Assuming, of course, that Lord Carlyle didn’t keep the door forever bolted.
At the top of the stairs, a long corridor branched out in two separate directions. Mrs. Nesbitt guided her down its right end and opened the final door of the same side. “Here we are, dearie.” She removed the teal string from her finger, tucking it into a pocket. “Hope everything is to your liking.”
Gwen took a turn about and studied the room. Small but not cramped. Comfortably furnished with the necessities—bed with nice linens, washbasin atop a stand, and a desk. Her new quarters appeared to have everything important except books and…a second door.
This was not a grand master’s suite, nor was it an adjoining couple’s quarters.
In what kind of room had Lord Carlyle placed her?
All previous blushing worries diminished under a frosty wind of suspicion. Gwen inhaled a deep breath and faced the doorway where Mrs. Nesbitt stood. “The master of the house… Where is his room located?”
“His room?” Mrs. Nesbitt’s decorated fingers twiddled with her apron hem, and her gaze flitted down the other end of the corridor.
Gwen exhaled as her suspicion froze over, heavy and cold. It was true, then. The Carlyle family quarters, including the master’s suite, were situated on the opposite wing of the house. Lord Carlyle had run ahead of her to ensure she never drew near that wing. By his order, a teal-colored string had hastened to prepare a far-off guest room and convey her to its door. Like an unwanted visitor.
Latching on to a yellow bow around her thumb, Mrs. Nesbitt blurted, “You must be fairly famished after your travels. Could I bring you some luncheon?”
Nothing could entice her to eat at the moment. Gwen turned away, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. Breathe, just breathe. “Thank you, but I…I don’t wish to be a bother.”
“You’re no bother, Lady Gwen.”
“Only one person has ever shared that sentiment, and I doubt more will be added to your number. Nobody desires an ink blot on their page.” The sinking feeling tugged at Gwen once more. How could she endure this without Papa? She made to sit on the bed but couldn’t. This wasn’t her home. She was no bride, but a trespasser. How could she find peace here, where not one soul wished to see her face or bid her good morning? What was she to do with her days?
“Please don’t fret, dearie.” Mrs. Nesbitt tailored her tone in an attempt to soothe. “I know things have been…trying, but I promise to make you as content and comfortable as I’m capable. Anything you need. Anything.”
What she needed was for an author to lean over her story, rip out the last few pages, and pen a new ending. Alas, “happily ever afters” existed but in fairy tales. Gwen wrapped her arms across her chest. “Are there any books in the house I may read? My own will not arrive from London for some time.”
“We’ve boundless books on the ground floor. You’re welcome down there. Why don’t I fetch you some tea and then lead you to the library’s location, eh?”
Gwen nodded.
Tying a plum-hued string on her pointer finger, Mrs. Nesbitt left to execute her task.
Now alone, Gwen settled onto the chair at her new desk. With access to a library, she might just be able to bear living at Briarcliff Park. She’d simply do as Lord Carlyle wished—stay out of his sight and allow him to forget that she existed. Spend her time in her room and in the library, reading. Characters in novels would keep her company as they had in London, and their companionship would have to be enough.
Since God also seemed to have wiped her existence from His memory.
Gear. Cogs. Axels. These things made sense.
These things were safe.
Tucked away in his workshop and hunched over a scarred wooden desk, Elliott tinkered with the mechanism inside an automaton frog’s throat. It had yet to produce the desired croaking sound. Just as its legs had yet to carry it across the desk with a hop, hop, hop. But it would work. He would make it work. This he could actually fix. Here, in this workshop, he could fix anything. Build anything. Here, there was an understandable and rational order. Peace.
Everything London lacked.
The automaton frog and the pliers slipped from his hands and clattered onto the desk. Blast. A groan rumbled from Elliott’s throat. Must everything he tried to do fall apart? He attacked the buttons on his waistcoat and tossed it across the room, giving no heed to whether it had landed in the same location as his already shed overcoat.
Never, he’d said. Never would he let Aunt Agatha pressure him back into the London scene. The buttons on his cuffs received the next assault. Why hadn’t he held firm? He should’ve stood his ground. One cuff fell open then the other. Each defeated. Like him. He shoved both sleeves up to his elbows. No. He had to cave under an old woman’s nagging criticism and return to the city with its pretention and crowds and flaxen-haired deceivers.
Cynthia’s laughter scratched across his mind like so many nails on a blackboard.
Slumping in his chair, Elliott sighed. How could he have been such a fool?
The workshop door creaked open and whined shut. Must be luncheon hour.
Harrison’s familiar hands set a tray of food on the desk, right atop the mass of parts and tools. “Time to eat, sir.”
“Not. Hungry.”
“You never are when you’re working. Nevertheless, eat you must.”
Elliott looked up at his persistent butler. “Make me, old man.”
Every line on Harrison’s face solidified into a scowl. “I feared it would come to that.” With a deft move, he withdrew a silver spoon from the inside pocket of his immaculately pressed black jacket. “Thus, the reason I came prepared.” A fissure of a smirk cracked through his frown.
