The name hit Julia like a physical blow. Corbin, Lyle and Trent. Her mouth went dry. The words echoed in her head, familiar and wrong, like a melody from a dream half-remembered, half-deliberately forgotten. Her hands clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. Her head ached, a sharp, insistent pain behind her eyes.
She spun sharply towards Elsie, her voice tight, strained. "What did you say, Elsie? Repeat that name."
Alistair, who had been mid-sentence, demanding Silas's immediate removal, paused. His blue eyes, cold and hard moments before, flickered with an unreadable alarm. He hadn't expected this reaction from her.
Elsie, caught between Julia's fierce intensity and Alistair's looming presence, stammered. "C-Corbin, L-Lyle and Trent, Miss. He… he said it was urgent business. He's looking for Lord Blackwood."
Alistair regained his composure, a chillingly swift transformation. He offered Elsie a curt nod. "Very good, Elsie. That will be all. You may return to your duties." His voice was dismissive, a clear order.
Elsie curtsied, her eyes darting nervously between them, and fled the room.
Alistair then turned to Finch, a silent command passing between them. Finch bowed, his rigid posture unyielding, and left the dining room, presumably to usher the visitor in.
Alistair turned, his gaze now fixed on the doorway where Finch had disappeared. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Julia, I must attend to this matter in my study."
"No!" The word burst from Julia, sharp and unexpected.
Alistair paused, turning back slowly. His brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes. "What did you say, Julia? I don't understand."
Julia met his gaze, her heart pounding. "I want to be there. I want to meet this visitor."
Alistair's smile was thin. "My dear, that's impossible. This is business. Why would you possibly want to be there?"
"Because I remember that name," Julia insisted, stepping closer, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. "Corbin, Lyle and Trent. They are Harrow solicitors. They handle all our family properties. They handled Marian's affairs." Her mind raced, connecting the dots, a terrible mosaic forming. "If they are here, now, it means something is happening. Something important. And I have a right to know."
Alistair's expression hardened. "Julia, you don't need to worry yourself. It's likely nothing important. They are probably just here to wrap up some final trivialities regarding Marian's estate. I will handle it." His voice was dismissive, condescending.
"No," Julia stated, her voice quiet but resolute. A cold dread was creeping into her bones. "I have a bad feeling about this. I need to be there."
Alistair took a step closer, his charming facade returning, smooth as silk. He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm, but not quite touching. "Julia, my dear, it is quite improper. Men discuss business. You can't possibly be present for such matters. It would be most unseemly." He paused, his blue eyes holding hers, a possessive glint in their depths. "I will tell you everything when we are done. Every single detail."
He then raised his voice slightly. "Agnes!"
Agnes Thorne, as if summoned by a dark magic, appeared in the dining room doorway, her severe face already set in disapproval.
"Agnes," Alistair said, his voice crisp. "Once Miss Julia has finished her breakfast, please see her safely to her room. She is quite distraught this morning, and requires rest." He gave Julia a knowing look, a subtle warning. Then, without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall towards his study.
Agnes Thorne walked into the room, her presence like a sudden drop in temperature. She stood by the table, her pale lips pursed. "Miss Julia," she murmured, her voice flat, "if you have finished your breakfast, I am here to escort you to your room."
Julia met Agnes's cold gaze. "I haven't finished," she said, her voice clipped, dismissive. "You may leave. I'll call you when I'm ready."
Agnes's lips tightened, but she bowed stiffly. "As you wish, Miss." She turned and left, her footsteps surprisingly light for such a rigid woman.
Julia watched her go, then forced herself to pick up her fork. She ate slowly, deliberately, her eyes on the doorway, making sure Agnes wouldn't return. The food was tasteless, but she chewed and swallowed, buying herself time. She had to know what was happening. This visitor, the solicitors – it was connected. She felt it.
When she was certain Agnes was truly gone, Julia pushed her plate aside. She rose, her movements swift and silent, and padded towards the dining room door. She crept into the hall, her heart thumping against her ribs, and made her way towards Alistair's study.
The heavy oak door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light escaping. Julia pressed her ear to the crack, straining to hear.
Alistair's voice, sharp and demanding, filtered through. "I demanded these papers days ago! Why are they only being delivered now?"
A younger, more hesitant voice, presumably the solicitor's man, replied. "My sincerest apologies, Lord Blackwood. Mr. Lyle himself intended to bring them, but… something unexpected came up. He sent me in his stead."
*Papers?* Julia's mind raced. What papers? What could be so urgent that Mr. Lyle, the senior partner, couldn't deliver them himself?
Then, the man's voice again, clearer now. "And Miss Julia Harrow, the… subject of Clause D. Is she present?"
