Chapter Text
Christmas Eve arrives heavier and colder than ever before.
You would take enjoyment out of Christmas like most others if you were allowed the pleasure of affectionate parentage, or of a husband who profoundly loves and understands you. You would celebrate with your aunt, uncle, and cousins if they showed you any kindness, any warmth, any support.
Yet these are all things you do not have, and that is quite all right by you. You take enjoyment in other ways.
During your solitary evenings, when your extended family bustles about in the parlor, and when you are not working in their estate as their housemaid, you write in your journal. Beneath the flickering candlelight, you conjure tales about a giant plucking out his eyeball to bury it in the night sky. You explain in your own words that the giant does this out of worry for his son, who hunts at night, and his watchful eye will only gleam among the stars to ensure the safety of his heir. It is how the moon came to be.
You write more tales of a village boy visiting the forest to see a girl, nude and entwined with a towering oak, but she does not leave to follow him home. His misplaced love swells into something so sickly that he cuts the tree, and as the tree falls, so does the girl. They crumble into dust, wither into the dirt, and the boy sobs out in despair.
Your aunt tells you that your writing is a waste of time. "Nothing good comes out of a woman with ideas," she said to you once, striking you with the back of her palm after discovering your hobby. "And no husband of yours will approve of this. It's unseemly."
On many occasions, she'd scour your room for your notebooks, any stray pieces of parchment with fleeting ideas, and she would dispose of them all. You learned quickly to hide your journals in peculiar, unseen places, lest she'd burn them again.
A knock rattles your door and you're quick to shut your journal. You open the drawer of your davenport, lift the slab of wood from the bottom of the drawer, and place the book inside to keep it hidden. You clear your throat in haste. "Come in."
Your uncle, the baron of this estate, enters. His deep inhales and exhales sound muted, as if he’s fighting to breathe underwater. His spectacles sit neatly atop the arch of his nose. He never smiles at you, and to be frank, you're not quite sure you've ever witnessed him smile.
“A joyous Christmastide to you, uncle,” you say pleasantly. He does not acknowledge you. Instead, his eyes narrow into slits, and his mouth clamps into a thin line.
“How fares your courtship, girl?”
Oh. You feel something thick, like oil, rise in your gut at his dreaded question. You fold your hands neatly atop your skirts and fidget in your seat. Your heart feels like it’s been pulled down to your abdomen. "Mr. Baxter has..." You pause, avoiding your uncle's rigid eyes. "...Dissolved our courtship, and he moved to Brighton."
There is no hint of surprise behind his features. "And what of Mr. Price?"
"He began courting Miss Talbot."
"Mr. Yates?"
"He declared us incompatible."
You wonder that, if he were to stand outside in the cold, you would see great tendrils of steam rise from his bald crown stemming from fury. You're surprised when he doesn't show it, though, and instead, your uncle takes his glasses off, pockets them, and rubs at the bridge of his nose.
"People will question, child—" Though you are far from one, "—your mental instability, or your repression. If you are insistent on spurning your suitors, then you’ll certainly blight our good name."
There’s a stiff silence that stretches between the two of you, and your uncle sits in the armchair pressed into a corner next to your bed. He unbuttons his tailcoat and sighs, leaning back, and your face pinches at the stretching of his white shirt over his belly. You fear his shirt will rip due to his portly stomach.
"Have we not been generous in receiving you? And pray, girl, have we not provided you with sustenance and a roof to shield you? Yet you do not profess a modicum of gratitude for what I have done for you, for the sake of your father."
With a low voice, you whisper, "I truly am sorry, uncle."
You aren’t.
Although you do sometimes feel at fault for how your mind works, you also understand that these suitors do not see the world through your eyes. Because of societal standards, they refuse to let you speak unless addressed, and once you’re allowed, they do not entertain your ideas. Your persistent questions. These modern gentlemen would rather whisk their way to another lady than heed your thoughts.
There’s a twinge of regret, though, in paying no mind to the prospect of marriage, but the gentlemen entering your court had also sought out your uncle’s fortune—or, perhaps, they thought he carried a fortune, as well as your dowry.
