Chapter Text
There was a soft wind blowing from the west, and it hummed a gentle lullaby to Marianne as she stared sleepily at the tall grasses and trees moving slowly past the window of her carriage. The clouds hung low and lazy in the sky as the setting sun glimmered in between them, creating a sparkling mosaic. It reassured her that the next year—her father would have called it an “adventure”—was not going to be as altogether horrible as it had been suggested it would be.
Her dearest friend Liza Pinedale, had spun a surprisingly dark tale, though Marianne had learned early in their acquaintance to take everything Liza told her with a grain of salt. Her friend enjoyed embellishing her tales to illicit others’ reactions. She warned her friend not to partake in idle gossip, and brushed the notion off as nothing but a rumor. Sadly, the whispers and stories that reached her ears during her long journey to Windcrest Manor had lent themselves completely to what Liza had said. One traveler spoke of the owner of the great estate—Lord Barnabus McGregor—as a philanderer and a cad, saying he had taken at least six wives in his near forty years, replacing one with the next, and abandoning them all in due course. Another insisted he’d built his fortune by murdering each of his brides after receiving her dowry.
By the time Marianne met the private carriage Lord McGregor had sent for her, she was quite nearly terrified. Following her own advice had proved to be very difficult, having never met the man herself, but she was determined to give this experience a fighting chance. As she gazed out the carriage window at the extensive grounds of the estate, she found her fear overtaken by curiosity. What sort of person was Lord McGregor? So far, all she knew was that the man was unsociable and wealthy—enough so that she was surprised at the lack of care the estate seemed to receive. The road upon which he travelled was unused and overgrown, and jostled the carriage about a bit more violently than she would have preferred, but she’d been told that Lord McGregor used it only twice a year, and that his servants had their own road into town.
She wondered at his reasons for keeping himself locked so far away from the world. Why would he hide himself away? Surely a murderer wouldn’t be able to keep a house full of staff, so he must have a different reason. Was he ill, she wondered? Crippled? Weak in the head? Hush! She chided herself; what right did she have to make such wild speculations about a man she had never met? She quickly resigned herself to the notion that the man must simply prefer solitude, and let her curiosity fade.
It was half an hour before the Manor came into view. Marianne could see the glint of ivory marble behind what seemed to be vines attempting to overtake the manor entirely, growing up from what she guessed was a garden, left to go wild years ago. She supposed it had been a very fine, handsome building in its day, but now it loomed, dark and rather gloomy, against the pale pink of the sunset. As she took in the sight of the manor, and the pastel painted sky beyond it, her thoughts returned to Lord McGregor, and she began to wonder what he might look like. She imagined a stout, stocky, bearded man with flaming red hair, and an incomprehensible accent. She pictured him stomping around the estate, muttering crossly to himself. She quietly mumbled his name in her best brogue, and stifled a giggle as the carriage drew closer to her temporary home.
***
Lord McGregor sat stiffly in his study, hand to his forehead, his expression one of dismay and agitation.
“Bog, darling,” Griselda pleaded with her son, “I can understand your uneasiness after being without significant company for so many years, but think of how refreshing it will be to have a new face in the house! Do you not find it the least bit exciting?” She clasped her small, plump hands together before her chest and sighed.
“To be perfectly honest,” Bog retorted coldly, his brogue harsh, “I cannae say that I intend to have any contact whatsoever with the child. She is my aunt’s business, not mine.” Griselda brought her hands down to rest on her hips, and gave Bog a look that suggested she had grown weary of their conversation,
“She is not so very young dear, perhaps a year or two over twenty,”
“Anyone ten or more years my junior is a child,” Bog mumbled, and his mother huffed,
“She simply hasn’t had the advantages we’ve been afforded. Your aunt Plumb wrote to me just last week, singing the young lady’s praises. So much potential, she says! She sounds like lovely company, and expect you to be cordial.” Bog leveled an exasperated look at his mother.
