The silence pressed in, heavy and expectant. Finch's footsteps receded down the hall, leaving Julia to the confines of her room. She looked at her bandaged hand, the new pristine white standing out against the fainter, older dressing. Alistair's orders echoed in her mind: Rest. Do not leave your room.
A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips. Rest? How could she possibly rest with the specter of Marian, the chilling notes, the vanishing evidence, and the insidious whispers of madness swirling around her? This house, this family, was determined to keep its secrets buried, to keep her confined. But Julia Harrow was not one to be easily deterred.
She stood up, testing her weight, her bandaged hand a mere inconvenience. The morning sun, though still weak, beckoned through the heavy curtains. She needed air. More than that, she needed answers. And she certainly wasn't going to find them locked away in her room like a delicate porcelain doll. A fierce determination hardened her features. She would not be Marian, trapped and forgotten.
She slipped out of her room, a quiet shadow amidst the hushed grandeur of Blackwood Hall. The long corridor stretched before her, silent and deserted. She crept down the grand staircase, her steps light, avoiding the tell-tale creaks of the old wood. The main hall was empty, the polished floors gleaming, reflecting the pale sunlight.
Her destination was the library. It was a vast, cavernous room, filled with the comforting scent of old paper and leather. Perhaps a forgotten letter, a hidden diary entry, something Marian might have left behind, would offer a clue. But as she pushed open the heavy oak door, a voice, sharp and perfectly modulated, startled her.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the household has failed to keep confined."
Julia froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Seated by the roaring fire, a copy of The Times held aloft, was a woman. She was impeccably dressed, her silver hair coiffed in an elaborate style, her eyes sharp and inquisitive behind a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. Lady Eugenia Kingswell. Julia recognized her from an old family portrait. Alistair's distant relation.
"Lady Kingswell," Julia managed, collecting herself. "I… I didn't realize we had a guest. Lord Alistair didn't mention your arrival." She felt a prickle of annoyance. Why was everything a secret in this house?
Lady Eugenia lowered her newspaper, her gaze sweeping over Julia with an almost disdainful air. "Indeed, my dear. Some of us prefer to arrive without fanfare, unlike some who descend upon a grieving household demanding… explanations." Her lips, thin and painted, barely moved as she spoke. "And as for Alistair, he has more pressing matters than to announce every arrival and departure, especially of those who are merely… temporary residents."
Julia's jaw tightened at the thinly veiled barb. "I assure you, Lady Kingswell, my presence here is entirely justified. I am Julia Harrow, Marian's cousin. And I am here to uncover the truth about her death." Julia tried to sound friendly, to extend a courtesy, but the woman's haughty demeanor was already chafing.
Lady Eugenia's eyebrows, perfectly arched, rose infinitesimally. A flicker of something akin to amusement, cold and sharp, touched her eyes. "Ah, yes. The 'cousin.' The one who ignored poor Marian for years, only to arrive demanding answers the moment she draws her last breath." She paused, her gaze dismissive. "Frankly, my dear, your sudden interest is rather… gauche."
Julia felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "My relationship with Marian is not for you to judge, Lady Kingswell," she retorted, her voice hardening. "And my concern for her memory is genuine."
"Genuine concern? Or a thirst for scandal, perhaps?" Lady Eugenia sniffed, waving a dismissive hand. "This house, my dear, has always been cursed by misfortune in love. First, Alistair's dear departed first wife, who met an untimely end. And now, Marian. Such a pity for a man of his standing. It quite puts one off matrimony, doesn't it?"
Julia's mind raced. "Alistair's first wife?" she questioned, a new piece of the puzzle unsettling her. "What happened to her?"
Lady Eugenia gave a brittle laugh. "Oh, a tragic riding accident. Or so they said. Blackwood Hall has always been a place of… unfortunate accidents. But really, Alistair does seem to attract rather… fragile women, doesn't he? And then they fall ill, or have 'accidents.' One might almost think it a pattern." Her eyes gleamed with malicious amusement.
Julia felt a growing unease. "Marian was not fragile, Lady Kingswell. And Alistair loved her." The memory of Alistair's raw grief in her room, his explanation of the miscarriage, flooded her mind. He had truly loved her.
Lady Eugenia snorted, a delicate, ladylike sound that was nonetheless entirely contemptuous. "Love? My dear, Alistair is a man of passion, certainly. But Marian… that girl was half-mad before he even married her. You may be her cousin, but you clearly didn't know the true extent of her… condition." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it carried clearly in the quiet library. "She saw things, you know. Imagined things. A vulgar little ghost, even in life. And her temper! Oh, the fits she would throw!"
Julia felt a surge of hot, righteous anger. "That is a cruel and untrue thing to say!" she lashed out, her voice sharp. "Marian was kind and gentle! If she suffered, it was because of the isolation, because of the burden of… of the secrets this house holds. And if she was ill, it was not her fault. Alistair treated her like a precious egg, according to his own words. He adored her. He saw her suffering, he tried to protect her! So don't you dare slander her name when she is no longer here to defend herself!"
Lady Eugenia's face, usually so composed, contorted into a mask of shock and then pure indignation. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Julia had rarely raised her voice, but the injustice of it all, the casual cruelty of the woman, ignited a fire within her.
"And as for Alistair being 'cursed'," Julia continued, her voice trembling with controlled fury, "perhaps the curse lies in the expectations of this society, in the way women are treated, isolated and driven to despair, then dismissed as 'mad' when they can no longer bear it!"
