Chapter 16
When she knew Gabriel was outside the manor and deep into the garden at the greenhouse, Victoria left the parlor and headed up the stairs. Her nerves jangled with every step as she ascended, her hand on the banister and her eyes lifted toward the west wing.
She did not know what she would find.
She turned right and paused at the entrance of the long hallway that led through the west wing of the sprawling manor house. Her eyes landed on the closed door of the child’s room.
A shudder went through her.
She would not open that door today.
As she headed down the shadowy corridor, fog lifted from the creaking floorboards, swirling around her ankles as though it were the most natural thing. Her heart rose to her throat, but she was determined to keep her wits about her.
A sudden cold settled in the air. Her breath turned to smoke. She halted, just past the girl’s bedroom. Her hand clenched into fists as her heart picked up speed.
“I know you’re here,” she whispered, her breath crystalizing in the air. Then, almost as an after thought, she added, “Lenore.”
It was hard to describe, but there seemed to be a…
presence surrounding her then. The shadows deepened in the corridor.
Fog lifted in spiraling tendrils from the floor.
The only sound was the creak of the old floorboard under her step, and then—too softly for certainty—the breath of someone who wasn’t there.
“Whatever’s happened to you—whatever the reason—I want to know. I want to help.”
A low laugh. Almost as though it were a cackle.
Dear sweet child. You cannot help me.
The voice was quiet, mellifluous. Victoria was certain she had heard it before. It stirred something buried—half-memory, half-nightmare—from long ago, when she was small and the manor whispered lullabies to no one.
She forged on, her steps solid and sure across the wooden floor. She paused at the middle room, her hand on the cold knob. She inhaled a deep breath, expelled it, then wrenched the knob and eased the door inward.
It creaked, the old hinges groaning with the effort.
The door opened to a darkened room. The interior hosted nothing more than shapes of furniture.
She wished she’d thought to bring a candle with her to light her way.
But to retreat now would be to surrender—to fear, to shadows, to the house itself.
Victoria stepped into the threshold of the room, her eyes glancing around it as she tried to make out the shapes.
A window on the far wall covered in thick drapes that were shut against the light.
A four-poster bed on one wall, stripped bare.
A wardrobe across from it, the doors shut tight.
As her heart continued to throb, she moved deeper into the room and stepped to the wardrobe. She pulled open the door.
Nothing.
Closing it with a snap, she turned away and examined the rest of the room. The wallpaper was old, peeling. It had seen better days. But from the low light, she was able to make out a faded floral design. As though this room had belonged to a woman. Or perhaps it was a guest room.
Back in the hall, she pulled the door closed and continued her exploration.
The next door was at the end of the hall, situated away from the other two doors. As though it were a large suite. Perhaps it was.
Cold permeated the air. Something brushed against her as it flitted past.
Lenore?
She wasn’t sure.
Her hand landed on the knob. She twisted and pushed open the door. It thumped against the wall.
The room was a yawning dark chasm. Uninviting. And yet, she was unable to stop herself from stepping inside. She paused there, her gaze scanning the contents of the room.
It was, in fact, a large two-room suite. This was meant for the lord and lady of the manor alone.
She was faced with the sitting room first. Velvet curtains blocked out the light from the double window. She drew back the velvet drapes, fingers trembling slightly, and revealed panes of glass smudged with age and sorrow.
But when she opened the curtains, afternoon light flooded the room, brightening it. The view was that of the back garden. Vibrant colored blossoms swayed in the breeze.
Victoria turned back, her gaze sweeping over the room.
The walls were papered in a muted damask, faded slightly from time.
The air was musty from the room being closed up for years, ignored.
Forgotten. The threadbare rug underfoot once had a vibrant pattern.
It, too, was faded from time and neglect.
A pair of tufted armchairs, the upholstery worn but loved, were angled toward the marble fireplace, now cold and dark, though she still got a hint of ash and lilacs lingering there in the hearth.
Between the chairs rested a low table bearing a silver tea service dulled by age and non-use.
A forgotten book rested next to it. As if the reader placed it down with the intention of returning to read with a cup of fresh tea.
A walnut writing desk was on the other side.
The surface was spotless save for a stack of yellowing papers, neatly organized.
A quill and inkwell were next to the papers.
Ready and waiting for the occupant of the room to return and reply to all the remaining correspondence.
Shelves were full of leather-bound books, trinkets, and a small clock that continued to tick away the hours in the heavy quiet of the room.
Everything seemed to muffle out the noise of the outside world.
Even as she stood examining the space, her breath continued to turn white.
And that presence that seemed to follow her everywhere was there. Watching. Waiting.
There were no personal effects here, either. No portraits on the walls or the bookshelves. Nothing on the desk to indicate the occupant.
She moved deeper into the area, heading for the bedroom where the double bed dominated the center.
The first thing that caught her eye was the oil painting of a young woman with a vibrant expression.
Her dark locks curled around her head and spilled over her shoulders, a smile curling her pale lips.
Her eyes, the color of ink, peered out from the portrait.
Her gown was cerulean, trimmed in lace at the cuffs that stopped at the elbow.
Whoever she gazed at while she sat for the portrait made her happy. That much was obvious.
“Lenore?” Victoria asked, her voice quiet in the hush.
It was impossible not to sense the phantom that followed her, watching to see what she would do next. Victoria, though, remained where she was as she took in the expansive space.
It was a grand, timeless sanctuary. The high ceilings were crowned with intricate molding. The massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark mahogany frame carved with ivy and rose motifs. Heavy garnet velvet drapes cascaded from the canopy.
On one side, a lady’s vanity that was dusty from neglect.
Crystal perfume bottles lined it like perfect soldiers in a row.
Most of the contents had evaporated. Next to the bottles, a silver hairbrush.
All of it resting on a lace runner. Nearby, a chaise lounge in pale pink damask that looked like it was inviting once.
Ready for the lady of the room to rest and put up her feet after a long day.
Twin wardrobes flanked the inner wall. One for silks and petticoats. The other for cravats and waistcoats.
And still, Victoria’s breath turned to smoke before her.
And still, the spectral phantom hovered nearby.
But she was not afraid of it. Of her. For Victoria was certain the apparition following her was Lenore.
Turning, she saw the lord’s writing desk beneath a series of portraits.
Victoria moved closer, a sudden sense of familiarity clanged through her.
She stared up at the one in the center. The one with the familiar face, the eyes, the thick dark hair.
He wore an out-of-fashion red waistcoat and a perfect, crisp white cravat.
His expression was stern, aloof. He stood stiff, one hand at his side. The other bent in front of him.
But as Victoria looked into the eyes of the portrait, she knew instantly who he was.
Her stomach twisted. The room spun slightly.
How long had he been here? How long had he been watching, waiting, guarding?
The walls shivered, as if the house breathed in response to her knowing. She stepped back, heart hammering, the truth clawing up her throat.
The man in the portrait was Gabriel.
And he had never aged.