Chapter Text
House Blackthorn’s youngest approached Riversong Manor with no small amount of trepidation. He had attempted to muster the courage to calm the trembling in his gloved hand as the carriage had wound through the wilds of the manor’s surrounds, attempting to draw on the supposed Blackthorn confidence his father had always preached, but the silence of the long ride had been suffocating. In the two hours the carriage had journeyed, the driver had only uttered the single, dry, “Sir.” The young scion wasn’t sure whether the tension, or the sickly smell of wood polish failing to hide long-flecked gold paint, would drive him mad first.
Edmund’s first hesitant step onto the gravel was met with pause, caught off guard as he took in the grounds. During the ride, and the week-long preparation for his stay at the rumored estate, he had conjured scenes of some decrepit, sinister place—of drafty halls, shadowed windows, and neglected grounds—but the manor glimmered in the early evening sunset with a composure he’d sooner have associated with his childhood stays at the spring courts of provincial countesses. More so than the lush sight, what had surprised him first was the crisp draw of breath he took parting the cramped transport. The air tasted like river water and petrichor, carrying the sweet scent of sugar maple and honeysuckles, a refreshing contrast to the sickly perfumed fetor of the carriage’s stuffy interior. It wasn’t until he had swallowed several long breaths of it, enough to fill the hollows of his lungs, that he realized just how much he had missed the countryside air since moving to the capital. Invigorated by the reprieve the air had granted, he took in the sounds of the place: the soft crunching of gravel giving way underfoot; the faraway rush of the river’s stream; and gentle rustle of the pampered foliage that surrounded him.
For one slip of a moment, he found himself almost content. Surveying the expanse of prim greenery, losing himself in the sway of the junipers and daffodils that lined the flower garden, he could almost indulge the fantasy that this was some familial retreat: a well-deserved break from courtly politicking, and not the thinly-veiled exile that it was. One last ditch effort before he, too, would be grouped with his brothers as a failure to his name.
His father would surely think someone so easily swayed by splendor would be more suited to be some trespassing schoolboy, not a noble scion. With the thought, Edmund’s briefly relaxed shoulders snapped back into learned alignment, and he schooled his features into some passable resemblance of regality. The fear he had shaken ever so briefly bit ever-deeper into his core. He reminded himself of his station and his intention, a reflexive scolding in a voice that hardly felt his own, and repeated the objectives that had been outlined to him in the letter he’d received bearing the Blackthorn crest: to ingratiate; to observe; to impress; and, above all, to seize opportunity where other, weaker men, might see only threat. Plucking his satchel from the carriage floor, he advanced with measured, court-practiced steps, boots treading in a slow, deliberate rhythm towards the tall oak doors of the building that silhouetted him.
On closer approach, Edmund noticed that the doors were freshly oiled, their ornate iron handles glistening in the lemon hues of the approaching dusk. Not a stain marred their golden lacquer. Edmund resisted the growing urge to check his reflection in the glassy push plate. If he faltered now, he sensed that all the self-confidence he’d managed to summon in his brisk walk along the path would leave in an instant. He forced upwards the hand that bore the signet of his family’s crest—a rose with a crooked stem—before he could lose himself further to that train of thought. His knuckles rapped once, then again, the second too quick and sharp, betraying the urgency to get this part over with before his nerves caught up to him. He counted to three. Four. Five. Silence pressed up against him, suffocating: a hush so profound he suspected, for a moment, that he’d misunderstood the instructions — had they not been expecting him? Had he arrived too late, or perhaps too early? Had they anticipated him slinking back home before the first supper, shamed and homesick? Had his reputation truly preceded him so?
The distant echo of footsteps from within, finally punctuated by the serpentine click of the door unlatching pulled him out of the spiraling insecurities he had been caught within the vortex of. Opening with a feathery hush that proudly spoke to its careful maintenance, warm light from inside spilled out of the door to reveal a luminous smile so disarming that Edmund took a half-step backwards, before registering the absurdity of retreat. The girl who greeted him seemed not much older than himself. Her nose was small and upturned, her rosy cheeks dusted with freckles that made her skin glow with a kind of persistent summer, and ribbons of deep navy and gold elegantly corralled strands of hair, the shade of freshly-spun honey, into an intricate arrangement. The meticulous assembly of plaits and curls evoked the image of a blooming flower, its petals unfurling in a graceful display, the cascade of loops and spirals dancing in the girl's movement, capturing the light.
It was her uniform that convinced the stunned nobleman that this was, in fact, not the princess he had been sent here to win over. Her posture at a perfect parade rest, Edmund eyed the matte wool blacks that underlaid a starched white apron, before trailing down to the frilled skirt that was cut scandalously short of what his mother would have approved, revealing a glimpse of white stockings beyond the fabric’s sway. He jerked his gaze upward, heart hammering, certain he’d committed some terrible breach of etiquette simply by looking; leering at the staff was hardly the first impression he wanted to make. In some small relief, the maid before him seemed not to have noticed—or to have politely ignored—where his eyes had momentarily lingered, though he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that the uniform’s design was entirely intentional. Instead, she wore the beaming guilelessness of someone genuinely delighted at the prospect of his arrival.
“Greetings and welcome to Riversong Manor. You must be Lord Blackthorn, correct?” she asked, voice bright as a bell.
He affirmed with an astonished nod, then mumbled with much less assuredness than he’d expected, “Edmund is fine.”