But your uncle’s wealth has run its course; it’s become as dry and brittle as the winter air outside, and your uncle is desperate to be rid of you and to reap the rewards for marrying you off at once. And for that, you do not feel sorry, despite what consequences you may face in the wake of this.
After some time, he sighs. “Tell me, girl, do you remember Mr. Pixis?”
You search your brain for the old man, and you nod when a fuzzy memory of your uncle’s acquaintance resurfaces. Or was he a friend? He was always courteous towards you, you recall. He’d sit by you during galas and poke his nose in your journal as you’d scribble, or entreat you to speak with his children, but you never did. You were always so afraid as a kid; withdrawn, sensitive to touch and light, prone to distraction. You were peculiar.
Then, a terrible thought enters you: Will he marry me to him?
Your uncle scoffs, as if he has read your mind. “He informed me of an earl by the name of Erwin Smith, who lives north of England in the moorlands. He, too, is beyond the age of marrying, but he possesses a fine state atop good land, and he is considerably fortunate in both vocation and wealth.”
You nod, wringing your hands together over and over. “I gather, then, that you wish for him to court me.”
“You’ll live with him.”
You nearly topple back from your desk chair. “With all due respect, uncle, were you not concerned over the tarnishing of our name just moments ago?”
His face twists into a scowl. “Mind your tongue, girl,” he snaps, and for a split second, you think he may stride towards you and yank you by your hair. But he doesn’t, and he takes a deep breath. “Hence the name, Mr. Pixis. I’ve selected him to serve as your chaperone, and he will live among you and Lord Smith to ensure a proper courtship.”
Your mind spins, your tongue feels like sand, your hands feel like they’ve been dunked in a steaming hot bath, and all you can do is shake your head in acknowledgement. “Very well. How… long is this engagement?”
“A year, or until there is a mutual agreement for marriage.”
“What if…” You lick your lips. “What if there is no agreement after a year?”
“Then I do not see any further use for having you remain under this household, attached to our name.”
Your head suddenly feels weightless, as though it would drift out into the draperies of snow at any moment. This sort of ultimatum isn’t beneath your uncle, but it ravages your heart whole—it is either marriage, or being cast aside in this world that is unfit for women. Or worse: both.
“Of course,” you say, fighting to keep the strength in your voice. “When do I leave?”
He stands up and rebuttons his tailcoat over his swollen stomach. “Overmorrow. A carriage will be here along with Mr. Pixis. Be awake and ready before dawn.”
Your uncle leaves your room, bidding you no goodnight, no happy Christmastide, and no well wishes. All inspiration for your stories disappears, and you leave your notebook to fester in your davenport. You sit alone in your shoebox room, listening to the roaring of festivities in the parlor above.
You are a discord in their home, a pest, an unwelcome guest. Alarmed, you wonder if you may end up in the clutches of yet another cruel man, one much worse than your covetous uncle.
The carriage ride to Lord Smith’s estate, Rosewall Abbey, is expected to take a little more than two weeks from London.
When you step outside your soon-to-be former home, you’re met with Dot Pixis. He is a lot older than you remember, though it has been nearly a decade since you last had the pleasure of beholding him.
His breath smells like brandy when he leans in to press a kiss against your cheek in greeting. You fear that, if you take his hand to help you into the carriage, you will break it for how thin he has become. But you do anyway, and the skin on the back of his palm feels cold and rough, like the leatherbound covers of your journals.
There is, however, kindness in his eyes; a kindness that you crave after living in a home with a merciless disposition.
“My, my, have you grown,” he says warmly as he settles in the carriage. “I trust you’ve been in good health, my lady?”
“I have been, thank you, Mr. Pixis,” you smile at him. “And you look well yourself.”
“Ay, I have this to thank for,” he says, rummaging through his coat pocket for a flask, and raises it in a gesture. This is something you smile at.
It’s then that you notice how thin his coat is, and the tips of his fingers bleed into a lovely shade of purple.
“Mr. Pixis,” your mouth falls open. “Gracious, you’re shaking. Here, take my gloves—they are far too big for me.”
You pull them off, ignoring the way he shakes his feeble head, and you offer them to him.
