Page 13 of The Dravenhearst Brides
She tried again. “It’s a beautiful arrangement. And I noticed, er, a sprig of myrtle tucked within.” It was a nice touch, thoughtful. Myrtle wasreputed to herald good luck in love and marriage. She wanted him to know the gesture wasn’t lost on her.
“That was Evangeline, our groundskeeper. She made the bouquet.”
“Oh. I see.” Margaret was struck silent yet again, stymied by his curtness.
As they cleared the final pair of magnolias, the manor rose before them. Brownstone in style, akin to the Louisville townhouse but far grander in scale. Easily thrice as big. The length of the exterior glowed with warmth in the late afternoon sun. The brick was crumbling and soot-stained in places, but in a rather well-loved way. A way that implied the place had stood through a fair breadth of history and held stories worth knowing.
Flanking the western front was a magnificent square turret and to the east, a rounded rooftop cupola, complete with a beautifully carved oriel window. A front portico stood central with a Tudor arch and a stained-glass window above the front door, a balustraded balcony overtop. Rectangular mullioned windows, several open to air, were spaced with perfect symmetry along the manor’s length.
“Golly,” Margaret murmured, slightly slack-jawed. “It’s…it’s beautiful…splendid, even. You didn’t say—”
Dravenhearst snorted softly beside her. “Yes, if you enjoy splintered wood that warps in midsummer humidity and crumbling brick that lends to drafty winters, thensplendidis precisely the word I’d choose. Not to mention the dust of centuries preserved carefully within.”
“Surely—”
“I’ll introduce you to the staff.” He swung open his door, cutting Margaret off. “You’ll be something of a novelty, no doubt. They, er, were hardly expecting me to return from the city with a bride.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stole a glance at her. His gaze swept over her wedding gown, lingering ever so slightly on the generous swell of her chest, ineffectively restrained by scraps of bridal lace.
Embarrassed, Margaret looked away, peering at the small lineup clustered before the steps of the portico. One man, two women.
Her car door opened. The moment her feet touched estate ground, a tremor rocketed outward. She wobbled and gripped the automobile, smashing her bridal bouquet against the roadster.
“Gracious!”
“Are you well?” His eyebrows raised in alarm.
The marrow of Margaret’s bones quaked, then steadied, as did the ground underfoot. She watched the soft vibration sweep away, rippling outward through the grass. It was subtle, so subtle she might have imagined it. Neither her husband nor the staff seemed to notice anything amiss. Overhead, a curtain on the second floor twitched, as though dropped from a parting hand. Margaret squinted but saw no one within.
“Forgive me, I’m merely stiff after the drive,” she answered. She fell into step as her husband began to move.
“Down this southern hill to our right, you’ll see the distillery rickhouses.” Dravenhearst gestured to a group of brick buildings. “We have six, but one is sealed up, unusable. I’ll ask you not to go wandering there, consider the rickhouses off-limits. The rest of the property, however, is at your disposal. Down the eastern slope, just there, you’ll find the paddock and stables. I ride every morning. Do you?”
Margaret’s mouth ran dry as her gaze rolled down the hill. Several horses grazed in the distance, their tails flicking sporadically. Unsettlingly.
“Er…what?” She turned a pair of wide doe eyes to Dravenhearst.
“Do you ride?” he repeated, slowly this time.
With every passing second she stared, mouth gaping, Dravenhearst’s eyebrows rose closer to his hairline. He must think her mad. Or at best, a simpleton.
Say something, you ninny. Anything.
“No,” she finally managed. There was a story, but it died on her lips. She felt no closeness, no warmth for this man, nothing to encourage her trust.
“Pity.” Disappointment followed by dismissal flickered through his eyes.
I did,a small voice inside screamed.I did ride.I can. Quite well. Once…
“Margot, catch me!”
She swayed on the spot and whipped her head to the right. She was used to the ghostly voice in her mind, but she’d heard it aloud this time, clear as day. Hoofbeats too, fast approaching.
“What’s wrong?” Dravenhearst turned to her, worry brewing in his amber eyes. Just over his shoulder, cresting the gentle hilltop, a horse appeared. First a pair of pointed ears, then beady eyes, a nickering snout, gleaming chestnut body. Strong, powerful.
Deadly.
“H-h-horse.” She pointed.
“Oh.” He turned, the worry in his expression transforming into a crinkled smile. “That’s Omaha, our Derby prospect for next spring. He’s magnificent, no?”