Elliott chuckled, despite himself. “I must look bad form. You haven’t threatened me with that in years.”
“Not since you were in nursery and drove poor Nanny Alice downstairs in search of reinforcements over a plate of brussels sprouts.” Harrison put away the spoon, his features taking on a softer form of severity. “I know you are suffering, my lord, but I must urge you to move beyond that distress in order to make our new resident more comfortable. From Mrs. Nesbitt’s report, the girl is quite miserable.”
Elliott’s gaze dropped to the food. She wasn’t the only one. “Is she now?”
“Yes, and more than a little afraid. Contrary to the way things seem, I’m not certain the present circumstances are her doing. At least, not entirely. Reach out to her, my lord. You might discover her to be a pleasant young lady, and perhaps in time, the situation can yet be redeemed.”
“Redeemed?” Elliott scoffed, face hardening. “I don’t think so, Harrison. There isn’t enough time in eternity for that.” Nothing could redeem this situation. Not time, not God.
“Be that as it may, here she is and here will she stay as Lady Carlyle.”
Elliott’s teeth clamped together, clenching tighter and tighter until the mounted pressure birthed a throbbing pain along his rigid jaw. The servants might address his bride by that usurped title, as could the family in London, the villagers of the county, and society at large.
But he would not.
“You can’t just cast the girl aside, my lord.”
Leaning an elbow on the desk, Elliott wiped a hand over his face and gripped his chin. What was he to do about his substitute bride, then? Befriend her? Dig a grave for his feelings and produce the heir the family wanted? Have a marriage that was all show and nothing more? No. That he would not do. Deception might have arranged this marriage, but he refused to live a lie.
He straightened, pushed aside the tray of food, and set back to work on the clockwork frog. “I’ll see to it that Miss Bradbury’s needs are provided. I can offer her nothing more.”
Chapter 3
How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!”
Gwen’s gaze lifted once again from the page of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and sought out the library door handle. Still i
n place, still not touched. Gripping tighter onto her novel, she nestled against the library’s lone chair. She rubbed her temple with the middle finger of her free hand. Why she insisted upon torturing herself with fleeting glances at the door, she did not know. Many weeks had transpired since she’d last seen Lord Carlyle. Like characters from different books, they carried on completely separate lives. Separate stories. Although they lived under the same roof, shared the same library, one had nothing to do with the other.
There was no fear of Lord Carlyle seeking her out.
Why, then, did she not feel relieved?
Gwen shook her head and forced herself to exhale. Breathe. Go back into the story. She read on, turning to a new page. “I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavor to sustain me in dejection.”
A twinge constricted Gwen’s heart. “I haven’t any friends, Papa, and these horrid spectacles will only make matters worse.” She shut the book. Light streaming through the window behind her chair glistened on the marbled leather binding. Perhaps Frankenstein had best be saved for another day. While she appreciated novels that resonated with the heart and stirred the mind to thought, for now, she wished neither to think nor feel.
Gwen stood and returned the book to the exact spot from whence it had come—second bookcase from the left, third shelf down, seventh volume over, adjacent to the metal figurine of an owl. Every book ought to have its designated place on the shelf, and she always desired to respect that order whether or not it be of her own design. Besides, she did not want to break any rule that might upset Lord Carlyle or worse, draw his attention upon her. She’d been the object of people’s disdain often enough.
Walking along the border of the library, she surveyed the dark wooden bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling. Simply carved, yet possessing a certain grandeur, they lined every wall but the one at the library’s center where the window and lone wingback chair had been situated in a reading nook. A perfectly quaint library, really. Not to mention fully stocked with a wide assortment of titles. She’d not yet been tempted to open her crate of books from London, although they’d arrived.
Gwen stopped before one of the rolling wrought-iron ladders attached on tracks to access the bookcase’s highest shelves. She lifted her skirt and climbed to the second step. How she would love to give one great push and go flying across the room. Yet she dared not indulge such silliness. This house was not her own, and she’d yet to learn its regulations.
Leaning forward against the ladder, Gwen focused on the books at eye level. The majority of Lord Carlyle’s collection consisted of various scientific texts, but a few fictional works could be found among them. On this particular shelf, a brass deer figurine with jade eyes watched over The Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo, Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, and The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan, the latter of which appeared to be a first edition from 1678 in its original publisher’s cloth. How rare to find a copy that had not been rebound in leather by the owner. She reached toward Pilgrim but hesitated. Better not disturb such a valuable book.
Nearby, a cobalt volume with a well-creased spine beckoned to be held. Despite being unfamiliar with the author, she obeyed its call. The cobalt continued around the front in a beautiful Cosway-style binding, framing at its center an embedded image of a seated woman with a bird perched upon her finger. Britannia Ornithology: A Study of England’s Native Birds scrolled along the top in gold embossed lettering. A textbook. Explanation for her failure to recognize the author. She rubbed a finger along the damaged spine. It had obviously been read a number of times, enough to loosen a few of the pages from the binding. Perhaps, through Mrs. Nesbitt, she might request permission to mend it? The task should be easy enough as she’d repaired books in worse state.