Julia stiffened, her blood running cold. Clause D? Her? What could that possibly mean? Alarm bells screamed in her head. Her curiosity morphed into a chilling certainty that something was terribly, terribly wrong.
She crouched down, trying to find a keyhole, a crack, anything to peek through. But the old keyhole was sealed over, thick with centuries of paint. She pressed her ear harder against the cold wood, desperate to hear more.
Suddenly, a sound.
A faint, scratchy melody, spectral and thin, began to drift from the parlor. It was a ghostly music, a phantom waltz played by unseen hands. Julia cursed under her breath. Why now? Why this moment?
She strained her ear, willing the music to stop, to let her hear Alistair's words. But the sound grew, warping, repeating, a haunting loop of distorted beauty. Marian. It sounded like Marian.
Frustration simmered, hot and impotent. She couldn't hear a word. The spectral music, like a malicious spirit, deliberately obscured the truth. Where was it coming from? Who was playing it? She had to know. She had to make it stop.
Julia pushed away from the study door, her rage a driving force, and stalked towards the parlor. The music grew louder, clearer, as she approached, a melancholic poem set to a scratched tune. It was indeed Marian's voice, thin and reedy, reciting poetry.
She burst into the parlor, her eyes scanning the dim room. Dust motes danced in the sparse shafts of sunlight, swirling like tiny ghosts. And there, on a small, ornate table, sat an old phonograph. Its horn, tarnished brass, seemed to hum with Marian's voice.
Julia approached it slowly, her heart pounding. The sound was impossible. The machine looked ancient, forgotten. As her hand reached out, inches from the needle, the music cut. Abruptly. Utterly.
She stared at the phonograph. It was completely broken. The spring was unwound, the needle bent, the cylinder cracked. How had it been playing? Had she imagined it? Had the fever, the lack of sleep, finally unhinged her mind? Or was it real? A ghostly echo in a haunted house?
"Miss Julia."
Agnes Thorne's voice, cold and sharp, cut through the silence like a knife. Julia gasped, startled, her hand slipping. The broken phonograph clattered back onto the table, a dull thud.
Agnes stood in the doorway, her severe face a mask of disapproval. Her pale eyes raked over Julia, then the phonograph. "What are you doing here, Miss Julia? If I remember correctly, this is not your room." Her voice lowered, laced with something akin to accusation. "Have you started again?"
"I… I don't understand," Julia stammered, her mind reeling. "What do you mean, 'started again'?"
Agnes's lips thinned. She seemed poised to say more, a dark secret hovering on her tongue. Then, as if remembering some unspoken command, she checked herself. Her gaze hardened. "It matters not. Lord Blackwood wishes you to rest. Come. I am here to escort you to your room."
Julia's anger flared again. To be treated like a child, to be locked away while crucial conversations happened. She wanted to scream, to demand answers. But Agnes's rigid posture, her unyielding gaze, promised no quarter.
She turned and walked out of the parlor, Agnes following silently behind her. As they reached the grand staircase, Julia distinctly heard Agnes murmur, barely above a whisper, "Such a temptation."
Julia's hands clenched into fists. Temptation? What did that even mean? The word, delivered with such venomous piety, stung her. She wanted to confront Agnes, to shake the truth from her, but she bit her tongue. It was useless. Agnes Thorne was a stone wall.
She reached her room, the door closing behind her with a soft click. The silence felt suffocating. Frustration, hot and bitter, washed over her. She hadn't heard a thing. Alistair would never tell her.
Silas. She needed Silas. He was the only one who didn't treat her like a fragile doll, the only one who might understand. Was he still sleeping? She wanted to go to him, to confide in him, to unravel the meaning of the vision and the strange visit from the solicitors.
But then, Alistair's words echoed in her mind: Sitting on his lap… engage in intimacies… the scandal… his plan…
No. She couldn't. Not now. Alistair's jealous eyes were everywhere. She couldn't give him any more ammunition, couldn't risk Silas being thrown out when she needed him most. It would complicate everything.
She sighed, a weary, defeated sound. She needed a distraction. A book. She yearned for the familiar comfort of her own stories, her own worlds. She walked to the small bookshelf by her bed.
Her breath hitched. Her books. They were gone. Every single one. In their place, row upon row of thick, leather-bound volumes. Marian's cataloguing notes. And on each spine, in bold, looping script, was her own name: Julia Harrow. It was as if she were being consumed by this house, by Marian's ghost, by Alistair's obsessive control.
She turned to her wardrobe, seeking solace in her charcoal and olive dresses, a tangible reminder of her own identity. She pulled open the heavy door.
Inside, hanging stark and white, was a dress Julia had seen only once in her life. It was Marian's.
Marian's wedding dress.