“Your goodwill is becoming, but you mustn’t forget I served my time in the war. I’m quite accustomed to it.”
His bluntness takes you aback—it isn’t often that men speak of war and battles among women, and you take this opportunity to learn.
“It must have been freezing.”
“To put it kindly, yes.”
“How long were you in America, sir?”
“For over three years. It’s how I met Earl Smith, you see.”
The carriage rattles, the horses trudge their way through a path ahead that had been cleared from snow, and you blink a few times at his admission. Your heart thunders at this.
“His Lordship served in the war?”
Mr. Pixis takes a sip of the contents in his flask. “It’s not my business to tell much, but I imagine you know little of Earl Smith.”
“My uncle…” You cross and recross your legs as much as one can in a tight carriage. “He said nothing about Earl Smith, other than he is unwed and is blessed with fruitful land.”
He makes an indignant noise. “Forgive my candor, but your uncle is the least principled man I have ever known.”
You find yourself smiling again, and slowly, you slip your mittens back on. “No forgiveness necessary, Mr. Pixis. Although I must ask, why did you agree to this request?”
His head is thrown back to take another mouthful of drink. “Earl Smith is one of the best men I’ve known.” He stops, and something suffuses in his molten eyes. Curiosity. “Tell me, are you troubled about leaving your family?”
“I…” You think momentarily about your aunt’s painful strikes upon your cheek, your uncle’s harsh words, and your cousins. A shiver cycles down your spine and you shake your head. “I fear I’m more troubled by this cold than leaving my home.”
This makes him laugh, open and free, and the sound is so loud that you wonder if it contributes to the vibration of the carriage walls.
“That is not an unnatural surmise,” he says. “Out of his own children, you, my lady, were always the clever one, and you are his niece. Perhaps that is why he condemned you so.”
This sort of goodness is foreign to you, and you’re not quite sure what to make of it. You chew on the insides of your cheek in thought.
“Can… you tell me more about Earl Smith?”
“And what might you like to know?”
You didn’t think you would have had him open to you so easily about Earl Smith. You rack your brain, trawl through endless questions that could be deemed inappropriate.
Eventually, you settle for a safe option. “What does he govern?”
“Seven properties; one along the beach in the northeast, two vineyards, a summer manor, and three farmlands.”
“That is…” Your throat is tight. “That is quite a lot.”
“Ay, he has nothing but time on his… hand.”
You don’t catch that. Instead, you pose another question. “My uncle said he is unwed. Is he a widower?”
“No, not a widower, but he has his reasons to lack matrimony. Regrettably, that is a tale I’m unable to recount.”
You make a thoughtful noise beneath your breath. “And how old is he?”
“He’s nearing his thirty-seventh year.”
Good, you tell yourself, relieved that he is not as old as the man before you.
“Is he…” You swallow. “Is he of short temper, Mr. Pixis?”
The older man’s eyes soften at your question. “He is a man of war, my dear girl. He is brutalized from battle, and more often than not, he is restless and curt,” he begins and takes a breath for measure, though he notices how your shoulders tense. “But he will never raise a hand at a lady, so there is no need to fret.”
Your relief must be palpable, and in that moment, you find solace in being spared from assault. You have no further questions for him.
Days trundle into each other as you travel to Northern England, and as your anxiety lessens, the snow, unfortunately, does not. On many occasions, the carriage had stopped upon a road dense with snow, unfit to ride through, and Mr. Pixis would advise staying at an inn nearby until the roads had cleared.
Two weeks quickly lengthen to three, but you spend that time getting to know Mr. Pixis better. It is indeed uncommon for a male to chaperone an eligible lady—your entire situation is, to put plainly, not common, but you don’t think you can imagine someone else by your side.
One evening at an inn, you learn that Mr. Pixis is widowed. He has daughters—four of them, to be precise. Rather than announcing himself cursed with them all, he says to you that night, before bidding you to bed: “It is a beautiful thing, my lady, to have girls. Never have I known such delight.”
Your heart soars at this. “Does the lack of an heir not distress you?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Because they are my heirs. I have made sure of so, and I pay no heed to gossip. And who else is to handle my estate affairs? I am too old, too decrepit.”