Gwen descended the ladder and returned to the reading nook, pausing for a moment to admire the window’s view of a magnificent tree situated on a blanket of green. Absolutely charming. Later in the afternoon, perhaps she might take one of her own books outdoors to read under the shade of its stately branches.
Seated again on the singular leather chair, she opened the ornithology book and discovered not loose pages but sketches of birds that had been tucked into the textbook beside the descriptions of their namesakes. She picked up a sketch of an owl. Detailed and intricate, it appeared identical to the metal owl on the shelf beside Frankenstein. Every sketch, in fact, had a figurine counterpart within the library. Incredible. Who was behind these masterful creations? Had Lord Carlyle purchased the figurines and text from an artist in London? Perhaps Lord Carlyle served as the artist’s patron.
Footsteps announced someone’s arrival.
Gwen’s gaze leaped to the door as a disheveled Lord Carlyle strode into the library. Her breath stalled. Lord Carlyle’s eyes latched on to her own, and the abrupt contact brought him to a halt. His countenance stiffened.
Neither of them said a word. Neither of them looked away.
She dared not be the first to speak, nor could she leave the room without being dismissed by her husband. Lord Carlyle had her trapped as she had trapped him. How painfully fitting. Remaining perfectly still, Gwen waited. When he spoke, what would Lord Carlyle say? Would he be angered at her presence in the library or simply at the reminder of their cohabitation?
Like one doomed to face the guillotine, Lord Carlyle at last strode toward her with a look of grave resignation. “I came in search of a text required for a project. Britannia Ornithology.”
Her gaze dropped to the book in her hand, the book Lord Carlyle sought. Gwen stood and hastily surrendered it to his keeping. “Here. I apologize. I should not have read one of your books without first gaining your consent.”
Lord Carlyle’s expression softened a little beneath several days’ accumulation of stubble, although his tone and posture remained rigid. “No fear. If you overstepped any rule, it’s one of propriety’s. Not mine.”
He acted as though propriety’s laws were a matter of little importance. Perhaps she adhered to that unwritten rule book too closely?
“So.” Opening the book, Lord Carlyle fanned through the pages. “What do you think, then?”
She stared at him, unable to produce a single syllable. Had Lord Carlyle just inquired for an opinion? Her opinion? No man of her acquaintance had ever cared to do so. “Excuse me?”
“The sketches.” Tension clipped his words short and brusque. “I’d like to know what you think of my sketches.”
Lord Carlyle had drawn the sketches? Then the metal figurines must also be his work. She’d never imagined him to be so inventive. Gwen slid her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “Well, I…I think your sketches are…beautiful. Gifted.”
The tension holding Lord Carlyle’s countenance in its grasp released him, and his jaw slackened. He eyed her with the conflicted expression of one who wishes to believe something very much and yet expects a falsehood to be lying in wait. “Gifted, hmm?” He studied the sketches in his hand. “Of all the words used to describe my work, I’ve yet to hear that one.”
Why ever not? Lord Carlyle’s creative works deserved praise. Perhaps…perhaps she might tell him as much? Protocol dictated that wives seldom speak and avoid having opinions, but Lord Carlyle didn’t seem to care about society’s rules. Gwen pursed her quivering lips. If she wanted things between them to improve, she must take advantage of this opportunity to connect their stories. Courage now. “Perhaps the previous viewers of your sketches possessed a limited vocabulary.”
Gaze still attached to his book, a smile came and went on his face. “Perhaps.”
Faint warmth bloomed on her cheeks. That was the first time Lord Carlyle had ever smiled in her presence without Cynthia being in the room. Granted, it hadn’t been directed her
way. But still, he’d smiled. Say something else. “May I be so bold as to inquire why you craft your figurines from metal instead of traditional mediums such as porcelain or bronze?”
Lord Carlyle met her gaze, a new lightness in his eyes and demeanor. “Because they’re not mere figurines or statues meant to remain immobile. They are automata, machines designed to move, each in their own way.”
“That’s incredible.” Almost as incredible as him conversing with her now, engaged and responsive. Perhaps their situation wasn’t entirely without hope. “What different things can your machines do?”
With his free hand, he indicated the bookcases across the room. “The owl there can turn his head in a full rotation. A frog I recently finished can hop and croak, and my current design, a wren, will preen its feathers once completed. Automata are as much or more science than art.”
A slight smile lifted Gwen’s lips. “How fanciful.”
Tension reclaimed its hold over Lord Carlyle’s demeanor, hardening his eyes and straightening his posture. “I must return to work.” He again opened Britannia Ornithology, directing his gaze to the words therein. “If you will excuse me.”
The phrase was not so much a begging of pardon as a command to leave. A command Gwen heard all too clearly. She should’ve held her tongue. Bowing her head, she skirted around Lord Carlyle and exited the library in all haste. Once the door shut behind her, she found herself in the corridor and quite alone. Exactly how she’d wished to be this morning.
Yet now she found herself wishing Lord Carlyle had asked her to stay.
Chapter 4
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 2