A Bride For Him

Ruby The cab drops me off at the bottom of a winding estate road, and I stare up at the hill, then down at my suitcase which is stuffed with enough clothes to survive a small apocalypse. I should have packed lighter. If you had told me two weeks ago that I’d be dragging a suitcase full of clothes up a mountain on a private estate road, on my way to a mansion I’d be calling home for the next three months, I would have laughed in your face. I drag my suitcase up the private estate road, its wheels squeaking like a dying mouse, catching on every pebble scattered across the winding gravel path. The sun is setting behind the trees in a slow, golden collapse, painting the sky in bruised oranges and soft pink hues. Long shadows stretch across the gravel from the towering oaks and maples lining both sides of the road, their leaves rustling in a warm evening breeze that does absolutely nothing to help the sweat currently sliding down the back of my neck and pooling in places no one needs to know. The air is thick with the scent of warm earth and cut grass. Somewhere below, the city glimmers through the gaps in the trees, all golden windows and distant headlights. A bird gives one last dramatic call before settling in for the night. My suitcase catches on a stone and I yank it free, nearly stumbling backward. I drag it uphill, stopping every few minutes trying to convince my lungs to stay inside my chest. I've been dragging a suitcase uphill for the better part of twenty minutes, and my arms are starting to feel like they're about to fall off. My shoulders ache, my legs are burning, and my suitcase seems to get heavier with every step. I stop to catch my breath, leaning against the handle as I stare up at the winding road ahead. The mansion is still nowhere in sight. After what feels like an eternity, the road finally begins to level out. The road curves gently to the left, and that’s when I see the gate. It rises between two massive stone pillars, tall enough to make me feel like I’ve accidentally wandered into the entrance of the Royal Palace. Black wrought iron, intricate scrollwork and a polished brass plaque bearing the Sullivan name at the centre. There are security cameras tucked beneath the stone archway. The intercom mounted beside the gate. Beyond it, the road continues toward the house, winding through manicured gardens and disappearing behind a row of trees. I slow down, my grip loosening around the suitcase handle. I glance down at my wrinkled dress, then at the suitcase that looks like it has survived a natural disaster. I drag the suitcase the remaining few metres toward the gate, my arm aching. “Can I help you?” I jump, looking around. And that’s when I spot an intercom mounted beside the gate. “Hi! Yes! I’m Ruby Barkley, I’m the new — “ I pause, because caretaker sounds odd and companion makes me sound like I’m here to keep an old lady company and nothing more. “I’m starting today. For Mrs. Sullivan.” There’s a pause. “Come on through.” A quiet click echoes, and the massive gates swing open with a smooth, silent grace. Two security guards in tailored black suits nod me through. One of them actually tips an invisible hat. I keep walking, suitcase bumping along behind me like a sulky toddler. The long driveway winds through the estate, flanked by towering trees and stretches of manicured lawn. A young man in a crisp suit appears from the manicured gardens, startling me so badly I nearly lose my grip on the suitcase. “Allow me.” Before I can answer, he takes the handle from my hand. “Oh. Thank you.” The suitcase rolls away beside him, and my fingers uncurl. I flex them once, feeling the relief in my palms, then roll my shoulders as the weight finally leaves them. I fall into step beside him, as the mansion comes into view and my brain short-circuits. I slow to a stop, staring up at the sprawling stone façade, the rows of windows, the sheer size of it. This isn't a house. It's a whole damn estate with a front door. I follow him through double mahogany doors into a foyer so vast it could host its own zip code. The polished marble floor gleams beneath soaring vaulted ceilings, where crystal chandeliers the size of compact cars hang overhead. A sweeping staircase curves upward along one wall, its dark wood banister gleaming in the light. Oil paintings of stern-looking ancestors line the walls in gilt frames, watching me from above antique furniture and a large arrangement of white flowers on a console table. He sets my suitcase down gently, like it’s made of glass and not, in fact, a Target clearance rack special with a broken zipper. “Someone will be with you shortly,” he says, and vanishes. I stand frozen in the middle of it all, staring wide-eyed like a toddler who just got dropped into a palace. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’m going to need a moment.” “Take all the moments you need, dear.” The voice is warm and amused. I turn so quickly I nearly lose my balance. A small, elegant woman in a wheelchair wheels in through a side door. Her silver hair is arranged in a soft, elegant bob. Her cheeks are slightly hollow, her skin pale and thin, and faint shadows sit beneath her warm blue eyes behind her glasses. She looks frail, but there is still something lively in her expression when she smiles at me. She wears a cream cashmere cardigan over a pale blue blouse, a long navy skirt, and a delicate pearl necklace. A soft blanket covers her lap, and her hands rest neatly on the armrests of her chair. My face goes instantly, catastrophically red. I can feel it crawling up my neck like it’s late for something. Sweat immediately breaks out on my palms. Panicking, I wipe my wet hands against the front of my dress. A decision I regret the second my fingers meet the fabric. Why did I choose polyester? I scream internally. In my quest to look adult and capable, I settled on a thrifted yellow linen-polyester dress that traps heat like a greenhouse and possesses zero moisture absorbency. Now I just have damp, dark streaks on my hips. "You must be Ruby," the older woman says, her voice faint but warm, a delighted smile spreading across her face. I take a nervous step forward, my knees wobbling. "Yes, ma'am." "Please, call me Linda," she chuckles, her voice light and entirely disarming. "No 'ma'ams’ here. It makes me feel old, and I already have the wheelchair for that." "Yes, ma—" I cut myself off mid-word, mortified again. "Linda. Yes, Linda." She laughs again, but the sound quickly turns into a shallow cough. She nudges the joystick on the armrest, and