Noble Lies

By Stephanie Andrassy

It is not much of a fairytale at all. By the time they meet, Jez is burdened by dark truths and fears for her family. Michael’s heart is already entangled in a forbidden love. The Church is watching - closely, and guarding more secrets than just arranged marriage details. For Jez and Michael, simply marrying their match becomes complicated...and deadly. Not everyone will live happily ever after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Andrassy
• Release date: Sep 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301372287

Stephanie Andrassy

Stephanie Andrassy is the coffeeholic author of Noble Lies, a fantasy romance, as well as the paranormal romance Home Series which begins with the free short story, The White Peacock. This four-book supernatural series includes: Just Live, Juliette! (Home Series #1), Rocks Don’t Cry (Home Series #2), Rhapsody in Red (Home Series #3), and Always and Evermore (Home Series #4) .She holds a B.A. from the University of Guelph and presently resides in southern Ontario, Canada with her family. An avid reader of romance, fantasy, drama, women's literature, suspense, and non-fiction; she’s been writing for her own personal pleasure since she was a child—a lifelong love affair with the written word.

Book preview

Chapter One

Newbury, July 14th

In the darkness of the early July morning, the young woman clung to her cape against the drizzling rain as her bare feet stumbled over the stony and slippery ground that led toward the barn. She was drunk with grief and her vision blurred by the heavy stream of tears that rolled down her face, intermingling with the cool, wet droplets of rain that soaked her skin.

The doctor’s cheerful announcement that night was the last bit of news her soul could absorb. If Michael had only said the right things to her; if he’d only understood how alone she’d felt in that moment and how betrayed she felt by his actions, then perhaps her grief wouldn’t feel as overwhelming as it did just then. Perhaps she’d harbor a small ounce of hope to see her through like she had over the last few weeks, but instead, they’d clashed in confrontation; she and the man she loved.

She’d put her trust in him and he had disappointed her. And even though she’d uttered those words to him; suggested to him that they end it, the reality was that in that moment, she had wanted him to fight to keep her and reject her idea and he hadn’t. He just walked away, and when he did, her heart exploded in her chest and her remaining strength crumbled. She felt terribly broken. The events over the last couple months had robbed her of her will to live. All hope was lost.

When she reached the barn, she struggled with the latch before successfully opening the door. Inside, while her eyes adjusted to the even greater darkness, she felt the warmth that filled the air off the bodies of the horses she knew occupied a line of stalls in front of her. She heard their heavy bodies shift in curiosity at the very early morning visitor, and inhaled the sweet smell of fresh horse manure. Ignoring their voices urging her to stop by their stalls with a fresh carrot or apple, she felt along the wall to the left of the door until her hands felt the roughness of the coiled rope. Lifting it off its hook, she made her way farther along the wall until she felt the ladder that led up toward the loft above. Placing her arm through the coil of rope, she reached up and gripped a rung; her arms pulling her upwards while her wet feet pushed her ahead.

When the old ranch hand stepped into the barn a couple hours later, he found the horses in an unsettled state. Their usual curious and friendly greetings had been replaced with apprehension. He considered that the pregnant mare had miscarried during the night and checked her stall for the source of their worry but found her to be fine. Perhaps they were concerned about another impending storm. While the early morning drizzle had taken a break, the sky was still rather dark and foreboding. He hoped it would blow over today since he needed to fix the fence in the north pasture before another cow wandered off as one did the day before. He didn’t relish undertaking that job in a downpour or thunderstorm.

Gently assuring the handful of beasts that all was fine, he set about his morning chores. He didn’t realize how wrong he was until several minutes later when he happened to glance up above the center aisle to the open trap door through which they threw down hay and straw. In the gray light of the loft above, he saw her lifeless feet and the bottom of her damp nightgown hanging in midair. A stallion reared in its stall in response to the sudden alarm sounding from the man’s throat as he called out for help from anyone who may hear.

Rose and Edward sat restlessly in the parlor. An earlier than expected breakfast had been prepared and was awaiting them in the dining room; however, they were exhausted, having not yet found their beds following the excitement of the night, and unable to think of eating in that moment. The last guests had left several hours earlier and it was then they’d learned their son had taken his horse and ridden off into the darkness of the night, likely in a state of despair shortly after hearing the doctor’s unexpected announcement. Their carefree and joyous celebratory mood was quickly replaced by concern and worry.

The night had been filled with dancing and laughter, sumptuous food, and generous glasses of punch and wine. They had been satisfied in the success of the evening as they’d waved to the last carriage leaving their drive. But like a sudden blast of cold, winter air, the atmosphere in the house had come to a sudden halt when they realized Michael had inexplicably left. Assuming he’d return shortly, they prepared to wait for him. Yet when daybreak arrived and he still hadn’t returned, they’d sent a few men out to search for him. He needed to be at home. They sat quietly in the parlor, restlessly awaiting news.

Several of the staff milled tiredly about in the background, snuffing candles now that the early morning sun had taken over lighting the rooms, and carrying trays of the last remaining dirty dishes from the rooms at the back of the house into the scullery. They avoided the parlor so as not to upset the silence that had settled there. They weren’t able to seek their own beds before their employers retired, and they also hoped for a bit of news before they did, feeling anxiety in the air and whispering to each other as they pieced together the cause for the alarm.

When the doctor arrived at the front door, Gerard let him in and announced his arrival; concern for the family evident in his voice. In seeing his somber appearance, Rose suspected the worst was true and collapsed in an exhausted heap of tears before fainting into unconsciousness.

