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Noriko

 

 

 

True to Loretta’s word, Mr. Blackwell did not darken my door that night. I spent my wedding night alone.

I slept fitfully. Partly because I was in a strange bed, in a strange room, in a strange house, but mostly because I spent the night in battle, fighting off the fierce pangs of homesickness that rose inside me. I missed the way Papa would say goodnight with a kiss to my forehead. I missed the sound of my sisters’ deep breathing around me, the rustle of blankets as my sisters moved in their dreams.

I gave up on sleep early the next morning, drawn from my room in search of food. Mr. Blackwell had already left for work. My family and I always ate meals together. Didn’t they do that here, too? Obviously not.

After the strangest breakfast I’d ever had—no rice, but eggs, bacon, bread and formed pieces of meat and spices called sausages—I was left to my own devices.

There was nothing left for me to do except to explore the mansion. I opened each door, peering around, listening for footsteps. I might live here for now, but this was not my house any more than I was a real wife.

There were an extraordinary number of guest bedrooms and sitting rooms, each one looking cluttered with all this elaborate furniture, fringed lamps, vases and fuss. I repressed a shudder as I peered into yet another large, overly dressed room. I missed the simplicity of my real home, the clean lines, the sparse furniture. How could Mr. Blackwell stand to live here?

There was also a library, a ballroom, a spa with treatment rooms and a sauna, and a twelve-seat cinema. Did Mr. Blackwell even use any of these rooms? When was he ever home to use any of it?

Finally, I built up the courage to explore my new husband’s bedroom. You could tell a lot about a person from their bedroom and despite being determined to hate him, I couldn’t help my curiosity.

Who was the man I married?

I’d casually asked Loretta at breakfast which room was his and she told me it was one door down from mine. I stood before it, a deep green door, and tested his door handle. Finding it unlocked, I slipped inside.

Mr. Blackwell’s bedroom was palatial and deeply masculine, dominated by dark wood and black leather, each piece of furniture thick and boldly designed. As I walked deeper into his lair I smelled a hint of something spicy in the air.

In one corner were floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a huge green chair near the window. I ran my fingers across the titles as I peered at his library collection. His fiction collection was small: only a few works of Poe, Hemingway, and Steinbeck. It seemed he read mostly nonfiction: business books, of course, marketing, finance, economics. He also had a number of books on leadership.

He was obviously very good at what he did. He cared about his work. His success was hard-earned by the looks of all this self-education and obvious by his fine home, his private jet, all his staff. A thread of admiration weaved through me. I promptly got annoyed at myself and stuffed that admiration aside.

There were two doors that led off his bedroom. My bare feet sank into the rich blue carpet as I crossed his room. I tried the first door. It was his bathroom. The spicy scent I detected earlier must be an aftershave; I could smell it more strongly in here. There was a shower that could easily fit four people and a large built-in spa bath encased in marble.

The second door wouldn’t open, even as I shook and rattled the handle. It was definitely locked. I stared at the simple door of polished wood, looking different from all the rest of the decorated doors. What was in there? Why was it locked?

Perhaps he kept a secret ex-wife in there?

The source of a magical curse?

A dead body?

Stop being so dramatic, Noriko.

I spun to face the room. For some reason, his king-sized bed, covered in a dark gray spread, beckoned to me. I walked right up to it and stared at the expanse. This was where my husband slept. I guessed the right side was his, a book sitting on the bedside table. I fingered the soft cotton and glanced at the door. Did I dare?

He was my husband. I would be well acquainted with this bed soon enough. Better get used to it.

I crawled into the middle of the mattress and lay down on the cool sheets, staring up at the ceiling. I got a flash of his chiseled, smirking face raised over me. I could almost feel the press of his hardness against me, again causing a heated shiver to run down my body. I sat upright, startled at the force of my body’s reaction.

How…strange. I didn’t even like my husband.

How was it possible for my body to react in one way while my mind revolted?

He had almost kissed me in the limo. I could see that he wanted to before we were interrupted. I found my fingers rising to press at my lips.

I’d been kissed before by a boy from school. He was handsome and I liked him well enough, but I had felt more curiosity when I allowed him to lean in and press his thin, cold lips against mine.

