Chapter Twenty-two
Genevieve sipped her tea absently, the warmth failing to chase away the unease lingering in her chest. The morning was unusually hushed, heightened by the notable absence of both Gabriel and James from the household.
They had ridden out at dawn to inspect the northern farms after receiving news of unrest, leaving only her and Sophia to share a subdued breakfast. Sophia sorted through the morning post, her fingers deft as she separated correspondence meant for various members of the household.
Genevieve attempted to focus on the meal before her, but her appetite was lacking.
The events of the past days had carved a hollow space within her and filled more with questions than certainty.
The soft rustle of paper drew her attention just as Sophia’s brow furrowed over one particular letter.
“This bears Richard Harrington’s seal,” she said.
Genevieve stiffened at the name, as an uneasiness started gripping her chest. She set down her cup, reaching carefully for the letter as Sophia passed it to her.
The weight of the folded paper felt heavier than it should have, the red wax seal standing stark against the fine parchment.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke it.
The words blurred at first, her mind skimming the formal greeting, but then the meaning sharpened.
The shift was immediate as curiosity vanished, giving way to shock, then to something far worse.
The color drained from her face. Her pulse quickened, her breath catching in her throat as she read the message again, willing herself to find some mistake, some misinterpretation.
But the words remained stark upon the page.
Aunt Victoria’s health had taken a sudden decline.
Whereas before, she had only had a cough and fatigue, she now had a high fever and suffered from confusion.
Her pulse was weak, and she was barely conscious.
Richard claimed that the physicians feared for her recovery and that, despite their efforts, her strength continued to wane.
And most distressingly of all, he wrote that their fading aunt had asked for Genevieve.
Sophia’s voice cut gently through the silence.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Genevieve looked up, her eyes wide, the shock raw in her expression.
“Aunt Victoria is ill,” she said. “Richard writes that she may not recover, and that she is asking for me.”
Sophia’s face softened with concern, her hands folding together upon the table. Genevieve barely heard her. A dozen thoughts crashed through her mind at once.
Aunt Victoria is gravely ill? She thought frantically. And she is asking for me?
The news, coming from Richard, felt suspect.
He was not a man she trusted easily, especially now, after learning of his connection to Charles.
And it was unlike Victoria to ask for help from anyone.
Yet the symptoms he described and the terrifying possibility that her aunt truly was dying overshadowed every other doubt.
Guilt clenched tight within her chest. She had been so caught in her own concerns and so consumed by Gabriel’s distance and the tension surrounding Mountwood that she had not considered the possibility of trouble elsewhere.
She pressed a hand against the letter, as if by holding it closer she could somehow change the words upon it.
“I must go to her,” she said as the realization settled deep, undeniable in its urgency. “Immediately.”
Clutching the letter tightly, she rose abruptly, murmuring apologies to Sophia as she turned away.
She needed to speak with Gabriel the moment he returned. She needed to arrange travel to London without delay.
There was no question. She had to go.
***
The sun had begun to descend when Gabriel and James returned to Mountwood, the weight of the day hanging on them both.
The ride back had been quiet, their conversation sparse, worn down by hours spent navigating tenant frustrations, diffusing tempers, and reinforcing Mountwood’s position amid the murmurs of unrest. Gabriel was weary, his muscles taut with residual tension, his patience stretched thin.
He did not expect Genevieve to intercept him before he reached the study.
She stood at the foot of the grand staircase, the rich hues of sunset casting a pale glow upon her face, highlighting the visible strain tightening her expression.
Her usual composure was absent. In its place was an urgency that made his pulse sharpen.
She moved forward swiftly, her hand gripping a letter, her movements edged with distress.
“I need to speak with you,” she said.
Gabriel halted, his gaze dropping briefly to the parchment in her grasp before rising to meet the fierce worry in her eyes.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to remain impersonal despite his rapidly rising concern.
She took a breath, words spilling quickly, thick with genuine concern.
“Richard has sent me a letter informing me that Aunt Victoria is terribly ill,” she said.
“The physicians fear she may not recover. She is asking for me.”
Gabriel stiffened; his mind was working swiftly even as his stomach twisted with suspicion. He took the letter from her, scanning its contents, his expression hardening rather than softening. There was no sympathy or reassurance. There was only deep, unrelenting doubt.
Richard Harrington.
The memory of his name alongside Charles Ravencroft’s resurfaced with jarring clarity. The clandestine meeting between them had already planted unease within Gabriel’s mind, and now, here was an urgent summons, perfectly timed, luring Genevieve away from Mountwood.
Immediately, his voice sharpened.
“You cannot go,” he said.
Genevieve’s breath hitched, shock flashing across her features.
“I must,” she said. “She may be dying, Gabriel,”
Gabriel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his jaw locked with tension.