Chapter Two

Easton, May 31st

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, Jez awoke early with mixed feelings of anticipation and dread. For the past year, she’d been counting the remaining days to this one partly because it signaled her introduction to womanhood and marriage; an event she’d been taught to celebrate having watched her elder sister mature, but also because with its arrival, she knew she’d soon leave her childhood home. She wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to her parents, her beloved brothers and sister-in-law, and the gardens she loved to wander.

She couldn’t sleep any longer, and although she hesitated to leave the warm and cozy comfort of her bed, she knew there was much to do today. An early start would leave her extra time for her own private birthday party this afternoon; a date with her favorite tree in her favorite spot in the garden in the meadow. She didn’t have much time left and wanted to spend as much of it as she could memorizing her favorites so she could lock the memories away in her heart.

It wasn’t that she’d never, ever return to her father’s estate. She knew she’d come for visits, but it wouldn’t be the same. It hadn’t entirely been the same since her sister, Katherine, married a year earlier. She still missed the comfort of her sister’s company while falling asleep in the large bed together. It was here, over the years, that they’d become the best of friends, sharing their dreams and their apprehensions, and teasing each other about who’d end up with the uglier husband.

Just because a man has wealth in his pockets doesn’t mean he was also granted wealth in good looks.

They had agreed given their experience with the men their father kept company with. Wealthy noble gentlemen were often plain or unpleasant in appearance.

Her sister’s husband was an exception, they were relieved to discover, except for his nose which you didn’t really notice when looking him straight on. It was rather shocking to discover the size of it when he turned his head sideways. Her sister had shared in confidence during one of her visits that it often got in the way while kissing. But his demeanor was very pleasant, and he loved his wife very much, which her sister had also shared more than made up for the size of his nose.

I wouldn’t care if Charles’ nose was ten times the size that it is. He’s a good man and he’s good to me and I love him. Katherine was very happy with the life she’d started and Jez hoped for the same luck. Well, perhaps not the nose, but a kind and decent and loving man.

Her brothers were certainly exceptions to the wealth and looks rule. All of her siblings were blessed with attractiveness. This was ‘quite a feat given the plainness of both her parents’ according to society gossip which she’d accidentally overheard on more than one occasion. Henry, who was eight years her senior, had married at twenty-one as promised. His wife Mary was quite pleased to discover just how handsome her husband was when she’d arrived. Mary was a plain woman; however, within that plainness was a sense of pretty. Perhaps it was her personality that outshone her face. She’d become a lovely addition to their home. Of course, it hadn’t started out that way.

Mary had been five years older than her when she married Henry. She and Katherine had only been young girls of thirteen and fourteen and they’d resented Mary’s arrival. Sticking close together in their tight sisterly bond to the express exclusion of this new woman in their home, Mary had desperately wanted to feel welcomed by her new sisters in this strange, new place.

Jez shuddered with regret at the thought. Even though they weren’t concerned about the intricacies of marriage and children at that time, she and Katherine had recognized their mother’s diverted attention toward her new daughter-in-law as she bestowed household responsibilities and powers upon her and trained her in matters of household management. To witness this stranger suggesting instructions to the staff within their home made them sad and uncomfortable, watching the dynamic of their family life change. They resented the fact that she had powers greater than their own in their own home. They were young and naïve and had acted childishly toward poor Mary. After all, it would be Mary who’d eventually take over as Lady of the family’s estate alongside Henry as the eldest son.

Henry had scolded them often about their behavior, usually after consoling a tearful Mary, as had their mother. But when they were alone, they quietly and secretly shared their feelings of dislike for Henry’s new wife. Over time, Mary’s presence became normal within the home and their focus turned toward other things, especially as they grew older and matured and approached their own special birthdays. It wasn’t until Katherine had left that she’d really gotten to know Mary well.

Over the past year, they’d become close; spending time together in the gardens with the babies, shopping in town, attending balls, or just enjoying quiet walks. She’d apologized often for her earlier behavior and secretly prayed the Universe wouldn’t punish her by placing her in a similar situation with resentful younger sisters in her own new home. And while they didn’t share the special sister bond that she shared with Katherine, she did come to value Mary as a sister and an important part of their family.

Her other brother, Vincent, would marry in two years and not when he turned twenty-one later this year. He was matched with a bride who was only sixteen at present and needed to wait until her eighteenth birthday. Vincent kept their father more occupied than he’d prefer; her brother’s mature responsibility hadn’t yet quite caught up with his twenty years of age. He enjoyed life in town, parties, balls, the hunt, wandering and exploring, and was routinely absent for extended periods of time. Her poor mother constantly worried about him, and Jez could often hear her father lecturing him about his behavior; growing more and more frustrated with his seeming inability to control his son.

Vincent was the wild child; always more concerned with fun and excitement than responsibility and duty. Everyone knew that if Vincent weren’t promised to be married, there would be a line of ladies at their gate hoping to gain his attention. And all the young girls who had been promised to be married hoped he was their secret groom. His good looks often caused the ladies to giggle when he walked by.

Their father worried that Vincent would unwittingly cause great damage to a neighboring estate at a cost far greater than his honor, reputation, and wallet. If Vincent were to soil a promised bride or cause an interference with her matched marriage, or if he were to damage his own, his family could be stripped of their noble status. Yes, their father worried constantly despite the years and years of education and training about the Tradition and Noble Code required of all noble children.

He often questioned the Guardians’ wisdom in choosing a match for Vincent that he couldn’t marry as soon as legally possible – the moment he turned twenty-one. The elder Guardian had always replied that a younger bride was a better match for Vincent’s spirit. He’d always provided good counsel to her troubled father. The same wasn’t true of the new Guardian, and of course, her father didn’t draw attention to his son’s behavior in that man’s presence.

