Chapter 17
She dashed from the room, the cold draft following on her heels. Once she was back in the hall, she closed the door with a snap and leaned against it, the fear pounding through her. Her hands shook as a chill raced through her. She knew Lenore was there. Hovering. Waiting. Watching. Knowing.
“Please,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure what she was asking for.
He lied to you, didn’t he?
Her voice, sharp and dark, whispered near her ear. Then the lilting laugh echoed through the hall on a disappearing note.
Victoria clutched her elbows, a shudder pulsing through her.
Her feet pounded the ancient, creaking floor as she made her way out of the west wing and back into the main part of the manor. A breath of relief escaped her as she sagged against the wall.
Sunlight slanted there, fractured by the dirty windows in the hall. It should have felt like peace, but it didn’t.
She thought back to her first day here, when she insisted on a tour. Gabriel knew his portrait hung in that room. That’s why he didn’t want her to start there. To see. To know. He must have been so relieved when she didn’t make it past the child’s room.
The sinister feeling she got in that room was enough to make her never want to return.
And yet, her curiosity was more than she could bear. She had to know what else lay within those rooms.
Now she knew for certain Gabriel was the sorrowful figure who had lingered in the shadows of her childhood. What she didn’t understand was how her parents never saw him.
That wasn’t entirely true. Her mother sensed something about this house.
She feared staying and urged her father to leave Ravenfell behind, perhaps even sell it.
Her father, being pragmatic, agreed with his wife and left.
The manor was his inheritance from his father, and so, he was unable to sell it.
He hung on to it for years waiting to pass it down to her.
Victoria was starting to put the pieces of her childhood memories back together as she remembered more and more. Lenore was bound to this house. So was Gabriel. What she did not know was how they were connected.
The boy at the post mentioned a husband and his wife who died. A man who never left the manor after her death. And there was a child. A child who also died?
She didn’t know.
“Victoria?”
Gabriel’s voice jarred her out of her thoughts. She came back to her senses and glanced down the length of the stairs to see him standing at the foot gazing up at her with his dark, soulful eyes.
“You look pale. Are you well?” he asked.
She pressed a cold hand against her cheek. Her fingers still trembled. She wasn’t ready to confront him about the portrait. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”
The lie was a kindness.
“Perhaps rest is in order after luncheon,” he suggested. “It’s ready in the dining room.”
It was a welcome distraction. She dropped her hand and started down the stairs, taking the steps slow and one at a time. Her mind drifted back to the portrait and the way he looked in it.
She missed a step, her heel sliding off the edge. She started to fall, gripping the handrail tight to halt her tumble. Suddenly, he was there as he bounded up the stairs. His arms wrapped around her to steady her, making her fall against his chest.
A strangled gasp gurgled up her throat. Either from the near fall or the fact he was holding her against him. She clutched his sleeve, her heart tumbling at both his nearness and her misstep.
She was uncertain how he managed to move so fast, but she was grateful. She tilted her head up. Their faces were inches apart.
“Careful. These old stairs are treacherous.”
“Thank you,” she managed, her voice but a whisper.
But that’s not what she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him she saw his portrait and that he was exactly the same as he was now. And hers. She wanted to tell him knew Lenore haunted these halls.
But she didn’t. She remained silent as he took her hand and walked with her down the remaining steps. At the foot, he released her.
He made a motion toward the dining room. “Ready for luncheon?”
She nodded and followed him. As she did, she felt the ghostly presence of Lenore behind her.
That night, a storm came. Soft, at first, with faint rumbles of thunder. Lightning lit up her window, casting an eerie flashing glow across her bedroom floor. Unable to sleep, she shoved the blankets down and rested on the bed’s edge.
Her room was cold.
She recognized that cold.
Rising, she snatched her dressing gown off the end of the bed and pulled it on. She put on her slippers and grabbed the single candelabra on her bedside table. The flame flickered as she whisked open the door and peered into the dark hall.
The manor was quiet.
As she stood in the threshold, she glanced down the length of the hall to Gabriel’s room. Light slashed into the hall. His door was open. She headed to it and peered inside. But it was empty. He wasn’t there.
