Turned 2: The Bramblewood Werebear

Chapter 1: In Which Jennie encounters Mr. Gunnersen

Jennie knotted her fingers in her lap as she gazed out the carriage window. The woods beyond the narrow road appeared cool and shaded, leaves and branches shifting in a breeze she could not feel. Inside the carriage it was stifling, and smelled of horse and hot leather.
The road curved to the left, and again Jennie strained to see her destination. But there were only more woods. When the ticketmaster at the train station had said that Bramblewood was remote, she had not believed it was such a distance. If only she could simply have ridden in, with the wind in her hair.
But no respectable girl went to meet her future husband while riding sidesaddle.
The road curved to the right this time, and the carriage wheels rattled over a wooden bridge. A narrow river flowed by below, brown and shallow, studded with rocks. A lovely place for an afternoon picnic, and perhaps wading, if there were no men around to see.
Heat crept into her already warm cheeks. Oliver might not mind. But then, he might mind very much. Their long correspondence had not covered such matters as women in bare feet. It was simply not fair that the pastimes she had enjoyed as a girl were no longer seemly once she became a woman.
The river fell behind them. The woods thinned, and rolling parkland opened out to either side: wide grassy land with the occasional vast tree, criss crossed with stone fences and footpaths. Ponds gleamed here and there, occupied by waterfowl of colors she had never seen. Her fingers tightened on the door's catch. If only she dared fling the door open and dash into the grounds, to explore and enjoy--but no, Oliver would probably disapprove.
She sat back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. "You are a lady now," she remonstrated aloud. "You must behave like one. No more wild rambles." Yet the prospect made her heart sink. Perhaps Oliver would understand her need for the outdoors. They had discovered each other when he had read one of her articles about the life cycle of the rare Pandora moth, and he had written her to request more information. Two years of treasured correspondence followed, safely stored in waterproof wrapping in her trunk.
Surely a man so knowledgeable of the outdoors would not begrudge his wife the same freedom.
The manor appeared behind a copse of cottonwoods. It was a wide, cheerful building of red brick and white trim, with a tower on either end, and five gables in between. Mature redwoods shaded it from the July sun, and its sides were flanked by flower gardens in a riot of colors. Her heart swelled at the sight.
The carriage pulled around the curving drive to the front doors, which opened atop a magnificent flight of stone stairs. As Jennie disembarked, the grand doors opened, and a man appeared who could only be Oliver Gunnersen.
Although clean-shaven, his white-blond hair fell nearly to his shoulders, a testament to his barbarian ancestors in the far north, whom he had often joked about in his letters. He was a broad, heavily-built man, with arms as thick as cordwood, and hands the size of cured hams. His gray suit was perfectly tailored to his enormous frame, and he descended the steps with the careless grace of excessive vitality.
Jennie tightened her grip on her valise, despite the dismay that swept through her heart. How could she make love to a man who might very well crush her with an affectionate caress? She was hardly a petite flower, herself, yet beside him, she was a delicate wisp of a girl. She squared her shoulders and faced him with a brave smile.
He approached, beaming like a Norse god. But instead of sweeping her into the bone-cracking embrace she feared, he stooped and kissed her hand. "Welcome, Miss Walden. I trust your journey went well?"
"Yes, thank you," she replied, meeting his eyes. They were bright blue, like the sea on a sunny day. Yet something else lurked there--apprehension. Perhaps he was as nervous about this meeting as she was, herself. The notion gave her comfort.
Oliver pulled her trunk from the back of the carriage and hoisted it to one shoulder. Meeting Jennie's stare, he grinned sheepishly, and without a word, carried it up the steps into the house. Grasping the handle of her valise, she drew a deep breath and followed.
The entry hall was a glorious affair of oaken paneling, somber rugs, and a broad staircase that spiraled to the upper floors. Jennie tried not to gape as she followed the master of the house to the foot of the stairs.
"Your rooms are there." He indicated the entire eastern end of the house with the sweep of an arm. "Perhaps you'd care to freshen up?" He set her trunk at the foot of the stairs.
"Actually, a drink first, if you don't mind." Jennie blushed at the sound of her own voice in the great hall.
He nodded his blond head. "Yes, yes, it's a warm day. Come along--the dining room is through here. Or--or perhaps you'd prefer the terrace?"
"Whichever is cooler." She untied her bonnet and let her damp hair loose.
Oliver called, "Matthew!"
The butler appeared, an older man in a crisp black suit. "Yes sir!" He gazed at Jennie without seeming to. Possibly the entire household staff was curious about her.