She’d also often lecture Vincent and tell him she wouldn’t speak to him again until he changed his ways and minded their father, but she could never stay mad at him for long. He knew how to make her smile and to ensure her forgiveness with just a wounded look or funny face. She couldn’t help but be warmed by the love she felt for him.

She moved the blankets out of the way and let her toes touch the wood floor. Even though summer was just around the corner, the wood was still cool to the touch, but not as icy as it had been over the winter. It was her first day getting out of bed at eighteen, she thought as she tried to pull her emotions away from the dread that had settled within her and toward the natural joy she knew she should be feeling. The night before, she’d noted it was her last night falling asleep as a seventeen-year-old; her last night as a child, and as she’d drifted off, a few tears had slid down her face onto her pillow. She shook off the memory of sadness and again searched for her energy and happiness.

Saying goodbye to her warm bed, she scurried across the room for her robe. It would take a few minutes to warm up and replace her bed, but the air wasn’t really too cold for comfort. She knew that before long she wouldn’t need the robe at all. She reached for the jug of water next to her basin and poured the cool water into the bowl. If the cold floor hadn’t shaken her awake, the water certainly would, she thought, cupping it with her hands and bringing it up to her face. She shuddered.

She looked at herself in the mirror and noticed she looked sad. Her eyes seemed puffy; not just from sleep, but from tears as well. She splashed the water on her face a few more times before drying herself off with the cloth next to the basin. She removed the braid from her hair and reached for her brush. As she counted her strokes through her thick blond mane, her eyes remained fixed on those reflecting back at her from the mirror. She coaxed a smile but it fell. She forced a larger smile, but it fell as well. Her eyes wouldn’t sparkle. So in true Vincent-style, she contorted her face into the goofiest look she could throw at the mirror which forced her to laugh at her own silliness and roll her eyes at herself.

Hearing a noise, she wandered over to her window and glanced out on the lawn and front walk where she saw her brother making his way to the house. The early morning mist hung on the grass and stones; barely shifting as his feet cut through.

Vincent’s coming home at this hour? she scolded in a whisper.

He’d been away for the past two weeks attending to some business at their father’s request. He had been expected by dinnertime last night. Why was he arriving home so early in the morning? Did he travel all night? Did he stop for drinks on the way home and then not leave last night? The morning sun was just bright enough for her to take inventory of his appearance. He didn’t look ruffled as if he’d slept in the grass overnight or gotten involved in yet another drunken brawl. He was walking with purpose and didn’t appear to be intoxicated or suffering from too much drinking the night before. Yet the usual bounce in his step was missing and he wasn’t whistling; something he almost always did while casually walking about. She grew concerned and quietly made her way downstairs to greet him, hoping for a chance to grill him before the rest of the house awoke.

As she passed the closed kitchen door, she could hear the cook starting her preparations for breakfast as well as the clinking of dinnerware and glasses as the table was being set in the dining room. She tiptoed toward the front entry to greet him, but he wasn’t there. He beat her into the house. She peered into the parlor, but it was empty. Wondering if he’d made a direct line for food, she crept back toward the dining room. Standing in the doorway, she expected to see one of the maids setting the table, but instead found Vincent breathing new life into the sleeping fire under the mantle on the far side of the room.

He turned when he heard someone arrive in the room and his face lit up when he saw it was her. Happy birthday, Jez he quietly exclaimed as he walked toward her, reaching for an embrace.

Vincent, she smiled, meeting him halfway and happily accepting his hug. I’ve missed you. But I thought you promised to be home by last night? You almost missed my birthday. Papa would have been so…

He cut her off. Father will be proud because I’ve done my required duty. He sent me to fetch your letter. He smiled proudly.

The letter. She stepped back and steadied herself. You went to fetch the letter? she asked stunned. This wasn’t how it was usually done.

Yes. The Guardian asked Father to send someone to pick it up from your groom’s home and Father sent me.

She’d never heard of such a thing; the Guardian not delivering the letter. Why would the Guardian not bring it himself? Was he not required to protect it? Is that not what they’d been taught? Was that not part of the ceremony of the Tradition? She grappled with the strange request for a moment and then asked, Why?

He shrugged. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Father.

It didn’t take long for the implications of this change in the Tradition to cross her mind. If Vincent had picked up the letter, then he knew where her groom lived and who he was and what he looked like and what his family was like and what the estate was like and so much more. Her eyes excitedly searched his for any hint of a clue as to whether he carried good news or bad. Did you meet him? she asked warily.

No, I was greeted by their man who handed it to me and then bid me on my way, he replied, knowing he was tormenting her by being frugal with information.

Well, was their man kind? Because kind staff are happy in their employment and are treated…kindly, she questioned.

Actually, no, he wasn’t kind at all. I found him quite grumpy and rude and I really needed their hospitality, but he refused so I relieved myself on one of your future rose bushes, he joked.

You did not, she exclaimed, immediately embarrassed at the thought of such a first introduction from her family.

No, I didn’t. And yes, he seemed happy in his employ, he shared and she was comforted by the words. Actually, he apologized that the house was empty when I visited. Had your groom or his parents been there, I might have been able to report on just how ugly your groom actually is, he continued to tease and she playfully poked his ribs in response.

He won’t be ugly. So where’s the letter? she asked, patting his pockets.

There, leaning against your glass, he motioned to the table in the center of the room.

She glanced toward her usual place at the table and saw the plain, white wrapping awaiting her. She slowly crossed the room to ponder it while Vincent returned to stoking the fire.

Well, it’s a rather plain looking wrapping, isn’t it? she stated, the disappointment evident in her voice. It has no decoration; no ribbons and no address.

From the doorway, her father spoke. A confident man doesn’t need to win your affection by adorning his wrapping with frills.

Papa, the letter’s here. Vincent brought the letter. Her eyes were bright as she looked up at her father.