“Good! We’ve been expecting you.”
The maid drew the door wide and, with a curtsy that seemed intended less for decorum and more for the display of her considerable practice at it, beckoned him inside. As he entered, he turned away from the girl—Rosie, she’d introduced herself before he’d even gotten both shoes over the threshold—to hide the flush in his cheeks. Ostensibly, he was taking in the grand vestibule that stood before him: all warm lantern light reflected in the perfect polish of checkerboard limestone tile, the sudden comforting rush of heat banishing the last of the carriage’s chill from his bones. It was, again, not what he had expected of the home of the eccentric and reclusive noblewoman he had heard so much about.
Behind him, the door was guided carefully closed with a muted thud. Humming as she finished securing the polished brass latch, Rosie turned her attention to her guest.
“If I may?” She motioned for the worn leather satchel Edmund had been carrying, as well as the heavy navy coat he’d taken off now that he had warmed.
“Oh— No, I’m fine carrying them myself.” He stammered, adjusting his grip on the handle and straightening his back. He didn’t want to seem weak or pampered in front of the girl, even though she was only a servant. When he saw the maid’s beaming expression falter, he cursed his own impoliteness, and quickly amended, “Thank you, though. I appreciate the hospitality, but I daren’t impose.”
Proud of his quick wit and deft save, he allowed himself the smallest exhale—a breath that caught immediately as Rosie’s smile dimmed a fraction further, the sun tucking away behind passing clouds. She regarded him with a look approaching disappointment, then let her arms drift mechanically to her sides, finger pads grazing the hem of her skirt, making small curling motions in the cloth. The deflation, so obvious that it didn’t befit the etiquette of the noble circles Edmund had grown so accustomed to in his time at the capital, held an irrational power to unbalance him in its direct sincerity.
“I… I suppose, if you’re sure,” she said quietly, her voice innocent and wounded. She glanced up from under the sway of delicate lashes, clutched her hands behind her back once more, and shifted on her heels. “Though, if it’s not improper to say, the Lady of the manor does encourage that our guests enjoy the full extent of our hospitality—and… I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to practice, if I dare impose.”
Detecting the small quiver in her voice, Edmund’s stomach turned on itself in his panic. He scrambled to form some sort of coherent, poised response, but the best he managed was a blurted, “I’m sorry, yes, of course. Ever so sorry,” before shoving his belongings at the girl in an impressively graceless capitulation.
He had made a fool of himself in front of plenty of women in his tenure at court, but it had never gleaned him any insight into the workings of their minds. He bit his cheek and forced open his eyes, expecting some rebuttal to his shameful display, only to discover that Rosie had reanimated, brighter than before. The pout she had worn had been replaced entirely; she wore the air of a girl freshly reminded of her duty, happily performing her purpose with a brisk efficiency. She unfurled the coat from his arm and whisked it onto a burnished hook, folding the awkwardness of the exchange into tidy pleats and stowing it away, too. The satchel was handled with an almost ceremonial gentleness, and she held it close to her chest like something precious, before bowing deeper than she had before—perhaps an exaggeration to let him know his apology was accepted and appreciated.
“There we are!” Her voice rang out, untroubled again, before assessing the person standing before her. She made a small, satisfied, approving noise accompanied by a quick nod and a pleasant, proud smile. “I have a feeling you’ll do well here, Lord Edmund.” Her eyebrows hopped upwards as she stressed the nobleman’s title, as if letting him in on some private joke, but before he could question it, she was already back to her duties. Pivoting on her heel, with a twirl of her skirt that Edmund begged his gaze not stare at too long, Rosie pointed towards the sun-dappled expanse he could only glimpse the marbled threshold of from this distance. “Tori— ahem— Lady Victoria will be receiving you in the drawing room, if you would proceed down the corridor.”
He followed the direction Rosie pointed, the corridor stretching ahead painted in fractal patterns of evening light cascading through high diamond-paned windows. Silence flooded in as soon as he was dismissed, and Rosie’s footfalls retreated the opposite way, leaving him oddly bereft: nagged by the lingering thought that he’d left some important item in the vestibule. He was, in theory, more comfortable alone, but found his mind unexpectedly occupied by the maid’s absence: the way her steps sounded against the marble; her careful, practiced gait; the polite choreography of her every movement. His own echoing pace seemed awkward by comparison, as if his legs had not quite been designed for these floors, these geometric corridors; the rules here had not yet been revealed to him, and every sound he made reminded him of it.
He stopped halfway down the hall and turned back, feeling the odd itch that he should have said more. Rosie was half-veiled by a wall sconce, head bowed in the act of carefully undoing the buttons on his coat, her tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth in concentration. He felt a twinge of guilt for making her uncomfortable, or perhaps it was envy for her place in the world—she had a role, one she was eager to perform, and so much in his own life seemed provisional by comparison.
“Rosie,” he called, the name and the volume catching him off guard. He was not accustomed to maids having names.
Her head snapped up with birdlike swiftness, eyes wide, almost embarrassed to still be observed.
He felt foolish, but pressed forward, “Thank you. For your help,” he mustered his gratitude into syllables, forcing the words past a tongue gone clumsy. “You’ve been most accommodating, and I—“ He stumbled, searching for a phrase that matched his sincerity, before blurting out, “I hope we see each other again soon.”
Even from down the hall, he could see that same dazzling smile that had greeted him at the entrance.
“As do I, Lord Edmund.”