the wheelchair glides towards me, she studies me with open interest. “Well, come along then,” Linda says, wheeling herself in a smooth arc toward the hallway. “I don’t bite, and neither does the house, mostly.” Linda turns her wheelchair toward the hallway, and I step aside to let her pass before falling into step beside her. My footsteps are quiet against the polished floor. The corridor stretches toward the far end of the house, its walls lined with framed portraits and old photographs. Linda steers herself past the sitting room and toward a set of tall double doors beneath an arched doorway. She reaches out and pushes one open. I follow her inside, and the faint smell of old books and polished wood greets me. Dark wooden shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with books in every colour and size. A rolling ladder rests against one wall, while two deep leather armchairs sit beside a marble fireplace beneath an enormous painting of a stern-looking man who appears deeply offended by my existence. Tall windows spill the last golden light of evening across a large Persian rug, catching dust motes in the air. The faint smell of old books and polished wood fills the air. I slow to a stop just inside the doorway, taking it all in. Linda wheels herself toward the centre of the library, stopping beside a large mahogany desk. She gestures toward a chair beside her, the movement slow and deliberate. Her hand trembles slightly before settling back against the armrest. “Sit, dear.” I sit. “I don’t just want a nurse.” Her voice is quieter now, and the warmth in it giving way to something more vulnerable.. She holds my gaze, her blue eyes suddenly looking older than they did a moment ago. “I want someone who will talk to me, walk with me, read with me, and make me feel like a person rather than a patient.” I nod. “I understand.” “And if you’re willing, I would love to have you here.” “I’d love that.” “Good.” She smiles, and some of the tension leaves her face. “Then we’re settled.” Linda reaches down and taps a small silver bell attached to her armrest. Less than forty seconds later, a tall and slender woman in her early fifties strides into the room. She wears a tailored charcoal skirt suit, her dark hair pinned into a knot so tight it looks painful. “This is Mrs. Whitaker. She runs the house.” Linda introduces. Mrs. Whitaker gives me a cool, evaluating look before holding out a leather-bound folio. The contract is straightforward. It covers my duties, salary, expectations, and a few other details. I read it carefully and, finding nothing particularly alarming, sign it. My hand is slightly shaky as I sign. I hand the folder back. Mrs. Whitaker checks the signature. “Good. You’ll be expected to accompany Mrs. Sullivan to her appointments and be available for her at all times. I nod. “Any questions?” “No.” “Good. She closes the folder. She moves behind Mrs. Sullivan’s wheelchair, letting her lead the way. “Come along, Mrs. Sullivan.” Linda winks at me on the way past, like we already have an understanding, and I decide then and there that whatever else happens in this house, at least she is going to be worth it. I follow them out of the library and into another long hallway that runs along the back of the house. Tall windows line one side, overlooking the gardens, while the other is lined with framed photographs and antique tables. Mrs. Whitaker walks fast and I struggle to keep pace while also trying to memorize the route. She rattles off instructions as we go. “Your room is in the east wing, second floor. Third door on the right,” Mrs. Whitaker explains in a firm tone without turning around. “Breakfast is served at seven sharp. Punctuality is not a suggestion here, Miss Ruby.” “This is Mrs. Sullivan’s bedroom.” Mrs. Whitaker says at the end of the hallway, just outside large white mahogany double doors. She pushes open the doors and we step inside a spacious suite with pale wallpaper, a sitting area and a large bed positioned near the windows. The room overlooks the gardens, and the curtains are drawn back to let in the evening light. She helps the Linda into bed, adjusts the pillows, pulls the blanket over her legs and turns to me. “Go on, Ruby,” she says, already checking her watch. “Find your room. Your luggage is already there. I’ll be up in a minute to go over the rest. My suitcase, I had forgotten all about it. I nod, relieved that I won’t have to drag it through the entire house. Linda smiles at me, “ Off you go,” she says. I step out of Linda’s bedroom, leaving Mrs. Whitaker to finish helping her settle. I retrace my steps down the hallway, back toward the front of the house, until I reach the bottom of the staircase I’d glimpsed sweeping up from the foyer when I first walked in. Its dark wooden banister curves upward beneath a chandelier. I climb, one hand trailing the dark wooden banister, the thick runner muffling my footsteps. The staircase opens onto a landing with tall windows overlooking the gardens. The fading daylight spills across the polished floor, and beyond the glass, the lawns stretch toward a line of trees. I turn left, following a corridor lined with framed photographs. I pass a small table with a vase of fresh flowers, then another hallway branching off to the right. I follow the short hallway and find yet another set of double doors at the very end. I stop. This cannot be the third room on the right. I am lost. The doors are slightly open and muffled voices drift through the gap. Okay I am definitely lost. I am about to turn around when the doors burst open. A man walks out. He is tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His dark brown hair is neatly styled, not a strand out of place. His white shirt is crisp enough to cut glass, his tie perfectly straight, and his polished black shoes look like they judge lesser footwear. His eyes are brown, the colour of expensive whiskey, and currently storming with the kind of controlled fury that makes the air feel thinner. His nose is straight, and his jaw is sharp enough to have been carved for the sole purpose of looking unimpressed. His mouth is set in a firm line. On his wrist sits a watch that looks like it could pay my tuition. I stand there, completely paralyzed, staring at him with my mouth slightly open. He stops dead in his tracks, his sharp, storm-filled gaze snapping directly to me. His gaze moves from my face to my dress, his dark eyebrows pulling together in utter disdain, then back up my face. Those stormy eyes lock onto me. “Who the hell are you,” he says, voice low and cold.