So I see, my child. Happy birthday, Flower. Do you think you can pull away for a moment to give me my hug?

He held his arms out toward her and took a couple steps into the room. She went to her father and enjoyed the ritual of their morning hug. He kissed her cheek and then drew his attention to Vincent.

Thank you, Son. I’m glad you’re home. You’re well? Yes? So how ugly is her groom?

They all laughed as he crossed the room and hugged his son.

Vincent weighed his response. Perhaps he didn’t add frills to the wrapping because he can’t offer any to his bride. He wants her accustomed to his plainness without expectations.

Her heart sank feeling that must be the true reason. She agreed by adding, Charles wrapped his letter to Kat in a pretty blue ribbon, and she was blessed with love and great friendship and adventure. My groom is probably plain.

Her father countered. Well, let me remind you, Darling, that I instructed Henry to act confidently in his letter to Mary by not adorning the wrapping at all. Hers arrived with the same plainness which has a simple beauty to it on its own. Perhaps your groom’s father is simply as wise in his advice to his son.

Everyone turned toward the doorway at the sound of Henry’s voice. Actually, Mary has told me several times that my wrapping didn’t match my spectacular essence of being, he chuckled. Apparently brides don’t want simple beauty, Father. They want to be courted with extravagant romance. They want cupid’s arrow. He turned to Jez. Your groom must be a total bore, he teased.

She smiled and went to greet her eldest brother with a hug.

Happy birthday, Jez. Mary will be along shortly. Is Mother up yet?

She pulled herself away from the dressed gathering in the dining room and made her way back to her room. The voices of her father and brothers trailed behind her as they continued the debate on whether or not the wrapping should be adorned. She wondered why everyone was up so early. Perhaps no one could sleep with the excitement of the day.

She’d left the letter sitting on the table where Vincent had place it. It wasn’t a rule. In fact, Katherine tore into her letter so quickly, only the two of them had seen the beautiful state within which it had been delivered by the Guardian. But she wasn’t in a hurry. She’d take her time. A plain wrapping wasn’t anything to get excited about, was it?

And the fact that the Guardian hadn’t delivered hers had her mind wandering. She actually preferred that he hadn’t touched it. That was a good thing. It was unspoiled that way. It was carried to her by a loving brother and not by that man who often prickled her skin just by being present. But it wasn’t the etiquette of the Tradition. She’d have to ask her father later for an explanation before her mind raced too far away with dreary predictions. She’d wait until her mother and Mary had also seen the wrapping before she’d open it. And then she wouldn’t open it until she was ready to open it, but she was curious about the sentiment inside; the first words she’d hear from her betrothed. And she wondered how she had managed to not ask Vincent how far away her groom lived.

Chapter Three

Newbury, May 15th

Michael stared out his window at the rain falling from the gray afternoon sky. The inclement weather perfectly matched his spirits as he felt just as gray inside. The dimness of his chambers also matched his mood. He glanced over to his writing table. The laid papers that he’d selected for his note to his bride sat untouched in the same spot they’d sat for the last several days. His mind was blank. His heart wasn’t present. He couldn’t find words to put down on the page.

He knew this was a monumentally important task that had to be done. His bride was turning eighteen in a little over two weeks and she’d be expecting to receive something brilliant from him. This would be the first glimpse she’d have of his character, his personality, and who he was as a man and her future partner for life. Ordinarily, he didn’t have any difficulty in being brilliant on paper. When moved, he could compose a masterpiece of verse, but he wasn’t feeling moved.

He turned his gaze back toward the stream of raindrops landing on the outside of the window glass. He watched as gravity pulled the droplets downward where they met up with other droplets to form little rivers snaking along the glass. The maze of tiny water channels seemed to have a life of its own and the distraction was sufficient aid to his procrastination, and mindless enough to permit the wandering of his thoughts.

He was annoyed by the knocking he suddenly heard at his door. Certainly people knew he was trying to concentrate. Certainly his father was aware he was tucked away working on this letter. He’d been requesting it be done for weeks now. Had he not promised at breakfast, given the weather of the day, that he’d spend the afternoon in his chamber working on it? If he could see the sun, it certainly wouldn’t be getting lower in the sky yet. Was this not still the afternoon? He walked across to his writing table and sat down, picking up his pen.

Enter, he called out, trying to adjust his voice to hide his annoyance.

Their trusted valet of many years opened the door just wide enough to address the young man. I’m truly sorry to disturb you, Sir; however, your father is in the study with the Guardian and has requested you join them.

The Guardian? Why would he be calling? Certainly his father hadn’t stooped to such a level as to partner with that man in an attempt to ensure the letter’s completion. It would be out of character for his father to do so, but he wasn’t aware the Guardian was otherwise scheduled to visit them today.

Thank you, Gerard. Is the Guardian in good spirits? he asked, his aversion to such a visit evident in his voice.

Gerard stepped into the room, his glance landing on the writing table and the blank note paper before returning to meet Michael’s enquiring gaze. Hard to say, Sir. His greeting to your father was quite the usual. He raised his brow and motioned toward the blank paper on the writing table, aware of the expectation upon the soon-to-be groom.

Gerard, my mind is a total blank. I can’t fathom what to write in this note. His eyes pleaded for assistance.

The butler smiled empathetically. Perhaps ‘My Dearest Betrothed’ would be a good start?

He shook his head. I know it would make sense for me to write that, but I’m not feeling that way. How can she be ‘My Dearest’ if I’ve never met her? Perhaps I’ll actually come to despise her and then I’ll regret ever calling her ‘My Dearest’ or by any other affection. How can I write from the heart if my heart’s absent? How can I betray myself by writing about myself if I then come to find I have no desire to truly reveal myself to her? But if I don’t write about myself and she views me as cold and distant, then our wedding will be less than friendly regardless of her normal disposition.