Mr. Blackwell’s lips were perfectly formed, precisely defined, and plump with blood so that I couldn’t imagine they’d ever be cold. Just his heart, then.

What would Mr. Blackwell’s mouth feel like against mine? How would he kiss?

I brushed these thoughts aside, trying to calm my nerves. I would find out soon enough. Too soon. Not soon enough.

Something struck me about his room. I stared across to his bedside table, to the mantle above his fireplace, then to the other flat surfaces. That was odd. Where were his photos? In fact, I didn’t remember seeing a single photo frame in any of the rooms so far.

The few surfaces of my family home were covered in photos of us all; my parents’ wedding, the birth of all us children, and us three girls, in diapers, in school uniforms, dressed in costumes for school plays…

Where were the photos of him and his family? Where were the photos of his parents?

That night, I felt immense relief when Mr. Blackwell didn’t arrive for dinner. I sat in the formal dining room in one of the high-backed gold and red cushioned chairs, the only person at the rectangular heavy wooden dining table that stretched across the entire room. The staff door swung open. I straightened up in my chair.

It wasn’t Loretta. But another housemaid, a pretty girl of ebony skin, thick hair the color of ravens tied back at her neck into a prim bun. She kept her eyes on the crowded silver tray she was holding, a slight crease between her brows indicating her concentration. I fought the urge to get out of my chair and help her.

She set her silver tray down on the serving table at the side of the room. In front of me, she placed a silver platter domed with a silver lid. When she pulled the silver dome off, steam rushed up around me. The scent of vegetables and garlic filled my nose, clearing to reveal a bowl of thick vegetable soup garnished with a sprig of parsley. My stomach rumbled.

She set down a small plate of warm brown bread beside it.

“Hi,” I said to her before she could move away again.

She blinked at me. “Are you speaking to me?”

As if there was anyone else to talk to. “Yes,” I said, giving her a warm smile. “What’s your name?”

She paused before she answered, folding her hands across her stomach. “It’s Celeste, ma’am.”

Ma’am. As if I was as old as her mother. I guessed she would be a few years older than me.

“How long have you worked here, Celeste?”

She flinched as if I’d slapped her. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

“All these questions…”

“I want to get to know you a little bit. I mean, we’re both living here.”

She gazed at me for a few moments, the whites showing around her inky irises, before she quickly lowered her lashes. “I’m sorry. I must get back to work.” She snatched up her tray from the side table before hurrying out of the room.

“I just want to talk,” I called out.

But Celeste was gone.

Back home, dinner would be a rowdy affair; steam and chatter would fill the warm kitchen as we all helped to chop the food and set the table. The four of us would eat elbow to elbow around our small, low table, laughing or sharing stories about our day.

In Blackwell Manor, I sat eating dinner with only the stiff-lipped portraits around the room for company, my spoon hitting the side of my soup bowl and echoing off the high ornate ceilings. I felt like an insignificant flake at the bottom of a bowl, my loneliness poised to swallow me up. I eyed the empty place at the head of the table to my right. Maybe eating with Mr. Blackwell wouldn’t be so bad.

After dinner, I returned to my room, a restlessness itching under my skin. When I reached the top of the stairs, my eyes fell upon the darkened west wing. It was the only place in this mansion I hadn’t explored. Curiosity tickled my insides. What could Mr. Blackwell possibly be hiding there?

“You are never to go in the west wing. Never. Do you hear me?”

Defiance flared in me. Who does he think he is dictating where I may go and who I might speak to? He refused to let me talk to my father, I refuse to obey his orders.

If he found out that I disobeyed his orders, he’d be furious.

He’d never find out. Who was around to tell him?

I took a confident step towards the darkened corridor.

My step faltered as I moved into the edge of the dim space. I remembered the flash of pain that went across his face when he eyed the west wing. Whatever secrets the west wing was hiding, they were painful for him. I chewed my lip, the defiance buried underneath a rising pity, a knowing curiosity. Perhaps if I understood him more…?

Would it hurt if I looked?

I glanced around again. I couldn’t see anyone. I couldn’t hear anyone coming.

Just one minute. Just one quick look. I let the darkness swallow me as I hurried farther into the dim hallway, my heart beating faster in my chest.

What would I find?

Discovering the first door was unlocked, I pushed it open and slipped inside.