The Secrets of Blakesley Manor

1. The Wedding

"Everything is in order, then?"

"Everything."

There was silence while the count considered the papers in front of him. Her father gripped the ivory stem of a pipe between his teeth, tension in his jaw. In spite of her father's assurances, the count didn't trust him. As she'd learned from the short time in his company, he didn't trust anyone.

Time ticked on, counted by the tall grandfather clock into the velvet afternoon. Tobacco smoke swirled into her lungs, and she tried not to cough.

In spite of her efforts, the count noticed. He smiled up at her, a full-moon wolf's smile, a smile she didn't trust.

"Is something wrong, my dear?"

She shook her head. Her long hair ruffled across her dress's many layers of lace and decoration as she moved. The count's sharp eyes watched her for another moment, then flicked to her father's face.

"Put it out."

Her father coughed, waved a hand to disperse his pipe-smoke. "I beg your pardon?"

"Put it out. You're choking your child."

Her father turned red under his mustache, but the count had already turned away. The clock continued, unperturbed. Her father, after eight ticks, muffled the bowl of his pipe with his hand to extinguish the smoldering tobacco, and put it into his pocket. He tugged his suit-jacket straight, as if it had been mussed by following another man's instruction.

"These do seem in order," said the count finally. He stood, straightened the papers. "I'll have a copy sent to my barrister in London."

"Very good, sir."

The count reached out and her father took the count's pale hand with his own. A breeze rattled the windows, and Elizabeth was engaged to be married before the clock counted away another minute.

There was a church ceremony, which she didn't remember much of, and a wedding-night, which she preferred not to think much of, and a long ride to the north in the count's rattling carriage. She didn't have much to say to him. At night, they shared a bed in a series of small-town inns.

"Don't get used to this," the count said to her on the first night, and she thought he meant sharing his bed. She kept her face blank until he turned away.

She found out what he meant as they continued north. Luxurious silk and fur-lined bed-covers turned to velvet, and then wool. The grass thinned, turned to moss in patches. Roasted game-birds turned to a livestock stew, spooned from the commoners' pot into the inn's best china. She suspected it came from the owner's own cabinets. It was blue at the edges and had a design of flowers worked into the bottom.

"It would be an insult, anywhere else," the count told her. A spoon dangled from his indifferent fingers. "Here, it's all they have."

Elizabeth liked it. The blue reminded her of summer skies, and the flowers were a surprise, a patch of daisies in the middle of a snowbank.

The count laughed at her. "Don't be a fool," he said. He dropped his spoon into his bowl, heedless of the crack of metal on china. "Thank God I got you out of your father's house. You'll learn to appreciate quality."

In the morning, a manservant smiled at her as he took her hand to help her into the carriage. She smiled back, and turned into the dim interior of the carriage. A loud crack startled her, and she spun to see the manservant on the ground, both hands covering his face. Blood ran from his nose into his ears and hairline.

The count straightened his shirt-collar. A cane with a silver wolf's-head rested over his arm. He did not look at the bleeding man as his fellows hurried to assist him. He stepped up into the carriage, and they were away.