne’s heart pounded, threatening to explode or quit beating entirely. She sucked in breath until she could steady herself from the shock. The Baron Asper Carver had not been removed from the room and interred as she had naturally expected. Arianne stood three paces in front of his corpse, wondering if she were positioned at the very spot where young Davon had watched his father take his own life.
Clothes and bones lumped about the chair, all shrouded in dust, everything a uniform gray. A pistol and the bones that once helped pull its trigger sat to the right of the chair on the floor, finger still on the trigger. The skull had fallen backwards onto the desk, lying on its side. A cracked hole in the crown showed where the bullet had punched through.
The draft she felt on her feet blew in from a crack in the window. Tattered drapes had collapsed to the sill. She approached more closely. The rusted ball that hadn’t had the power to punch through the window after punching through the Baron’s head had rusted almost to powder on the side of the sill.
So the servants had it wrong. Davon Carver had watched his father die, but in his horror he had not had the body removed. He had locked the door tight and never gone back in. Was it in anger? In sadness? Was h
e simply too callow at that tender age to deal with such a morbid tragedy? And why had he never remedied the situation in his older years when Frostbourne had regained its prosperity and he achieved manhood? What had passed between father and son before the fatal moment?
Too many questions. Two open liquor bottles sat next to skull on the desk. Perhaps they served as agents to dull the pain and judgment of the man who had ruined his own estate and lost his wife in the process.
As she scanned the desk, she noticed a letter trapped beneath one of the bottles. The wax seal had long since crumbled, but the bottle had kept the paper folded shut. Dust added to the filth on her hands as she extracted it from the bottle’s entrapment and blew the dust off. The writing was faint, but the addressee still legible: Edgermoore Carver.
A creak somewhere on the bottom floor brought her up short. She shouldn’t be there. Cursing her own curious nature, she scooted out of the study and into the hall, listening for any footfalls or movement. After several minutes of silence, she calmed herself and pulled the door haltingly shut, locking it fast.
With a glance over her shoulder, she padded back to her room and reignited the lantern by the bed. Her petticoat was a mess of clinging dust balls. She tried to pick them all of and throw them into the embers of the fire, but it still looked like she had gone for a stroll out in the dirt.
After cleaning the wax off the key and returning it to the nightstand drawer, she washed her hands with water from a basin. Not until she was warm in her covers did she carefully pry open the brittle parchment. Davon’s father was no penman, his hurried strokes evidencing a frenzied mind.
Cousin Edgermoore Carver,
I write to you now in the most dire of circumstances. Frostbourne has long belonged to the family of Carver. As you are no doubt aware, I have, through my carelessness, brought it to ruin.
Mistake me not. I am not writing to beg any money of you or ask for your deliverance for myself. When you read this I will have left my sorrows behind for the tranquil rest of the grave. Nor do I blame you for our estrangement over the years.
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