My Bratty Wife

The world outside the Blackwood’s castle had been scrubbed clean by the night’s ferocious storm. The morning sun, now bright and unopposed, glinted off countless puddles in the courtyard, turning the gravel paths into rivers of sparkling light. The air smelled of damp earth and rain-washed roses. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning that felt like a cruel mockery of the turmoil in Suzy’s heart.

She stood by a window overlooking the main courtyard, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders despite the morning’s growing warmth. She had been there standing by the window for the better part of an hour, her gaze fixed on the main gate, anticipating the sight of Ryan’s carriage, her heart a tangled knot of hope and dread. But the courtyard remained stubbornly empty.

"Your Grace, it’s morning," a gentle voice said from behind her. It was Mrs. Madelyn. "The rain has stopped, and the sun is up. Your bath is drawn and waiting. Come now."

Suzy let out a sad, weary sigh, her shoulders slumping. "He hasn’t gotten home yet, Mrs. Madelyn," she murmured, her breath fogging the cool windowpane.

Mrs. Madelyn came to stand beside her, her expression one of deep sympathy. "I am sure there is a simple explanation, Your Grace," she said, her tone soothing. "The downpour last night was truly terrible. It likely made the roads unsafe for travel in the dark. It’s just a bit of a delay, I’m certain of it. His Grace will be here soon, safe and sound." She reached out, her hand warm and sturdy, and offered it to Suzy. "And I know you will want to look your best for when he does come home, am I right, Your Grace? You wouldn’t want him to see you looking so worried and worn."

It was a simple, motherly manipulation, but it worked. Suzy knew Mrs. Madelyn was right. She had to be strong for Ryan, for their baby. She nodded, her resolve hardening just a little, and took the offered hand. "You’re right," she said, her voice a little stronger. "Thank you."

Mrs. Madelyn guided her upstairs to her chambers, where Irene was waiting. Together, the two women fussed over her, helping her with her bath, dressing her in a comfortable but elegant day gown of soft blue muslin, and arranging her hair. She ate the light breakfast they brought her, more to placate them than from any real appetite, and dutifully took the strengthening tonic Dr. Abernathy had prescribed. But the effort of it all, combined with a sleepless night spent pacing and praying, had left her utterly drained. Instead of returning to her vigil by the window, Suzy found herself retreating to the large, canopied bed, her body too tired to even make the trip back down the stairs. She propped herself against the pillows, picked up a book of poetry, and resolved to wait for Ryan there, where she could at least pretend to be resting.

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It was nearly midday when Ryan’s carriage finally pulled into the courtyard. It was mud-splattered and travel-worn, a proof to a long and difficult night.

Ryan descended first, followed by Davis. The Duke looked like a ghost of his usual self. His fine clothes were rumpled, his face was pale and drawn with exhaustion, and a profound, bone-deep sorrow shadowed his eyes, a grief so immense it seemed to dim the bright morning sun around him.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the familiar air of his home, but it brought him no comfort. He turned to Davis, his voice low and weary, but clear and resolute.

"Davis," he began, "tell the maids to clean my study. Thoroughly. I want every map, every document, every note related to this... this investigation, packed away or burned. I don’t want to see any traces of it left. That Chapter of our lives is closed."