Morning light filtered through the windows, casting pale long shadows across the bedchamber.
The storm had passed during the night, leaving behind the fresh scent of rain-soaked earth. Unfortunately, the storm inside Penelope’s mind had not passed with it.
"You would hate all over again if I did"
Those words lingered, echoing relentlessly in the quiet spaces of the room. She rolled over for what felt like the hundredth ti, tangling herself further in the crisp linen as she tried– and failed– to banish the mory of his voice.
He had whispered it so quietly, a rare vulnerable slip of his guard when he thought she had completely drifted off to sleep. But of course, those were the sort of thing a person only admitted when they believed no one was listening.
Eventually, she pushed herself upright against the headboard and drew her knees to her chest.
The room was silent, which made it easier for unwanted thoughts to creep in.
Does that an the rumors were true?
The dark, ugly whispers that plagued the high court resurfaced one by one. The stories that seed to follow Vincent no matter where he went.
Did he truly murder his own parents?
But why?
Penelope squeezed her eyes shut the second she started to doubt him.
No.
She shook her head violently, as if she could physically fling the intrusive thoughts away.
That wasn’t the man she had co to know. At least... she didn’t believe it was.
In the ti they had spent together, Vincent had never struck her as a man who killed without reason.
If anything, he was burdened by responsibility to an almost absurd degree, sotis to a ridiculous extent. Around her, he was hardly the terrifying figure the rumors described. He had beco more talkative and less guarded. He no longer retreated as he normally would, and more often than not, their conversations left her trying not to laugh at the unexpected earnest, and occasionally ridiculous things he said.
If the rumors were true, there had to be more to the story.
There had to be.
Yes... she had to trust him.
She wanted to trust him.
Perhaps there was a reason he believed she would hate him.
Or perhaps he had simply spent so many years being feared and condemned that he could no longer imagine anyone reacting differently.
That possibility sohow felt even sadder.
Before she could spiral any deeper into her thoughts, the heavy wooden door to the bedchamber clicked and slowly swung open with a deliberate creek.
"Martha," Penelope called as the maid stepped inside, whilst carrying a bundle of fresh linens. "I’m glad you’re here."
Martha looked confused. "Does My Lady need sothing?"
Penelope shook her head.
"No. Well... actually, yes." She hesitated. "Do you know where His Lordship is right now?"
"Well, if he’s not in his study then he’s probably out," Martha answered thoughtfully. "He sotis leaves early in the morning to inspect the eastern barracks. Is sothing wrong?"
"I was just... wondering," Penelope began carefully. "You’ve been serving here for a long ti, so I trust you must know what His Lordship’s relationship with his family was like, right? I couldn’t help noticing that I’ve never seen a morial shrine anywhere in the estate. Does His Lordship not keep one for the late Devereux family?"
"A morial shrine?" Martha blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden direction of the conversation. "There is a morial shrine that was made for the late Devereux. It was built years ago. But His Lordship hasn’t visited their altar in a while."
"Really?" Penelope asked, unable to hide her surprise.
There was a morial shrine?
Why didn’t Vince tell her about it?
"Can you take there?"
Martha hesitated.
"I’m not sure that would be wise, My Lady."
"Why not?"
Penelope pushed aside the blankets and rose from the bed, eting Martha’s gaze with quiet determination.
"Am I not their daughter-in-law?" she asked. "That alone gives the right to visit their altar."
"My Lady, it’s not that—"
"And besides," Penelope continued gently, "since His Lordship and I were married, we haven’t had the opportunity to receive their blessings. I have no intention of doing such a thing without him, but I would still like to pay my respects."
Martha’s expression grew increasingly troubled.
"I want to go there. So help get dressed and take to the altar."
For a long mont, Martha said nothing.
She knew the Marquis would likely be displeased if he learned of this. Yet there was nothing improper about the request. On the contrary, a new wife wishing to pay her respects to her husband’s ancestors was both noble and entirely appropriate.
At last, Martha let out a quiet sigh of surrender.