“Traveling to London now is reckless,” he said. “Both Charles and Richard operate there, and the threats against Mountwood have only escalated. You may very well be walking into a calculated trap.”
Genevieve’s frustration flared, her voice rising in defiance.
“You assume a trap without evidence,” she said. “You expect me to abandon my aunt based on suspicion? She is on her deathbed, and you expect me to ignore my duty?”
The argument escalated swiftly, fueled by unspoken wounds, festering resentment, and Gabriel’s looming fear.
Genevieve’s expression hardened further, pain flashing in her eyes.
“You do not trust me,” she said. “You suffocate me with your fear, believing control is the only solution. But I do not need control. I need your understanding. I need your support, not this.”
Gabriel clenched his fists.
“I am protecting you,” he said, grumbling. He did not know how to make her understand without frightening her. There was something sinister at work, he was sure of it. But she was right. He had no proof. By what means could he persuade her to cultivate a clearer understanding?
“You are imprisoning me,” she said. Her voice dropped, quiet but unwavering. “I shall go. You do not have the right to forbid me from answering my duty.”
Gabriel’s mask slipped for a brief instant, revealing raw conflict before he forced himself to rein it in.
He desperately wished to continue trying to reason with his wife.
But she was clearly set on going to her aunt, and he had no right to stop her, especially if the elderly woman was ill.
Still, even as he stepped aside and let Genevieve storm past him, the dread and doubt compounded.
Preparations for Genevieve’s departure were made with grim efficiency, each arrangement carrying the sharp weight of unspoken turmoil. When the carriage finally pulled away, rattling toward London, Gabriel remained framed in the doorway, his stance rigid, his gaze locked onto its retreating form.
He did not move until the carriage disappeared entirely. Only then did he turn back into the shadowed hall, believing himself unobserved.
His composure shattered. A harsh exhale tore from his throat, raw anguish twisting his features. He leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own certainty.
Letting her go was the right decision, he told himself weakly. The lie tasted like ash. The urge to recall the carriage, to ride after her, to undo his own conviction clawed at him with relentless force. Yet still, he did not move. He just had to hope he was wrong.
***
The road stretched ahead in a winding path, narrowing as the carriage moved deeper into the dense woodland.
Hours had passed since their departure from Mountwood, and dusk was beginning to seep into the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the land.
The countryside was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the packed earth and the occasional rustling of wind through the trees.
Genevieve sat rigidly inside the carriage, her fingers resting lightly against the folded letter in her lap, the fine parchment now crumpled at its edges from repeated handling.
Her thoughts churned, replaying the events that had brought her to this moment, the sharp-edged argument with Gabriel still lingering like an ache beneath her skin.
His refusal, his suspicion, his ironclad resistance to her departure had wounded her more deeply than she had anticipated.
But she had not yielded. She could not. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to focus on the road ahead rather than the weight of everything she had left behind.
Outside, the towering oaks grew thicker, the canopy nearly enclosing the passage as the carriage rounded a sharp bend.
The lead coachman slowed the horses slightly, adjusting their pace as they moved into the narrowing corridor.
It was a routine shift, one Genevieve barely registered, until the sudden, sharp cry split the stillness.
“Hold,” the coachman said.
Genevieve straightened immediately, the warning reverberating through the carriage as the horses jerked against their reins. A jolt rocked the vehicle, sharp enough to make her grasp the edge of her seat to steady herself.
“What is it?” she asked.
The driver’s voice carried back, tense, clipped.
“A tree,” he said. “It is blocking the road.”
Genevieve pressed a hand against the window’s frame, shifting her gaze outward. A massive tree trunk lay across the passage, thick and deliberate, its placement unmistakably unnatural. The jagged edges where it had been cut revealed that it had not fallen by chance. Her pulse quickened.
The second coachman, riding alongside, surveyed the obstruction with narrowed eyes.
“Not recent,” he said. “This does not appear natural.”
“We’ll need to maneuver around,” the first coachman said.
Genevieve knew there was no alternative. Turning back was impossible. The only option was to attempt the uneven verge.
The lead coachman made his decision swiftly, guiding the horses cautiously off the road, onto softer ground.
The carriage shifted beneath her as the wheels adjusted to the unsteady terrain.
The movement was slow at first, tentative, until suddenly, the back wheels caught.
Genevieve barely had time to react before the vehicle lurched violently.
The horses reared, their cries sharp and frantic.
Wood splintered beneath them. Balance was lost.
The carriage tilted sharply, one side rising as the weight buckled against the uneven ground.
For an agonizing moment, time seemed suspended.
Then, with a horrifying groan, the structure gave way, and it overturned.
The carriage tumbled down the steep embankment, the force of the fall tearing through the air.
Genevieve’s breath was stolen in an instant.
Darkness and chaos swallowed everything.