His agitation disturbed her—what could be so horrible about a neglected home? It couldn’t be so bad, or else he couldn’t live there. But if there was something she needed to know, something that threatened the happiness or safety of their marriage …
Well, isn’t that what you get for agreeing to marry a man you’ve known for a week?
She looked out the window at Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, the former having taken up a small drum, his cheeks high with color. They were happy for her. They trusted Augustine, approved of the match. They trusted her judgment.
“Are you all right?”
Jane turned back to Augustine in confusion. He was watching her closely now. “What?”
“You’ve gone a bit pale. Are you feeling nauseated? Carriage travel can—”
“I’ve ridden in carriages before, Augustine,” she said, smiling despite herself. “I’m fine. But thank you for your concern.”
He nodded, adjusted his high collar. He certainly still looked distracted, but his impulse to check on her health had broken through it.
She took the opportunity. “Your cook. What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Luthbright,” he said. “And the maid’s name is Mrs. Purl. They both live on farms that pay rent to my family, and come in every day.”
“But they don’t stay at the house at night, either?”
“No,” he said. “They have families to return to, and I hardly need their help to sleep.” He offered a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, this must be making you nervous. It really is just that the place is in a bit of disrepair, and I only stay there out of duty, not enjoyment. You’ll be much happier in town, I promise. And I am loath to have our … our entourage see it, as well.”
Oh, Augustine. She could sympathize with his embarrassment all too well. “I didn’t know that they would do this. But you are much loved, even after only these past few months. Perhaps we should have realized.”
The carriage drew to a halt again, and when she leaned over to look out the window, the mass of what had to be Lindridge Hall towered over her. It was made of green-gray stone and rose three stories, with an imposing entryway flanked by thick columns. It was the largest house Jane had ever seen, and was ornamented with intricately carved flanges demarcating seemingly random sections of stone. Many of the windows were shuttered, and the few that weren’t had thick, waving glass panes, several dirty and fogged over.
The crowd around the carriage stilled and grew quieter. They, too, were fixed on the edifice and its front garden, dead and withered despite the good summer they’d had.
“Is this it?”
“It is,” he said. He opened the carriage door and stepped out. The cry of celebration from their well-wishers was strained and weak. She waited for him to hand her down, but his attention was fixed on their audience. He had not touched her since they had exchanged rings at the ceremony, she realized with a selfish pang—but why should he have? To reassure her?
She pasted on a smile, following him out onto the dirt path that led to the front door, clasping hands with Mrs. Cunningham, with Ekaterina, with Mr. Lowell. Everybody wanted to touch her shoulder and give her advice, but they were also all distracted. The mood had soured.
The grounds around them were overgrown, the lawn covered in weeds and shrubs, the grass endlessly encroaching at the edges of the road. The shadow cast by the house felt like a solid thing, and the wedding party began to withdraw, waving, smiling, but pulling inexorably away. She should have felt relief. Instead, she felt … alone.
Mrs. Cunningham was the last to turn away and looked the least unsettled. She came to Jane one last time and kissed her cheek. “May you be happy, my dear,” she said, squeezing Jane’s hands in hers. “The house will be quieter without you.”
And then she, too, joined the procession back down the hill.
The music resumed when they reached the main road again.
Behind her, she could hear Augustine talking quietly with the carriage driver, arranging for him to remain so that he could take her back to town. Relief flooded her, followed swiftly by guilt.
Their agreement had said nothing about accepting and loving every part of each other—far from it—but she couldn’t sort out what she intended to do anymore. His gentle care and honesty had undone her, and this house threatened to scatter the pieces.
Augustine came to stand beside her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you to see this.”
“It’s not so bad,” she assured him, making herself turn to look at the house again. This time, she mastered her expression first, then took a more measured inventory. Lindridge Hall had a pitched roof, with peaked dormers studding its lower edge and short towers capping the corners. This close, and without the waiting crowd, Jane fancied she could see mathematical proportions in the windows and decorations. At the far end of the west wing of the house, the top floor was crowned with steel and murky glass.