"Very well, My Lady," she murmured, setting down the linens and walking over to the wardrobe. "Let us find you a suitable dress for a walk to the courtyard crypts."
Penelope smiled at her acceptance.
****
The Vandalian’s northern climate brooked no weakness, particularly right after a heavy downpour.
Penelope felt comfortable in the outfit Martha had helped her wear today. It was the perfect blend of high born Vandalian practicality.
A thick, structured A-line coat made of deep, erald wool, buttoned snugly up to her throat with polished silver clasps. Beneath it, she wore a layered kirtle that kept the cold out,and a plush, white,fox fur collar wrapped comfortably around her neck, framing her face. On her feet were sturdy leather riding boots, stylishly laced but thick enough to withstand the dampness outside.
One of her favorite things in the day was having her outfits picked out by Martha. The young lady always knew what looked best on her.
Martha led the way through the winding stone corridors of the estate. The halls were quiet at this hour, disturbed only by the distant crackle of the fireplace and the soft echo of their footsteps against the polished floor.
Ahead, a familiar figure rounded a corner.
"Sir Francis," Martha called.
The butler imdiately ca to a stop. Upon noticing Penelope at her side, he turned to her and inclined his head in a respectful bow.
"Good morning, Your Ladyship," he greeted with a smile. "You are looking well this morning."
"Thank you, Sir Francis," Penelope replied. "We were actually looking for you."
The butler blinked.
"For ?" His gaze shifted briefly between Penelope and Martha. "Is there so problem?"
"No, nothing like that." Penelope shook her head. "I was told you are responsible for the estate’s keys?"
"I am."
"Then... I have a favor to ask. I wish to visit the Late Devereux family’s altar, and I understand you possess the keys."
The butler’s expression imdiately stiffened at her request. "You wish to visit the Devereux resting place?"
Penelope noticed the hesitation at once. It was the sa reaction Martha had shown.
But why was everyone reacting that way?
"Yes," she replied. "So can you take us there?"
The butler’s gaze imdiately shifted to Martha, and the look he gave her was reproachful. Martha,displaying the instinct of soone who wished to survive the day, promptly found sothing very interesting to examine on the opposite wall.
Sir Francis suppressed a sigh and turned back to Penelope.
"My Lady, no one is permitted to visit the altar," he said carefully. "I believe it would be best to seek His Lordship’s approval first."
Penelope frowned.
"Is there a reason I’m not allowed?"
"That is not what I ant."
"His Lordship is not in his study and I do not know when he’ll return from the barracks," she continued. "As his wife, do I not have the right to pay my respects to my late in-laws?"
The butler imdiately shook his head.
"Of course you do, My Lady. It is simply that His Lordship is... particular about allowing anyone in that place."
"Well, I am not anyone."
The quiet certainty in her voice left little room for argunt.
"I am his wife."
Sir Francis closed his eyes for a brief mont. He had served the Devereux family long enough to recognize a lost battle when he saw one.
"So," Penelope said, folding her hands neatly before her, "will you take there or not?"
The butler opened his mouth, no doubt preparing one final attempt at persuasion.
But then he t Penelope’s gaze, and she looked perfectly polite, reasonable, and completely beyond reasoning.
A familiar feeling of defeat settled over him.
It was no wonder His Lordship indulged her so much.
With a resigned sigh, Sir Francis reached into his coat and withdrew a ring of iron keys.
"Very well, My Lady."
Privately, he could only pray that she took a brief look and departed before the Marquis returned.
Otherwise, soone was going to receive a very unpleasant conversation before the day was over.
Still, despite his concern, a small part of him hoped this might not end as badly as he feared.
His Lordship rarely visited the altar.
And when he did, it was never for rembrance, nor out of filial devotion. It was always because he was punishing himself. As though each visit to their altar were a sentence he felt obligated to endure.
Perhaps, with the Marchioness involved, that might finally change.
Perhaps she could finally convince the Marquis to stop punishing himself for the past.
User Comments
0 comments from readers