Gerard had watched Michael grow from a young boy into the man sitting before him. He’d witnessed the growing gloom inside the young man’s spirit over the past few weeks; a stark contrast to his full-of-life, glowing personality that the household was used to enjoying. For once, he didn’t envy the nobles and was saddened to witness this suffering. Yet, despite all their chats over the years, he recognized it wasn’t his place to provide advice on the etiquette surrounding a matched marriage.

Love he could speak about, but not the turmoil surrounding a noble match arranged by the Church. He and everyone else not of noble blood had only benefited from religious instructions from the local pastor. He didn’t have the benefit of the additional years of training and education regarding the Noble Code and the Tradition that noble offspring received from their Guardian. He knew much about love; about falling in love and about marrying for love, but he didn’t know of any useful advice for a young man facing a match.

Sir, perhaps the Guardian would be better counsel? It was less a question than it was a statement.

Michael nodded solemnly knowing the Guardian was not better counsel than a friend, but he understood Gerard’s hesitation to speak his mind about the family’s personal matters. Well, off to my suffering then, he sighed.

The house seemed oddly quiet as he slowly made his way to the study. He wondered if the Guardian’s presence had caused everyone to quietly busy themselves elsewhere. One doesn’t need to worry about being faced with judgment if one isn’t in the room with the judge. He wished he could run away as well. His heart was in such turmoil that he feared the Guardian, of all people, would discern the cause straight away and then the salvation of his soul would be at this Guardian’s mercy.

He understood his duty. He’d been raised with values, morals, and respect for the Tradition. He knew this marriage was important to both families and that his future, as well as his family’s, depended on his ability to successfully complete this union. This was how it was done. This is how it was done for his parents, and for their parents, and for many generations. And yet, he was certain no one before him felt the same despair of being pushed away from the beauty of the world he knew and into the darkness of the unknown.

When he reached the closed study door, he paused before placing his hand on the knob. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady his nerves and relax his worried brow. He forced a smile. And then, like an actor hearing his cue from onstage, he joined the conversation on the other side of the door.

Michael. How are you, my son? Without moving from his seat beside the fire, the Guardian feigned a pleasant, yet unenthusiastic greeting before he’d fully walked through the door.

He met the troubled glance of his father who was sitting in the armchair on the opposite side of the fire before returning his gaze back to the Guardian. I am well, thank you, Sir. I trust you’re the same? he asked, playing the same game of pleasantries as the older man.

The Guardian was a trim man in his early thirties, of average height and average looks, with dark hair that was always trimmed short and neat around his ears and never evident on his face. He rarely showed emotion, beyond the arrogance he assumed with his superior rank over every noble. His dark, green eyes always held a look of judgment.

He’d been the youngest to ever be pledged as a Guardian at the age of twenty-two, second only to the current Bishop who’d been twenty-seven when he was promoted to the Guardians. But unlike the loving head of the Church, this man carried the fact of his young appointment with an air of putrid entitlement.

As usual, he was dressed in the uniform of his position: a buttoned, black waist coat over a crisp, white buttoned shirt, black trousers, and black boots that always appeared to have never touched the ground even though Michael was certain their drive was muddy from the rain. He wore his black cloak lined with burgundy silk over his shoulders and had left it unbuttoned across his chest. His black, wide-brimmed hat rested on the back corner of the armchair in which he sat and Michael could see it was damp from the weather, as was his cloak. The man didn’t appear concerned at all that he was sitting in an upholstered chair in wet clothes.

The Guardian nodded in response to the question regarding his health and motioned to the floor at his feet. Michael closed the door behind him and crossed the room; kneeling on one knee before the clergyman. He bowed his head respectfully because he was required to; not because he held any respect for the man. The Guardian placed his well-manicured left hand atop his head and rested it there while he sat in silent prayer. He could feel the cool hardness of the Guardian’s ring as it pressed against his scalp.

He was supposed to close his eyes while he received Blessing, but he didn’t take any comfort in kneeling before this man. Without moving his head, he glanced up at the Guardian’s clothes and focused on the gold silk Unity embroidered on the man’s cloak above his heart. He noted the hypocrisy that such a man would wear such a symbol.

The Unity was the symbol adopted by the Church almost fifty years earlier when the current Bishop was elected from amongst the Guardians. It had replaced the long-standing and simple One, a circle with a dot in the center previously used to represent the inclusiveness of God and the Universe with a center that was everywhere and a circumference that was nowhere. Michael had only ever known the Unity, seeing it everywhere as a child, although he still came across the old One symbol in some of his older books. While his eyes rested on the Guardian’s chest, he remembered his lessons about the Unity well as the thought flashed across his mind.

As a child, he fondly called the Unity ‘the God Tree’ because the shape reminded his young mind of a tree; a singular trunk with three branches spreading out across the top.

As he learned when he was older, the Unity had long been used in ancient writings to represent the relationship of all things before it had slowly been used less and less frequently and then forgotten.

At the base of the symbol, supporting all else, was God; the nourishing ground from which all grew. As a child, it was this that led to his simpler ‘God Tree’ description; ‘from God grew the tree’. The ‘branches of the tree’ represented the trinity of all being. On the left was the mind including the divine mind to which all living things were connected. In the middle was spirit; our own as well as the divine spirit from which we all came to be. And on the right was the body or all things physical. The ‘U’ shape of the curved horizontal line was also said to represent the Universe, a cup within which all spirituality was held, cradled like a small child in its mother’s arms.

