Bound by secret

Chapter three

The Blackwood estate had grown quiet, save for whispers of her absence. It was only after Margaret gave birth to Henry that the townsfolk saw her once more but even then, it was as if she had become a shadow of herself. The woman who had once filled the air with vibrant life was now a silent figure.

When Henry was just ten years old, Margaret died. The cause was never clear some said it was a broken heart, others spoke of illness but the truth was buried in the past, leaving only a void where a mother once had been.

Lord Reginald never spoke of her, and neither did Henry. In the years since Henry Blackwood had become as much a mystery as his mother. He had inherited his mother’s sharp eyes and quiet demeanor, but unlike her, he never let his talents see the light of day. It was as if he had inherited the same silence, the same shadow that had claimed his mother’s spirit.

Eleanor sighed, setting her cup down with a soft clink. She wondered if Henry had ever longed for his mother, or if, like the rest of the Blackwood legacy, he had buried his past and hardened himself against it.

The truth was, Eleanor knew little about Henry—and she had no right to care. He was as distant as his father, if not more so.

Yet, there was still something that nagged at her.

She stood up abruptly, feeling the weight of the world pressing against her chest. She could not afford to waste time on idle thoughts of Henry Blackwood. She had a life to survive, a future that was slipping further and further away with every passing moment. And if she was to find a way out, she would have to do it on her own.

The door to Eleanor’s chamber opened with a soft creak, and the familiar sound of footsteps echoed across the marble floors. Her mother, Lady Rosalind Ashcombe, entered first, followed by her younger sister, Isobel. Eleanor straightened immediately, though she could feel the weight of her mother’s gaze on her.

“Good morning, my dear!” Lady Rosalind’s voice was warm, like honey, but there was an underlying sharpness in it—one that Eleanor had learned to recognize. Her mother’s kind words were often a prelude to demands.

And this morning, the air was thick with anticipation.

“Isobel, darling, help your sister with her gown,” Lady Rosalind commanded, as she began to bustle about the room, her hands adjusting the elegant lace curtains and sweeping over the freshly polished furniture. “We have much to discuss today. Your marriage preparations, Eleanor finally!”

Eleanor stiffened at the word “preparations.” She had been preparing for this moment her entire life, but not in the way her mother envisioned. This was not a celebration of her future, but a reminder of the cage that had been built around her.

Isobel, still a child in Eleanor’s eyes, practically skipped over to the vanity where her sister stood. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, oblivious to the tension hanging in the room like an unwelcome guest.

“Do you think the dress will be ready in time?” Isobel chirped, a broad grin on her face as she opened the large wooden wardrobe. “I heard the seamstress is working day and night to get it perfect!”

Eleanor’s heart sank at the thought of the dress. It would be everything Lord Reginald Blackwood wanted—a gown that would flatter him, not her. Everything about this marriage was about serving him, pleasing him, becoming part of his image, a prize to be shown off.

Her wedding dress would be a symbol of her imprisonment.

“Your sister’s gown is going to be exquisite,” Lady Rosalind continued, smiling at Isobel before turning her sharp eyes to Eleanor. “We’ll make sure it’s fit for a queen, won’t we, Eleanor?” Her smile was wide, but her words were edged with something cold.

Eleanor’s breath caught, and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “Mother, you know I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it.”