“I have afforded her the luxury of dwelling in my home for the duration of her stay, and I dare say that is sufficient exchange for the few interactions that simply cannae be avoided. Should she require anything else of me, she would have to be a useful sort of girl, for which I have very little hope if she is, as you say, lacking even an elementary education.”
“You are too cruel,” Griselda snapped, standing herself up as tall as she could—which unfortunately still only put her at eye level with Bog’s chest—and glared at him, “I will not have you spewing falsehoods at my expense, nor anyone else’s. Whatever she may be, Miss Faedelle does not deserve such ill treatment, and you will make a concerted effort to improve yourself before she arrives.” Griselda turned on her heel and all but marched out of the room, leaving Bog no less displeased with the situation, if slightly more bewildered.
He rubbed his temple and settled back into his armchair. When had he given either his mother or his aunt, loved as they were by him, the impression that he would not only allow, but revel in the idea of a stranger living in his home? It would seem his senses had simply abandoned him at the moment when Plumb had pleaded with him for the use of the rear wing of his home in order to be a proper benefactor so some “Poor young thing” who needed her guidance and societal pull. The garden, when she requested the use of it, he’d encouraged her to do what she pleased with, as years of overgrowth had rendered it all but useless. If his aunt’s intention was to have this Miss Faedelle pulling his weeds for the next twelve months, perhaps she was not as useless as he had asserted. Bog chuckled at the thought, and leaned his head against the chair back; eyes closed, and listened to the breeze rustling the curtains through the open window.
After a few moments, another sound met his ears, and he turned to see one of his carriages—the one his mother had insisted he send to fetch their guest—coming up the drive below him. He sighed deeply, resigning himself begrudgingly to his role as host, and straightened his waistcoat as he made his way down to the foyer.
***
The grand walls of Windcrest Manor shown even more magnificently up close as Marianne’s carriage drew further up the drive. The windows, some standard glass, others stained with vibrant colors, sparkled blindingly as the sun burned bright on the horizon. The overgrown vines that had threatened to swallow the manor at a distance, now gave it a sort of charm, and rather reminded her of the ivy climbing the walls of a cottage she’d known in her childhood. It was truly a very beautiful house, and she supposed that Lord McGregor could not be so horrible to live in such a lovely place. He had been kind enough to allow both she and his aunt to make use of it for such an extended amount of time, even having never been acquainted with her, though that was likely for the love of his aunt, she surmised.
Silvia Plume, or Aunt Plumb, as she’d been encouraged to call her, was a sunny, spirited woman who was nearly the heart of the town where Marianne had come upon her. After the passing of Marianne’s father, and the happy and advantageous marriage of her younger sister to a gentleman in the north of England, Marianne had found herself alone with naught but her wits. Aunt Plumb had been kinder to her than anyone in her time of need, and she would do whatever was needed to show her immense gratitude, even if it meant spending an entire year living in the home of the enigmatic Lord McGregor.
The carriage came to a halt in the shade of one of the many birch trees that lined the main driveway, and Marianne gathered her courage as the driver stretched, and opened the door, offering her his hand. She took it gingerly, and stepped slowly out into the speckled sunlight. She thanked the driver and turned, smoothing her skirts, to see a small, plump woman she didn’t recognize shuffling happily toward her, arms outstretched.
“Welcome, Welcome! Such a pleasure at last, my dear sister Silvia has told me so much about you!” Griselda took one of Marianne’s hands in her own and squeezed it. “My name is Griselda, dear, Griselda McGregor. I’m so pleased to have you staying with us, Miss Faedelle, truly!” Marianne relaxed and smiled,
“Please, call me Marianne. I’m pleased to be here, thank you.” Griselda beamed back at her, and gave the staff that had accompanied her brief directions as to where their guest would be staying, and then headed toward the front staircase with Marianne in tow. She inquired after the details of Marianne’s trip as they made their way up the stairs toward the large double front doors. As they neared the top, one of the doors opened suddenly, and Marianne paused on the steps. Out stepped one of the tallest men she’d ever seen—well over six foot, she was absolutely certain.