There were other attributes assigned to the symbol which hadn’t stuck with him. The moon and the sun were found at the opposite ends of this line while the vertical line in the middle held the constellations. He never truly understood what that meant. And the vertical and the curved horizontal lines intersected to create four quadrants which most often were said to reflect the four elements: air, water, earth, and fire, but sometimes represented the four directions of the wind, or were used to map the eight planets. Again, it hadn’t made perfect sense to him, especially after he’d received his large atlas from his father when he was thirteen and came to understand what maps were supposed to look like. But in its entirety, this symbol unified the divinity of all things; hence its name, the Unity.

The symbol always sat above a Guardian’s heart to represent that he did God’s work. Michael thought this Guardian should work on looking down at his cloak every once in a while in reminder instead of holding his nose so high in the air all the time. And as he focused on the embroidered silk, he mused that the intersecting lines provided a target to the man’s heart should anyone ever wish to do away with him; assuming the man had a heart. The Bishop certainly had a heart. He loved everyone and it was because of his love that the nation now enjoyed such peace. Except for when this Guardian was visiting; then there was no peace in their house. What had the Bishop been thinking?

Michael loved the story about the Bishop that he’d been told so often. Long before the current times, there had been much unrest and uncertainty within the Church. Several groups wished to splinter off feeling they had a better understanding than the Church as to God’s wishes. Society was fractured and there was much unrest and chaos. Even the Royal Family, under a young and energetic King Philip, had difficulty bringing peace. But eighty-two years ago, the current Bishop was born.

As a child, it was discovered he carried a unique birthmark on his chest; this forgotten symbol known as the Unity. He entered the clergy for training when he was young. During his youth, the Church had been even more horribly divided and faced total collapse and he’d made it his mission to one day be able to prevent that. He was assigned a parish when he was only twenty-one. He was promoted to the Guardians when he was only twenty-seven. And tensions within the Church and the nation began to dissipate as a result of the wisdom and love he was able to share. He was elected to the Church’s Trinity as the Royal Guardian at the young age of thirty-one and gained the trust, confidence, and respect of the now deceased King Philip as well as presided over the coronation of Philip’s young son, Albert, twenty years ago.

He was elected Bishop, head of the Church, when he was only thirty-five. Because of all of his accomplishments, his unique birthmark became known as ‘a sign from God’. For this symbol to show up as a birthmark on a man destined for the clergy was a clear indication that the arguing factions needed to set aside their differences and unite as one church; one voice of God, unified. The religious conflict ended and the new symbol was adopted by the Church.

For forty-seven years, the extremely well-loved and respected Bishop has sat at the head of the Church and brought peace, love, and unity to all while the Unity found new life imprinted on all religious items including the Guardian’s cloak. This Guardian missed the lesson, apparently, on bringing peace, love, and unity with him when he visited, Michael thought.

With the utterance of his standard Bless you, the clergyman removed his grip from the top of the young man’s head.

Michael pulled himself back to the present and rose to his feet, wondering what the man had prayed about for that length of time. His wandering mind during Blessing didn’t usually take him quite as far. He looked to his father, awaiting an explanation for the visit.

The Guardian pondered for a moment before addressing Count Fitzhugh. Edward, perhaps I’ll provide counsel to Michael alone.

Edward hesitated before rising from his chair, understanding the instruction he’d been given by this man of higher ranking authority, while at the same time, not wishing to leave his son to navigate this conversation on his own. Of course, Guardian. As he walked past his son, he shot a cautioning glance before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

When the elder Guardian had died, everyone had wondered which pastor serving in a local parish would be the next to be pledged to the small and elite group of twelve Guardians. This was how it was usually done; promotion to the Guardians bestowed upon a local pastor somewhere in the nation who’d demonstrated an outstanding ability ministering to his congregation over a significant amount of time. New Guardians were usually well into their forties or fifties, but this Guardian had only been twenty-two when he was pledged. He hadn’t been assigned a parish by the Church before stepping directly into his role as Guardian. In explanation, they’d said he was gifted, but all Michael and his family saw was arrogance.

He’d been assigned to the Northwest Region when he was first appointed, but unfortunately, the Church brought this grating young Guardian to the Central Region two years ago when the caring and respected elder Guardian died. They’d said he was wise in his knowledge and would offer great counsel, but they only saw judgment and were reminded he held a superior title. He carried his position as if he was entitled and not that he’d answered a call to assist the noble flock with their salvation. And while they wondered what the logic was behind his appointment to the Guardians in the first place, despite the man’s alleged gifted abilities, they placed their trust in their Bishop’s wisdom, tolerated the man’s visits, and minded their tongues. His father’s cautioning glance warned him the Guardian wasn’t in a pleasant mood.

The clergyman motioned for Michael to take the seat vacated by his father, and before the young man reached the chair, asked, Do you know why I’ve come today?

Michael stopped in front of the chair to collect his thoughts before replying. Apart from the obvious, he searched his memory for any forgotten appointment. He still couldn’t recall being told that the man would visit today. He turned and apologetically replied, I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t believe I know the purpose of your visit.

The Guardian again motioned for Michael to sit in the chair and waited until he was seated before asking his second question. Do you know the date? He wasn’t amused by Michael’s attempt at feigning ignorance.

It is the 15th of May, he replied factually, ensuring his voice showed no disrespect.

Son, as you’re aware, your bride turns eighteen on the 31st of this month. I’ve come to retrieve your letter. I’m to deliver it to her in time for her birthday. This is the Tradition. However, your father shared you weren’t quite finished, and I’m likely correct in guessing you haven’t quite started. Is your letter ready for its journey to your bride?

Identifying a tone of disapproval within the Guardian’s voice, and comprehending the grave consequences for his father dependent on his answer, Michael quickly responded. My father’s correct. I’m not quite finished. May I bring it to you in town in a day or so? He hoped an offer of a solution might appease the man.