“Are they married, sir?”
“Ay, two of them are,” he smiles, and the skin around his eyes folds over each other. “And two are not. They are stubborn and wild, yet I have never been happier. I raised them, after all.” Mr. Pixis pauses at that second, peers directly into your eyes, and suddenly, in a blink, he appears wistful. “I see the same in you, my lady. I saw it when you were a girl, and I see it now as a woman.”
Your eyes fix on him. Then, you begin to understand.
“Is that another reason why you agreed to chaperone me, Mr. Pixis?”
“Always full of questions, aren’t you, my lady?”
“It is why I am yet to be married,” you whisper. “‘A lady’s tongue, although sweet, must be held in the presence of a gentleman.’ I have been told this, and my questions can be… unbefitting.”
“Pay no mind, for men are vain and lackwit. Besides, I find questions to be much more interesting than one’s replies.”
Your brows furrow. “How so?”
“Questions speak greater truth, and answers are only what you want to hear.”
“And is that what you’ve done, sir?” You ask. “Have you answered what I wanted to hear?”
“I am not vain, nor a lackwit, my lady,” he grins, “but you are smart to doubt me. It will serve you well. Now, I must seek rest, and I urge you to do the same.”
Earl Smith’s estate is, for the lack of a better word, grandiose.
Rosewall Abbey is massive, nearly formidable, with an iron gate and fence surrounding the yard. Dead shrubs dot alongside the fence, and a dry, silent fountain, frozen with great spades of ice, stands in the center of the entrance garden. If it were not winter, you might think it is beautiful. And it still is, in its own way, but the stillness of it all chokes you.
A gentleman exits the manor and your breath hitches, but Mr. Pixis greets the man with monotonous simplicity, rather than eagerness. He’s the head butler, you’ve come to realize, and he gathers your belongings and hands them off to the butler behind him.
“Oh, it is a pleasure to have you. Truly, deeply,” the butler speaks with such fervor as if he really is grateful that you and Mr. Pixis are there. He extends his hand to Mr. Pixis to shake, and then lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles. “I am Oluo Bozado, Lord Smith’s butler.”
“What a lovely name,” you smile. “Where are you from, Mr. Bozado?”
“Please, call me Oluo,” he says, waving his hand to gesture the two of you inside. “And where am I not from? France, German Confederation, Italy. I am a man of many cultures, many languages.”
You’re greeted with warmth when you enter the estate. There is strong stone flooring beneath your boots, and towering marble columns that stretch so high that they make you dizzy just by looking at them. The walls are a muted, dove gray with ornate designs etched into them, and along with them are gold-framed Baroque paintings.
“It’s wonderful to be here, Oluo,” says Mr. Pixis. “Has Lord Smith roused from his sleep? It is quite early.”
“Ja, he is awake. He has been since the wee hours of the night.”
“Petrified, eh?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Pixis, he has been eager to meet my lady,” the man glances at you, and you ponder, for a fleeting lapse of time, on Mr. Pixis’ words that one evening. Questions speak greater truth, and answers are only what you want to hear.
“We shall settle in our respective rooms, then,” Mr. Pixis says and looks down towards you. “My lady here must be exhausted, and I’m sure Lord Smith would want us to have a proper rest before our introduction.”
“Right, yes,” Oluo is eager to show you your rooms. Up the corkscrew staircase—the thump, thump, thump of footsteps echoing throughout the manor—and at the end of it, a hallway with numerous doors is exposed. The first one to your right is Mr. Pixis’ room, where he quickly retreats inside for a few hours, and further down the hall is your own room.
“His Lordship wished to provide you as much privacy as you possibly want, my lady,” Oluo says. “If it’s not to your liking, he requests that you let me know to make proper arrangements.”
You open the door to look inside, and for a few seconds, you do not know how to breathe.
The room is much larger than your childhood room at your uncle’s estate. A bed wide enough to fit an enormous family is pressed against the back wall. Plush carpet swallows your tentative footsteps as you walk inside. You see a grandfather clock swinging its heavy pendulum.