He was lean through the middle, but broad chested with wide shoulders. His legs were long, and the way he stood, with his hands clasped behind his back and his posture perfect, Marianne was sure he was the only man she’d ever met to whom the word graceful could be applied. His hair was a dark, chestnut brown, of medium length, and the left side was smoothed behind his ear, while the right hung freely, framing his eyes. Marianne swallowed nervously. The man’s eyes were a bright, clear blue, and his expression was intense. His chin was long and slightly pointed, and his nose followed suit. She supposed for a split second that these were characteristics that many of her immediate acquaintance might have found off-putting, but she found it quite appealing, and rather fascinating.
Marianne realized a moment too late that she was quite obviously staring at the man, finally looking away when he narrowed his eyes at her. Griselda caught his expression and swatted him on the arm,
“Bog, dear, behave!” She whispered loudly, much to Lord McGregor’s chagrin.
“Mother, please,” he responded calmly, keeping his expression indifferent and extending his hand toward Marianne. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I am Lord Barnabas McGregor. Welcome to Windcrest Manor,” Marianne took his hand gently and curtsied, marveling at the way his name actually sounded when he spoke it,
“Marianne Faedelle, my Lord. Thank you for so generously welcoming me into your beautiful home, I hope my presence will not be an inconvenience.” Marianne met his gaze again, and for a split second, she could see what could only be described as bewildered confusion in his eyes before his mask of indifference returned.
“As do I,” he replied curtly, bowing quickly before releasing her hand and retreating back into the house. Marianne’s smile fell as she watched him go, and she wondered if she had somehow already managed to offend him.
“Did I--?” She began, but Griselda cut her off,
“No, no, dear, he’s just been in poor spirits recently. Don’t you fret over it; he’ll be himself again before we know it.” Griselda’s words were more of a personal hope than an outright fact, but she’d wager her late husband’s fortune that Marianne’s big brown eyes were just what her son needed.
***
Bog returned to his study, frustrated and more bewildered than ever. What on earth had come over him? His interaction with the young woman had been nothing out of the ordinary, aside, perhaps, from his unpleasant glaring, which he knew she had not deserved. He paced beside the now-darkened window, attempting to discover what had unnerved him so. Had it been her hand, so small and delicate in his as she spoke her name? Or perhaps it was her gentle voice, so musical in quality and kind as she thanked him for something he had only moments before condemned as an utter annoyance.
Nae, he thought; it was her eyes, the way she looked at him, as if she could see into his soul. They were honest, and curious, and full of wonder as she had gazed at him, where in others’ he had grown accustomed to seeing only fear, or disgust. He knew he was not an attractive man, and had certainly been told so, but what had maimed both his reputation and his character were the hideous rumors that had hung like poison upon the lips of the townsfolk ever since—
He shut the thought away, clenching his right hand into a fist and bringing it down onto the arm of his chair as he sat once more. He cursed himself internally for not managing to keep his composure upon their first meeting, knowing that his rude and rather abrupt behavior would have to be apologized for. He would need a small flight of whisky in the morning before doing so; for the life of him, he didn’t know how he was going to face those eyes of hers without it.
*** Griselda led Marianne through the foyer toward the grand staircase, chirping excitedly about the history of the manor, and the town. As she moved tentatively through the unfamiliar space, Marianne couldn’t keep herself from staring upward in awe as the low entryway gave way to a high, ornate ceiling, decorated with diamond patterns and depictions of mythology. Even three stories above her head, she could make out scenes of a great battle between faeries and goblins set amidst a lush, green garden. The murals were dispersed in an even checkered pattern with gold textured panels, which perfectly complemented the dark oak moldings along the base of the walls on each floor. The walls themselves were painted a warm burgundy, and covered in faded paintings of everything from landscapes, to portraits, to pieces more abstract than any she’d ever seen. In the center, a sparkling chandelier spiraled downward into a point, a crystal dagger gleaming brilliantly as the light of day faded behind the hills.