Well, if you’re nearly finished, I can wait. I’m sure your mother could accommodate an extra setting for dinner, the Guardian challenged. He allowed his words to hang in the air momentarily before fishing for an explanation. There was always an explanation when a groom was so lax in his duties. There was always a reason and the reason usually spelt trouble for the family. Unless there’s something else you need to discuss? It’s my guess you haven’t started your letter, and this troubles me as I understand you’ve been well schooled.

Michael considered the Guardian’s words and formulated his response, hoping the clergyman wouldn’t assume there was a larger issue to probe. I have nothing else I need to discuss. I’ve been well schooled and understand my duty.

The Guardian raised his brow and motioned with his hand to imply he was waiting for a further explanation.

Michael shared, In this situation, I prefer to contemplate my words before committing to them, and so my writing is slower than it would be for a letter of business. It’s more difficult than I assumed it would be to write so personally to a stranger. I’m afraid I avoided the task over the last several months and now I may have misjudged the total amount of time I’d require, but it is underway. It’s just not quite finished. I wasn’t expecting you to retrieve it quite this soon. And while I’m certain my mother would delight in your company for dinner, I’d hate to promise that my words will find the paper before the household retires for the night, and wouldn’t want to do my bride a disservice by writing under such pressure. Would it not be best if I delivered it to you personally in a day or two?

No, the Guardian replied, holding the young man’s gaze.

Michael was taken aback by the Guardian’s firm reply and found himself at a loss for words as panic started to creep into his chest. He hated that the man was able to cause that reaction within him, but he wasn’t alone. Unknown to him, his father had just had the same conversation with the Guardian with the same firm reply given only seconds before he’d entered the room.

Sir? he asked.

Why did you delay in starting to write this letter? he firmly asked.

Michael struggled to pull his words together; to force his mind to think clearly. For no reason other than the fact that I knew it would be a challenging task and so avoided it until just recently. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Are you usually prone to procrastinating? he further asked, trying to work the young man into a corner.

No, not in general, Michael replied honestly.

Procrastination isn’t a very enviable trait for one who’ll one day be responsible for his family and estate, and for tasks granted by the Court.

Michael saw the familiar judgment in the man’s eyes. Of course and it’s not a habit I engage in when dealing with such matters, he defended quietly.

I see. It’s only a habit you engage in when dealing with personal matters, the Guardian countered.

Michael felt himself growing defensive, but maintained a level and calm voice. Sir, it’s not a trait I generally exhibit. I only avoided the letter because I knew it would be a challenging letter to write. I’m not in the habit of writing to a woman.

And yet, you were well schooled by the elder Guardian. Did he not provide you guidance? Are you suggesting I need to review those lessons? The Guardian’s voice had an edge.

No, Sir. I mean, yes. I was well schooled and, no, you don’t need to go over those lessons. I was simply not expecting you until next week. He cursed his nerves as he heard their faint echo in his voice.

The Guardian, growing tired of the conversation, considered the responses given to him by both Michael and his father. He studied the calm, young man seated across from him. He knew he was likely hiding a secret. There was always a secret when they didn’t happily hand over their letter, wondering why it had taken the Guardian so long to come and collect it, yet this particular reluctant groom wasn’t displaying the usual nervousness and anxiety he was used to seeing. Enjoying the game of control he held over his noble flock, he slowly explained. I’m leaving first thing in the morning. My travels will take me past your bride’s home the day after tomorrow. I won’t be returning until it’s time to escort her here. As such, it’ll be impossible for you to deliver your letter to me in a day or two.

Michael looked at the floor, feeling defeated. And then the first clue as to the identity of his bride registered. She lived at least a day’s ride away, and since the Guardian was likely not riding with any urgency, she was possibly as close as only a day’s hard ride depending on the terrain. What regions could he reach in a day? The populous and society-rich capital city of Monteith? The rural western interior dotted with smaller towns and villages? The quiet and picturesque southern coast? No, they were too far. The bustling, northern port town of Newport? No, he was delivering the letter to her directly and picking her up. He didn’t mention another Guardian outside of their region. She was from the same region. A day’s ride away within their own region. His mind flashed over the possibilities before his thoughts returned to the moment with the sound of the Guardian’s voice continuing his explanation.

While it wouldn’t be Traditional for anyone other than a Guardian to carry the letter, given your household’s status, I’ll agree to sanction an exception. I’ll make arrangements with your bride’s father to send a man in confidence to retrieve the letter. It should be ready and waiting with your man, Gerard, in as little as two days time, as you’ve promised, with a strict provision that no family member be introduced to her man at that time, and no personal details be released. Do you understand?

Michael bowed his head in the Guardian’s direction in respect for the favor granted. Yes. Thank you for your kindness, Guardian.

The clergyman waved his right hand in dismissal. You may leave now. Have your father return, along with your man, so I can relay this exception to him.

Relieved to have been excused, Michael nodded and walked to the door, stopping as the sound of the Guardian’s voice permeated the air once again.

Oh, and Michael? A word of advice?

He turned. Yes, Sir?

The Guardian lowered his chin and stared up at him; an accusatory tone in his voice. Approach love outside of a match with extreme caution. Sexual pleasures are not worth the loss of your family’s status. And most importantly, if there were a more appropriate love for you, the Guardians would have matched you with her in the first place. Disregarding the match is heresy.

Despite the fear that had crawled up from his chest and stuck in his throat as his ears registered the Guardian’s words, and with as much calm in his voice as he could muster, Michael replied, Sound advice, Guardian. Thank you.

