Shadows of Blackwood Manor

The rain fell in relentless grey sheets against the mullioned windows of Blackwood Manor, mirroring the chill that had taken root in Elara's heart. At seventeen, she was a bloom of spring trapped in an endless November—or so her mother had dramatically declared before waving her off with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. In truth, Elara thought as she pressed her nose to the cold glass, November wasn't so terrible. November meant roaring fires and thick blankets and the first dusting of snow on the hill. November meant her youngest brother’s birthday and the special honey cakes Cook made and— She caught herself. There would be no honey cakes here. No brothers tumbling through doorways. No mother fussing over her curls. Here, there was only silence and shadows and the distant ticking of a clock that seemed to be counting down the minutes to her doom. Her father, the Vicar, had explained the situation with a heavy heart and an even heavier consumption of sherry. Lord Ashworth, the master of Blackwood Manor, had offered a solution to their poverty: a merger of names and a hefty settlement in exchange for his heir. His heir, Mr. Silas Blackwood. “You will be a lady of means,” her father had said, patting her hand as though she were a horse being sent to auction. “A grand house, fine clothing, and security for your future.” “And for his future?” Elara had asked. “What does Mr. Blackwood receive?” Her father had coughed into his handkerchief. “A wife, my dear. Every man needs one.” Elara, raised on tales of chivalry and gentle romance, had tried to find the romance in her predicament. She pictured a brooding hero haunted by some noble secret. Dark eyes that held centuries of pain. A mysterious past that only her pure heart would be able to heal. He would be tall and tragic and utterly devoted to her within a week. The reality, when she finally met him, was far more complex—and far more still. Silas was not in the great hall to receive her. He was in the library, a cavernous room of leather and dust that smelled like an old man’s handkerchief and possibly a small animal that had died behind the bookshelves. Lord Ashworth, a man carved from granite and cold purpose, led her in without ceremony. “Silas. Your intended.” He sat in a high-backed chair by the fire, a leather-bound book open on his lap. At the sound of his father’s voice, a muscle jumped in his jaw—the only indication that he had heard anything at all. He was handsome in a sharp, unforgiving way: raven-black hair that curled slightly at his collar, a strong nose that looked as though it had been broken once and healed imperfectly, and eyes the colour of a winter sky just before a storm. But it was his stillness that was most striking. He didn’t rise. He didn’t turn. He barely seemed to blink, which Elara found mildly unsettling. He was like a cat eyeing a particularly slow sparrow. She curtsied, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks. “Mr. Blackwood. How do you do?” His head turned then, slowly, as if the motion required considerable effort. His gaze swept over her—from the top of her honey-coloured curls, carefully arranged that morning by a maid who sighed a great deal, past the simple white muslin gown that clung to her slender form in ways that made her mother cluck approvingly, down to the tips of her scuffed kid slippers, of which the left bore a small hole. She had tried to hide it with mud from the driveway, but clearly she had not tried hard enough. When his eyes finally met hers, they were flat. Uninterested. As if she were a painting he found mildly disappointing. “She is a child,” he said, his voice a low rasp directed not at her but at his father. “And she has mud on her shoe.” Elara looked down. Drat. So much for trying to hide the hole. “She is of age,” Lord Ashworth snapped. “And she is here. The matter is settled. The mud will wash.” Only then did Elara notice the fine silver-handled cane resting against his chair and the way a soft woollen blanket was tucked carefully over his legs, concealing them completely. Her breath caught. A riding accident, perhaps. Or a fall. Something that explained the stillness. Something that justified the sharpness in his voice. Pain made people brittle—Cook had always said so. If that was the case, then perhaps his coldness was not indifference, but armour. Her gaze dropped briefly to the cane, then lifted to his face again, more thoughtfully this time. Wounded pride was a delicate thing. And delicate things, Elara had always believed, required gentle handling. She straightened her spine, meeting his winter-sky gaze with quiet determination. Perhaps he thought her a child. Very well. She would simply have to prove him wrong.