He crossed his arms and watched her as she walked around the space, announcing where she believed each room had been. She had not been so animated in quite some time. But picturing how this house had been long ago filled her with a sort of joy she hadn’t known in a long time. There was some nostalgia there, too, for what had been lost, but the predominant feeling was excitement.
“You truly are a voyager,” Lucien said. “I suspect perhaps your particular interest lies within old ruins. Is that possible?”
She spun around. “I did always enjoy looking at abandoned buildings. My mother did too. When I was younger, still just a child, my mother would sometimes take me to an old, fallen-down church near our country seat. I adored it, as did she. My father never liked it. He said we ought not to waste our time on things like that—things that are gone. But I loved it.”
“Then I dare say you shall enjoy exploring. There are many buildings such as this, not just around this country but around the world.”
“Well then, I ought to thank you,” Marianne replied.
“Well, if I had known that it was going to be so easy to awaken your passion, perhaps I would’ve done it sooner.”
She laughed. “But you did not know about my lack of passion until I told you about it.”
“I suppose that is true,” he said.
They looked at one another for a moment, and Marianne’s heart beat a little faster. They were all alone here in this abandoned building. She should be frightened. She should think of Juliet’s words, of all the things she did not know about him. Were he and his wife really so unhappy? Or was that talk from below stairs, nothing more?
“So, have you brought Henry here?”
“I have once or twice, but then he attempted to come on his own and thus was forbidden. He’s too young. I prefer to keep this as my secret place. Well. Not so secret now.”
Marianne smiled. “Pray, do not flatter me. I am certain you shared this place with others before—certainly your wife.”
Lucien let out something that was a mixture of a grunt and a groan. “Certainly not. If anything, I came here to—” he waved a hand, “it does not matter.”
He didn’t want to talk about his wife—that was clear. She wondered why. The more she got to know him, the more it began to look as though it was no love match. She had noted that there were no paintings of his wife anywhere, that Henry never spoke of her—though of course he was too young to remember her—but neither did the servants. It was most irregular; one would imagine there would be remembrances or something of that nature. But there wasn’t.
“When did you discover this place?” she asked.
“Years ago,” he said. “I used to ride aimlessly because it was peaceful. One day, I was trapped in the rain and found this place.”
Lucien paused and watched her for a moment, then, to her surprise, he took her hand. The sensation of his fingers curled around hers was so overwhelming that for a moment, she didn’t even know what to do. But then he tugged on her hand, and she simply followed him.
“Come. I shall show you the place I spoke of.”
They walked out the back of the house through what had at one point been a grand courtyard. As Marianne climbed over a boulder, Lucien placed one hand on her back.
“It is just through here,” he said, letting go of her hand. They ducked underneath the fallen branch of a tree that rested precariously between two parts of a ruined wall, and then they were in an alcove of sorts.
Two of the walls at the back of the house had survived, as had a part of the flooring above, giving a sort of shelter from the elements.
“Goodness,” Marianne said.
An old wooden rocking chair stood in the corner, and Lucien pushed it, only for the back to fall off as soon as it hit the wall.
“Wood rot,” he said. “I brought this here myself from the house. I took a carriage that time,” he said with a smile. “I should’ve known it would be ruined.”
He sighed and pulled the chair aside, revealing a small cabinet behind it. He bent forward, his hair swinging forward to graze his cheek as he did. He opened the cabinet and grinned. “Well, some things do survive,” he said, and took out a glass bottle along with a couple of glasses. Then he bent forward again and peered inside the little cabinet.
“And some things do not,” he said as he withdrew a book that looked swollen with water. He sniffed it and then tossed it across the room. It landed with a loud thud. “It smells dreadful.”
“I can smell it from here,” Marianne said, wrinkling her nose.
“I forgot about the book. I was reading it at the time, and I do not think I ever reached the end.”
“What was the book?” Marianne asked.
“It was the story about a man named Gulliver who traveled to strange places. An explorer — as you hope to be.”