Two rings of polished oak banisters circled above her head, the lower dipping down before her, elegantly framing the staircase as she and Griselda approached it, and the higher resting as a halo would upon an angel. Once again Marianne felt her heart fill with hope, and she vowed then and there that she would not allow herself to be put off or upon by her short-tempered host, however often and arbitrarily he might choose to be cross with her. The two ladies ascended the staircase, and Griselda herded Marianne to the right, and stopped as they reached another door. It was made of a pale wood, and carved intricately with flowers interwoven with Celtic knots. Marianne brushed the detailing lightly with her fingers as she marveled at the craftsmanship. Griselda chuckled softly, and Marianne glanced up to see the older woman looking pleased, yet forlorn.
“My late husband had this door commissioned as a…a wedding present,” the words seemed to stick in her throat. Marianne was moved by the sudden tenderness in Griselda’s voice, but expressions of empathy were hardly her strong suit.
“I’m very sorry,” she cleared her throat, “for the loss of your husband,” she mumbled, giving Griselda a soft smile. Griselda shook her head quickly and patted the young woman’s hand.
“Forgive me dear, just a fit of nostalgia,” she waved off Marianne’s uncomfortable expression, “This will be your private drawing room while you’re staying with us,” the door opened with a soft click, and the landing was flooded with soft candlelight from gilded chandelier within.
Marianne gasped softly as the room unfolded before her. The walls in the drawing room were a muted olive green, and covered in delicate crisscrossing vines, embellished with pale pink flowers in full bloom. Brocade curtains of a dusty lavender obscured her view of the back garden, but she doubted it made much of a difference, having glimpsed its current state. There was an antique desk in the center of the room which, at the moment, was bare of pen and paper, inkpot, and ledger. There were three large armchairs, and a love seat, and all the upholstery was faded on one side; Clearly the morning sun had known this furniture for quite some time. There was a sizeable bookcase taking up a great deal of the far right wall, and a small side table that Griselda claimed contained sewing supplies. Everything appeared to have been recently dusted, for all the polished surfaces reflected the chandelier’s glow immaculately. It truly looked as though someone had come along and breathed new life into the room, after years of neglect, and that the room was grateful for it.
Marianne took in her surroundings, turning slowly and absorbing the room, and Griselda eyed her fondly. She knew Bog would object to her choice of quarters for their guest, but she had run out of ways to try and make her son face his past, so this would have to do.
Marianne’s smile far outshined the candles as she turned around to express her thanks.
“It is absolutely perfect,” she beamed, “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.” Griselda waved her off again as though it were the least she could do.
“Your private room is through there, dear,” she said, pointing to the door beside the bookcase, “And on the other side is a music room. Do you play the pianoforte?” she inquired.
“Yes, a little,” Marianne she admitted awkwardly. She was loath to identify her proclivity for music as she so despised being forced to play for an audience. As it was, however, expected of young ladies to entertain in such ways, she would play when it was demanded of her, and bit her tongue for her father and sister’s sakes. It had been suggested, on more than one occasion, that she attempt to play with decidedly less physical force.
“Well, we have a lovely instrument, a gift from my late husband and myself to Bog…rather, Barnabas, when he was young. Such a waste of talent,” she added, seemingly speaking to herself, “He was so gifted, and he has a pianist’s hands, just as you do,” she smiled, taking Marianne’s hands in her own and studying them appreciatively. They were small compared to Bog’s, as most were, but she had long, slender fingers that enabled her to glide across the keys quickly and easily. Marianne blushed at the woman’s attention and proximity, but was quickly coming to terms with the fact that the Lady McGregor was a bit of an unusual and unconventional woman, and Marianne couldn’t find any fault in the fact.
Griselda released her hands with another swift pat, “Please, play as often as you like, dear. Heaven knows this old house misses its music.” Marianne nodded as Griselda made her way to the door, turning to wish her a good night, before leaving the young woman alone with her thoughts once again. Marianne let out a long, relieved sigh. She had survived the day, and her journey to Windcrest, and her introductions to her ill-tempered host and his slightly eccentric mother. How my life has changed, she thought, glancing at her refection in the mirror on the opposite wall. Tomorrow will be a new day, she told herself; A new start.