A desk, sturdier than the davenport you had, sits against a corner, and four oak bookcases—two on each side—stand tall like the foyer columns. To your right is a private washroom all to yourself. You find a closet, a chest of drawers, and a vanity all clustered towards the front corner of your bedroom.
Your belongings have already been brought up by the butler, and your briefcase lies flat on the edge of the bed. You run your fingers over the silk, ivory covers, and Oluo clears his throat behind you.
“My lady?” He asks gently. “Are you quite alright?”
“Y-Yes,” you say, a little too quickly. Your voice is weak, but you repeat it properly this time. “Yes. This is perfect, Oluo.”
“Lord Smith says that, should you want any modifications done, any at all—the wallpaper, the carpet—”
“There is no need for changes, Oluo,” you shake your head. “This is lovely. This far exceeds what my heart could have imagined. You may relay that to Lord Smith, and I shall also tell him when I see him.”
“I’ll see myself out, then,” he nods his head. “Gunther is another one of our butlers, and you’ll be assigned a handmaid later this evening. Should you need anything from any of us, you may pull this,” his head inclines towards the string that hangs by the doorway. “It will ring a bell and a servant will come.”
“Thank you, Oluo. Truly.”
He smiles and shuts the door as he leaves.
It’s strange, you think to yourself, as you are surrounded by luxury. As a housemaid yourself under your uncle’s estate—the strangest predicament you had found yourself in, given the education you were provided—you know the work of servants and appreciate them so. You hope that Earl Smith treats his servants well.
Rest doesn’t find you easily. In fact, it doesn’t find you at all. Your fingers itch to rummage through your trunk, pull out your journal, and write, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. Instead, you listen to the clock’s long pointed arms tick. You jump at walls creaking as they settle. Pearly rays of light angle through the window and warm your face. You pay attention to these things, you listen, and you tell yourself: I am safe. I will be safe.
You’re not quite sure how much time passes, but outside your room, you hear a light sort of breathing. You see a shadow under the crack of the door—two feet, you presume, shifting back and forth. You wonder if it might be a servant, nervous about visiting a new and abrupt guest in the household. Or if it’s Mr. Pixis after having too much to drink and he cannot keep himself upright (which happens often, you’ve come to realize).
Curious, you approach your door and twist the gilded handle. But it is not a servant before you, nor is it an intoxicated Mr. Pixis.
A little blond boy, no taller than your hips, blinks at you with wide, clear eyes. A book is clutched in his arms and pressed against his narrow chest.
“Ah!” You startle as your eyes dart down the hallway, searching for a guardian or governess who might have followed the child, but to no avail. You certainly did not expect to be met with a little boy in this hollow manor, nor were you told there was one that resided here, but no matter. You then meet the boy’s gaze. “A good morrow to you, sir.”
“Good…” The boy looks to be possessed with fright. His stutter plagues him. “Good m-morrow, my lady…”
“What’s your name, little one?”
He doesn’t respond. You notice the tremble of his hands, the quiver of his lower lip. You ask yourself: Do I terrify this poor boy?
You read the title of his book, and you try to offer him a smile to ease his fear. “Gulliver’s Travels. I adore that novel. Have you finished it?”
You lower yourself to match his height, but the little lad can barely keep his eyes on yours. He looks everywhere but towards you, though he does nod his head yes at your question.
“What is it that you like about it?”
There’s something that rises in his eyes. “Th-The ocean.”
“Oh! I hear the ocean is lovely. Have you been, sir?”
His blond hair swishes when he shakes his head no.
“I’ve read somewhere that if you find a special sort of shell on the beach, and you press your ear upon it, you can hear the ocean.”
His fine lashes flutter against the thin skin beneath his eyes. “Really?”
“I have no reason to doubt the texts. I’ve yet to visit the ocean myself, though, but I hear it is a marvel to behold.”
The boy opens his mouth to say something, but a deep, baritone voice calls out: “Armin!” from the bottom of the corkscrew case, over the loft, and you jump at the sudden unfamiliarity of it.
Armin, you’ve learned his name, says nothing else to you. He turns to scurry down the hall, clinging to the iron rails of the corkscrew stairs, his little feet echoing through the corridor—thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump—and you follow to look from over the rails.