"Drinks on the terrace," said Oliver. "The lady is in need of refreshment."
Matthew nodded with an inexplicable look of amusement, and quietly departed down a side hallway.
As Oliver led Jennie through the house, she recalled the friendly familiarity of his letters. That connection was still there, if she could but find it. "This house is enormous! You never mentioned it when we were writing."
His anxious eyes turned to her, and his smile begged for her approval. "I inherited it from my uncle when he died five years ago. I'm not quite used to it, myself."
Perhaps that was why he had carried her trunk instead of letting the servants handle it. "Where did you live before Bramblewood?"
He opened a glass-paneled door for her, revealing a wide, shaded veranda with neat chairs and a table. She stepped through, and a welcome breeze fanned her face. He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat. He seated himself across from her. "I was the warden of Woodsdale--the town where you arrived." He ducked his head, as if expecting her disapproval for holding a job.
But Jennie was interested. "You did mention that once. You're like a policeman?"
He nodded, and shifted uneasily in his chair. "I'm the eldest son, but my family has a heritage of protecting others. When my uncle passed and his will named me his heir, my brother became the warden of the town. It's a good task."
A servant girl arrived with two lemonades and a plate of sugar biscuits. She placed them on the table with a curious look at Jennie, then hurried away.
Jennie sipped her lemonade. Cold and delicious. "Your household seems quite curious about me."
Oliver nodded, and a blush reddened his cheeks. He gazed at his own drink, but did not touch it. "Jennie--you've come a long way to wed a man who is essentially a stranger." He spoke the words as if he had rehearsed them many times. "Perhaps we might wait until we know each other better. Allow me to court you, if I may."
Many emotions swelled in her breast. He may be a man of large stature, but he had all the insecurities of a small boy. In that moment, the love in her heart began to blossom. She reached across the table and took one of his enormous hands. "Oliver, you are too kind for words. Let us indeed wait--perhaps a fortnight. We've courted for two years, and I'm loath to wait much longer."
Relief filled his smile. He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. "I know that I can be intimidating. That does not translate to the page."
"No, but your tenderness does." She withdrew her hand, opened her valise, which she had kept ahold of, and produced a book on birds. She opened it on the tabletop. "As I was driving in, I noticed your ducks, but I could not identify them."
His entire bearing relaxed as he stooped over the page. "Scrub ducks, yes! A domestic strain. I doubt they raise many up north. They prefer warmer climates."
"It is indeed warmer!" Jennie fanned herself with her bonnet.
Within five minutes the pair were laughing and talking like old friends. By the time the refreshments were gone and they returned indoors to escape the afternoon heat, Jennie had nearly ceased to notice Oliver's size. He was the kind, generous man who had written such long, conversational letters, and his presence amplified his good humor.
He showed her to her rooms. Her trunk stood at the foot of a four poster bed, bedecked in sunny yellow blankets. There was a sitting room with a comfortable writing desk and fireplace, and a washroom with indoor plumbing. Jennie was afraid to touch the glistening pewter knobs over the sink, or the polished white loo. But the other rooms suited her tastes quite pleasantly.
One thing puzzled her. In the sitting room, there was a magnificent painting of a brown bear. He stood on all fours on a rock amid a rushing river, the fur on his legs soaked and dripping. The brush strokes conveyed the texture so realistically, she expected the wet fur to shine in the light. The animal's posture expressed fierce joy, as if he had tried his strength against the river's and emerged the stronger.
"That is an odd choice in decor," she observed.
Oliver stepped beside her, hands behind his back, and gravely studied the painting. "The bear is my family's symbol. I had it placed here so you would become familiar with the look of them."
His voice took on an odd tone, nervous and shy. She scrutinized his face, seeking to divine the source of his uneasiness. "Did you paint this?"
A shy smile touched his face, and he ducked his head. "Yes."
"It's very good! You must teach me!"
"I have but little skill." He gave her a reluctant smile. "But if you indeed share this passion, you may also share my tutor. He comes once a month to instruct me in the finer points of line and value."
Oliver left her reluctantly, saying he had put off town business as long as he could. Jennie took the opportunity to pull off her boots and heavy skirt, and moved about her rooms in her petticoat. It did not yet feel like home, but that would change in time. Despite her initial fears, Oliver was a gentleman, and their wedding would bring them much joy.
She often caught herself gazing at the painting of the bear. It expressed the quiet power and reclusiveness of Oliver Gunnersen. Hopefully it did not also imply his temper.