He opened the door and exited the study, closing it behind him. His chest was pounding. He took a deep breath. Gerard was waiting in the hall outside of the study; his standard three feet from the door, awaiting further instruction. They both pretended he hadn’t heard the Guardian’s final speech.

He’d like my father and yourself, he quietly advised the older man.

Yes, Sir, Gerard replied and quickly headed off to retrieve the Count from his chambers.

Michael didn’t follow Gerard up the stairs to the second floor to return to his own room and his writing task. Instead, he felt the need to escape. He continued at a controlled pace along the main hall past the grand circular staircase. He reminded himself to breathe as he walked. He felt disoriented, though, as the pounding of his heart blocked his sense of hearing. Beyond the stairs, he stiffly walked past the dining room. Glancing in, he was relieved to see it was empty. Turning left down the smaller hallway that joined the main hall at its end, he passed the closed glass doors of the conservatory and noticed the two maids that were busy inside dusting statuary and artwork. They didn’t look up as he walked by.

His destination was at the end of that hallway. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was behind him and quickened his pace, assured he was out of sight. He could feel the panic and fear, the dread and the despair, all welling up inside of him and he wanted to be on the other side of those doors at the end of the hall before tears hit his face.

He reached for the closed door before he was able to grasp it; his hand ready for the knob as soon as his feet got him there. Just a few more steps, he coached himself. When he finally held the knob in his hand, he quickly opened the door and slid inside the darkened library, silently closing it behind him and turning the lock before crumpling to the floor and allowing the tears to flow.

The Guardian can’t know about Sophia, he thought. There was no way he could know. He was certain no one knew of the secret love he shared with her, and if no one knew, then how could the Guardian? Impossible. They’d been so careful. The man knows nothing; he was sure of it. He’d probably simply thrown out a guess to gauge his reaction as a means to determine the cause of his tardiness in writing the letter. Michael felt his response had been appropriate. He’d remained calm. The Guardian knows nothing, he thought again, and yet his fear of discovery wouldn’t subside as it coupled with his despair that she was gone.

His thoughts hovered on Sophia and the intensity of the love he felt for her. He always knew that at some point he’d be faced with the reality of their situation and his heart would be broken. Since they’d both been raised in the Tradition and promised to others, a close friendship seemed innocent enough for the two lifelong friends, but along the way he accepted love into his life in spite of those promises. He accepted love into his life in spite of the teachings heralding the virtues of a promised marriage over a love relationship. They hadn’t intended to fall in love. They hadn’t intended for anyone to suffer, and yet, they were suffering now. In only a matter of weeks, he’d become husband to another woman when he should be husband to Sophia. How could he write a letter to his intended bride when his heart was screaming for his love?

He needed to shake free from these feelings. He had a duty to perform. He knew that. If he didn’t perform this duty as required, he’d bring disappointment and embarrassment to his parents. Their honor would suffer as would their income. Their status would likely be stripped away by the Crown while he faced a charge of heresy. And an innocent would also suffer. What right did he have to disappoint his intended bride because of his foolishness in love? He felt shame. He needed to find a way to set Sophia aside in his heart, despite the pain, and focus on the Tradition required of him. But he missed her so much. It had been two weeks since he last saw her, and with every passing day, he felt a little part of himself die.

He picked himself up off the floor and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Walking over to the credenza under the window on the opposite wall, he selected a glass from the arranged collection and poured two fingers of whiskey from a crystal decanter. After gently setting the decanter down, he chugged the whiskey and paused, holding the empty glass. Movement outside the window caught his eye and he watched from the dark room as the Guardian’s carriage drove out of sight in the rain. He stared into his glass at the drips of moisture clinging to the bottom and watched as the dribbles rolled across the smooth surface as he gently turned it.

In a flash, he spun around and hurled the glass at the stone-faced fireplace shouting with angry anguish, My glass is empty!

He stormed toward the door, turned the lock with a flick of his fingers, and flung it open. With a determined pace, he reached the glass doors of the conservatory and desperately slid one aside. The two maids had stopped working, likely at the sound of the crashing glass in the library, and stood as still as the statutes around them as he stormed past toward the double French doors at the back of the room leading to the terrace. Pulling them both open, he stepped out of the house into the rain, strode across the terrace, and jogged down the few steps to the lawn. Behind him, the terrace doors stood wide open. The maids watched him walk away until they lost site of him before they dared to close the doors against the rain. He tucked into the trees at the far back corner of the lawn.

His parents both followed the sound of the commotion and arrived in the doorway of the conservatory to witness the maids closing the terrace doors. Gerard, who had begun to prepare a cup of soothing tea following the Guardian’s visit, came running from the kitchen and arrived behind the Count and Countess. Edward asked the maids if they’d seen the direction his son had gone.

Ginny, the elder maid, nodded. I believe he’s heading to his meadow, Sir.

Edward nodded, certain she was correct. He turned and took his wife gently by the hand and led her from the room. Gerard tended to new instructions for the maids in cleaning up the library and the wet conservatory floor.

In the hall, Edward placed his arm around Rose and guided her toward the grand staircase. As they walked, he could sense she was worried for their son, and when they were alone at the base of the stairs, she shared her concerns.

He’s just beside himself with this marriage business. It breaks my heart to see them so sad. Jaynie was distraught, and now Michael. It wasn’t like this when we were getting married. Why is it so difficult now? Have we failed them somehow?

He held her close as they climbed the stairs despite knowing she wasn’t a fragile creature. My dear, Jaynie’s situation was very different. Michael, on the other hand, is facing the reality of growing up and meeting his responsibilities. He’ll sort it out for himself, I’m certain, and then in no time, we’ll have our old son back. We raised him well. He’s a good man. Trust in his moral compass.

Edward suspected the Guardian had challenged Michael and was now curious to know exactly what they’d discussed.