Down below at the foyer, you see a man you’ve yet to meet. Tall, with his golden hair kept neat and short. He wears a brown waistcoat and a white cravat puffed beneath the neckline. When Armin whispers something to him that you can’t quite discern, the man raises his head up to see you peering down.
And when the man turns, you notice his missing arm.
Is this him? Is this the earl of this estate?
“M-My apologies, sir,” you manage to croak out. “I was not aware that—”
“Come downstairs.”
A terrible chill overtakes you at his tone. You think: Was Mr. Pixis in error? Is this man to be as unjust as my uncle?
You reach the bottom of the staircase and your hands are sweltering now. Your feet, while snug within your boots, are as cold as the snow outside. As if time has slowed, you approach him and crane your head up to meet his eyes. Icicles. That is what enters your mind first.
Slowly, you lift the skirts of your wool dress and dip your knees in a curtsy.
“Might you permit me the pleasure of your name, maid, or is a proper introduction beneath you?”
His tone lowers, yet his expression remains as rigid as stone, and his thinly veiled condescension does not stride over your head. You feel as though your gut has been removed from its cavern and thrusted about, before being placed right back where it belongs.
You tell him your name, and a flicker of recognition passes through his eyes. But it disappears as quickly as it arrives, and you know that Earl Smith had forgotten the intention of your temporary residence.
“Ah,” he whispers. “My apologies, my lady.”
He doesn’t appear to be apologetic, and abashedly, you look down at your frock and the plainness of it. I suppose I am dressed as one, you tell yourself. Besides, you have nothing of regality to wear.
“No need for apologies, Lord Smith,” you say with caution. “Assuming, of course, that I am addressing the Lord Smith.”
With surprising tenderness, comparative to his harsh tone, he takes your hand and presses a chaste kiss to the back of it. He does not tear his gaze away from you, and your back stiffens at the intensity of his glare. You find him handsome, yet the bite of his words encroaches on you.
“I welcome you to Rosewall Abbey,” he says, releasing your hand. “I trust that your accommodations will prove to be reasonable.”
“It has been most comfortable, yes,” you try to smile, to offer a semblance of comfort, but Lord Smith remains resolute. You shift your attention to the little boy. “And I hear your name is Armin—”
“Lord Armin,” Earl Smith corrects you sharply. “You’ll do well to refer to my son as such.”
Son.
Doubt rises like bile, and your thoughts are overwhelming. Mr. Pixis must have lied, now. Or has this information simply fled from his brain?
“My apologies again, Lord Smith.” Your hand rests on your chest, over your heart, and you dip your head. “I was not aware of your parentage.”
“Has that gambling fool of your uncle told you nothing?”
Your uncle’s folly has spread far and wide, you think. Shame flushes through you. “Regrettably so. It was Mr. Pixis who was acquainted with you, and he educated me on your affairs.”
He makes a noise under his breath. “And where is that old codger?”
“I presume he is asleep in his quarters, sir.”
He rakes his eyes over you one more time before he looks down at his son. “Go to your study, boy. You’ll be summoned for luncheon.”
“Yes, papa,” Armin’s small voice responds, and the boy raises his head to look at you with his water-eyes, his nose high in the air. “I-It’s—it’s l-l-l—” He pauses, frustrated over his stammer, but you are patient, very much so. He finishes off by quickly stammering out, “Lovely to m-m-mmme-e-et you, my lady.”
“And it’s been lovely to meet you, too, Lord Armin,” you say in return, and the boy scampers up the staircase.
A patch of quiet threads between the two of you, and the tension is suffocating. You wait—oh, how patiently you do wait, though you are unsure for what. Are you waiting for Mr. Pixis to stir from his drunken slumber? Are you waiting for Earl Smith to cast you aside?
Hundreds of heartbeats pass when Earl Smith finally releases a sigh. Suddenly, you feel silly—an embarrassing, unfortunate feeling that has passed through you—and he turns so that his broad back faces you.
“Follow me to my study, my lady,” he says. An order. “We have much to discuss.”