Her footsteps were light as she made her way to the stairs. Holding the candle in one hand, she gripped the handrail in the other, taking care to make slow, methodical steps until she reached the bottom.
Pausing, she glanced toward the darkened parlor. She heard faint notes of the piano. As though someone tapped the keys. Not a tune. Just a note here and there.
“I’m not afraid of you.” But even as she said it, the fear clotted the back of her throat.
She turned away from the parlor and headed for the sitting room. The thought of the comfortable old sofa and a warming fire sounded good. Like the best way to wait out the storm.
As she rounded the corner, she saw faint light flickering from the doorway. As though a fire was already lit in the hearth.
Gabriel?
If he was there, she wasn’t certain she wanted to disturb him. But then, having him for company would help ease her restless mind.
When she entered the room, she halted. There he was, on the sofa, a tattered volume in his hand and the firelight illuminating his features. When she entered, he looked up. Surprise flickered through his gaze as he put down the book and rose.
“Did the storm wake you, miss?”
He’d called her Victoria earlier that day. She preferred he use her given name than call her miss. But she didn’t correct him.
“I’ve been awake for some time. I’m sorry to disturb you. I should return to my room,” she said.
“No, please.” His urgent voice stopped her from leaving. He motioned to the seat next to him. “Sit with me. We can pass the time together listening to the storm.”
She placed her candelabra on the low table next to the settee and then lowered onto it on the opposite side of him, drawing her legs up underneath her. He picked up his book again, his gaze focused on the pages in the low lamplight of the room.
“What are you reading?” she asked, unable to stand the silence.
“A book of poetry. It’s called Celestial Hymns.” He handed the open book to her.
She took it and scanned down the page. It seemed to be poetic tales of celestial beings written in fragmented verse. One of a girl born of starlight and moonlight. Born of blood under a ruined sky. A lyrical, lovely piece of poetry. She handed him back the book.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the study.”
She recalled the expanse of bookshelves but hadn’t examined them that close when she was searching the desk.
“I can’t recall the last time I read a book,” she mused.
“Pity that.”
She glanced at him to see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the first time she’d seen him actually smile.
“I love a good tale,” he said.
“Oh?” She was intrigued. “What’s your favorite?”
“Tales of high adventure,” he said.
“And perhaps swashbuckling pirates?” she teased.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I rather liked The Corsair.”
She tilted her head. “By Lord Byron?”
He nodded once.
She recognized the title, though she had never read it. A tale of adventure and revenge. Romantic and dark. But as she considered the name and its author, a small knot formed in her chest. Hadn’t that been published over a century ago?
He went on, describing other books he’d read. Tales she vaguely remembered from dusty schoolroom lists or antique bookshops. All of them, evidently, housed within the manor’s walls.
If he had truly been here for years—decades, even—then perhaps reading was his only escape. A portal to other lives, other places. A distraction from the oppressive quiet of Ravenfell’s long-forgotten halls.
She leaned back, letting his voice wrap around her like warmth against the cold storm beyond the window. He spoke with reverence, with the quiet delight of someone who had few joys left. There was something beautiful, and unbearably sad, about the way his eyes lit when he mentioned a favorite tale.
And yet, with every word, that knot in her chest pulled tighter.
As the storm pounded the roof and lightning flashed in the windows, she forgot about haunted passageways and aged portraits and the cackle of a disembodied voice. There was only the two of them, and she found she quite liked this part of him that adored fine literature.
A clap of thunder startled her, making her head snap up.
“Just thunder,” he murmured. “Sounds like the storm is almost over.”
Indeed, it sounded as though the rain slowed.
A distant clap of thunder. A faint flash of lightning.
And then she stifled a yawn. And though she was tired, she refused to leave his side.
Being in his presence calmed her, comforted her, made her want to stay by his side.
As she listened to him talk—he had never said so many words—she sensed they’d made a connection.
Their relationship had taken a bit of a turn.
She liked it.
She liked him.
“I’ve bored you with my fictional tales,” he said when he saw her try to hide her yawn.
“Not at all.” Her eyes were heavy, the fatigue pressing through her.
“I’ve prattled on long enough, I should think. Tell me something of yourself.”
“Me?” The word squeaked out of her.