"Well, you know the rumors.
Perhaps nothing will happen. If he does not come to your room, you mustn't feel slighted. It is a blessing, really. Men are beasts. If he leaves you be, simply go to sleep.
Clara looked at her mother's tired, lined face. I know, Mother. I do not expect anything. The ceremony passed in a blur of archaic Latin and echoing footsteps. Theodore stood beside her, a pillar of dark broadcloth.
He smelled faintly of brandy. Nervousness? Clara wondered. Or liquid courage to get through the binding of his life to a woman? When he took her hand to slide the heavy gold band onto her finger, his skin was ice cold.
His grip was entirely firm, but he did not meet her eyes. "I, Theodore, take thee, Clara." His voice was steady, a contract being read, a deal being struck. They left the church and immediately boarded the heavy traveling carriage adorned with the Windermere crest. They were bound for Ironwood Hall, his ancestral seat in Yorkshire.
It would be a brutal four-day journey. The carriage door slammed shut. The horses lurched forward. Silence descended. Clara looked out the window as the cobblestones of London gave way to the muddy, rutted roads of the countryside.
Rain began to spit against the glass, blurring the world outside into smears of gray and green. Hours passed. The silence in the carriage was thick, almost suffocating. Clara kept her hands folded in her lap, watching the raindrops race down the pane. "You are shivering."
Theodore's voice broke the quiet like a gunshot. Clara started, turning to look at him. He was sitting in the opposite corner, a heavy wool blanket draped over his knees. "It is just the damp," Clara said. He didn't argue.
He simply picked up the edge of his blanket and held it out toward her. Clara hesitated. Sharing a blanket felt entirely too intimate for two people who had essentially purchased each other. But the cold was seeping into her bones. She slid across the leather bench, keeping a foot of space between them, and tucked the heavy wool over her legs.
"Thank you." She murmured. "Ironwood is drafty." Theodore said, staring at the brass handle of the carriage door. It was built for defense, not comfort.
The walls are thick. The fires never seem to heat the rooms fully. You will need warmer clothes than those London silks. "I am adaptable, your grace." "Theodore."
He corrected softly. "If we are to live in the same house for the rest of our lives, you should probably use my name." "Theodore." She tested it. It felt heavy on her tongue.
"Then you must call me Clara." He nodded once. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the squabs. "The estate is isolated, Clara. There are no neighbors for 10 miles."
"The servants are quiet. It is a lonely place." "I am used to being alone." Clara said. He opened one eye, looking at her in the dim light of the carriage."
"Being lonely in a crowded room in London is different from being lonely in a stone fortress in the middle of the moors. I will not keep you prisoner. If you wish to return to town for the season, you may. I will fund it." Clara looked down at her hands.
He was offering her an escape, a way out of his life. It was a generous, decent thing to do. So why did it make her chest feel tight? "I have no desire to return to London." She said truthfully.
"I'm quite finished with society." Theodore let out a slow breath. Good. Because society is a disease. They did not speak again for the rest of the day.
They arrived at Ironwood Hall 3 days later. Just as the sun was setting behind the jagged peaks of the moors. The house was monstrous. Dark, brooding stone rising up from the earth like a natural cliff face. Tall, narrow windows stared out over the desolate landscape like empty eyes.
It was intimidating. It was terrifying. Clara thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The staff was lined up in the massive entrance hall. They were exactly as Theodore had described.
Quiet, older, and fiercely loyal. They looked at Clara not with the disdain she expected, but with a cautious, hopeful curiosity. Show the Duchess to her rooms, Theodore instructed a stern-faced housekeeper named Mrs. Gable. Have a hot bath drawn.
She is exhausted.
He didn't look at Clara. I will be in my study. Good night, Clara. Good night, Theodore. Clara followed the housekeeper up the grand sweeping staircase.
Her rooms were vast, decorated in rich burgundies and heavy oak. A fire was already roaring in the hearth, chasing away the worst of the chill. A maid unlaced her travel gown, finally freeing Clara's ribs. She bathed in hot water scented with lavender, her mind entirely blank. The exhaustion of the journey and the monumental shift in her life were finally catching up to her.