Lady Eugenia finally found her voice, though it was now a harsh, brittle sound. "How dare you, Miss Harrow! How dare you speak to me in such a manner! You are a guest in this house, a dependant!" She pointed a trembling finger at Julia. "You truly are a piece of work, just like your cousin. And to think, they were discussing passing Alistair from one cousin to another. A family tradition, perhaps?"
Julia, who had begun to turn away, stopped dead. Her eyes, usually reflective of curiosity, now blazed with a dangerous fire. The insult cut deeper than anything else. "Excuse me?" she said, her voice low and venomous. She turned back fully, stepping closer to Lady Eugenia, who recoiled slightly at her intensity.
"A family tradition, you say?" Julia repeated, her voice dripping with contempt. "As if Lord Alistair is a mere chattel, to be passed among female relations like a piece of furniture? Perhaps, Lady Kingswell, the only vulgarity in this room is your own, cloaked in layers of condescension and false propriety. Your words are an insult not only to Marian's memory, but to the very concept of decency."
Lady Eugenia gasped, her face blotchy with outrage. "You… you impudent girl! I shall inform Alistair of your monstrous insolence the moment he returns! This behavior is utterly intolerable! Finch! Finch, where is that man?" She shrieked, her voice echoing through the library.
Julia rolled her eyes, a flicker of satisfaction in her gaze. Great, she thought, Finch will see me now. But she didn't care. She had made her point.
Finch, as if conjured by Eugenia's fury, appeared in the library doorway, his stern face impassive, but his eyes narrowing as he took in the agitated Lady Kingswell and Julia's defiant stance.
"Mr. Finch!" Lady Eugenia screeched, pointing an accusing finger at Julia. "This… this girl has utterly disgraced herself! She left her room, despite Alistair's clear orders, and then she had the audacity to insult me, a guest, a relation, in my own presence!"
Finch's gaze shifted to Julia, his expression tightening with displeasure. "Miss Harrow," he said, his voice cold as ice. "Is this true? You have disobeyed Lord Alistair's explicit instructions regarding your confinement. And now you have insulted a guest of Blackwood Hall? This is the second time you have deliberately disregarded his wishes."
Julia met his gaze, refusing to back down. "And what of it, Mr. Finch?" she retorted, her voice clear and unwavering. "I am also a guest here, am I not? Or perhaps my status as Marian's cousin means I am not afforded the same courtesies as your… other relations?" She gestured towards Lady Eugenia with a challenging tilt of her head.
Finch's lips thinned into a disapproving line, his eyes holding a mixture of shock and frustration. Even Lady Eugenia seemed momentarily stunned by Julia's audacity.
"I shall write to Lord Alistair immediately concerning your conduct, Miss Harrow," Finch stated, his voice grim with promise.
"Do tell him, Mr. Finch," Julia replied, a sardonic smile touching her lips. "Tell him everything. And while you're at it, you might also inform him that I am planning on going shopping. Perhaps in London, as he seems to be enjoying its delights himself." She gave a curt nod, a small gesture of triumph.
With that, Julia turned on her heel, leaving Lady Eugenia sputtering indignantly and Finch standing rigid in the doorway, and made her way back towards her room, the library doors swinging shut behind her with a resounding thud.
The defiance, the surge of righteous anger, left her feeling strangely invigorated. She pushed open the door to her room, a small sense of victory blossoming in her chest. But as she stepped inside, her gaze fell to her pillow.
Resting there, stark against the white lace, was a single, wilted crimson rose. Its petals were browning at the edges, already starting to decay. It looked like blood, drying to a sinister dark hue.
Julia stopped dead, her breath catching in her throat. The color drained from her face. No. Not again. This was too much. The missing note, the footprints, the scratches, and now this. It was as if someone was playing a cruel, elaborate game with her.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Julia exclaimed, her voice echoing in the suddenly silent room. She stomped over to the bed, snatching the rose. "Are you quite finished? What is this supposed to mean? Are you going to appear next, Marian? Or are you simply going to torment me with morbid little gifts?" Her voice was loud, tinged with exasperation and a raw, frayed edge of fear.
A soft, insistent knock sounded on her door. It pushed open slowly, revealing Finch, his face impassive, his gaze sweeping the room.
"Miss Harrow," he said, his voice calm, unnervingly so. "Is everything in order? I heard a… commotion." His eyes, however, rested for a fraction of a second on the wilted rose clutched in Julia's hand.
Julia's heart hammered against her ribs. He had heard her. He knew. Yet he acted as if nothing was amiss. She forced herself to breathe, to calm the frantic beat of her heart. She tightened her grip on the rose, pretending a nonchalance she didn't feel.
"Everything is perfectly in order, Mr. Finch," Julia replied, her voice steady, though a thin tremor ran through her. "Just… a small personal matter." She gave him a tight, unconvincing smile. "Unless you saw someone enter my room just now?"
Finch's gaze remained unreadable. "No, Miss Harrow. I have been directly outside this wing, attending to a matter of considerable importance. No one has entered or exited this room since I left you. Perhaps… you merely imagined it."
Julia stared at him, her mind reeling. She wanted to scream, to point to the rose, to the phantom footprints. But what good would it do? He would deny it. He would make her doubt herself, doubt her sanity. She was unsettled to her core, but a flicker of her investigative mind told her to play along.
"Yes," Julia said, forcing a small, weary laugh. "Yes, perhaps I did. This old house… it does tend to play tricks on one's mind, doesn't it? Especially when one is confined to her room." She let her gaze linger pointedly on him. "Thank you for checking, Mr. Finch. I assure you, there's nothing to worry about."