Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
J uliet’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze drifting to the familiar ceiling of her chamber at Wetherby House.
For a moment, she lay still, her breath shallow, as though the slightest movement might dispel the fragile illusion. The sight was so ordinary, yet it felt so disconcertingly… wrong ? She was in her nightdress, the soft mattress beneath her as familiar as her own reflection, yet the weight of unease pressed down on her.
Why did this place—her home for years—feel suddenly so foreign?
Her brow furrowed as memories stirred, half-formed and elusive. Dreams of waking here before, of this same dislocation, teased the edges of her mind. Waking up to… Horatio ? Her chest tightened, and she bolted upright, sleep scattering like autumn leaves.
No—this couldn’t be. She should not be at Wetherby at all! She was supposed to be at Ravenscourt. Where Horatio lay ill. Where he needed her to tend to him.
She tossed the bedclothes aside and crossed hastily to her wardrobe. The doors swung open with a creak, revealing nothing but a dressing gown and a spare nightdress. The emptiness felt like a mockery. No shoes. No slippers. Barefoot, she turned to the door, dread rising with every step. Her fingers curled around the handle, yanking hard.
It didn’t budge.
She rattled it again, harder this time, her palm slipping as panic took hold.
The door was locked.
A tremor coursed through her then, followed by the sharp sting of fear blooming in her chest. She could not remember how she had come to be here, only the aching certainty that she was imprisoned, cut off from the one person who needed her most. She wanted to be by his side, needed to be by his side. She began to pound on the door desperately with the heel of her hand.
“Let me out! I'm locked in! Let me out!”
Each word was louder and more frantic than the last. She lost track of how long she had been shouting—minutes? Hours?— but at last, a sound broke the silence: the measured tread of footsteps beyond the door.
She stumbled back, her chest heaving, and fixed her gaze on the handle as it turned with agonizing slowness.
The lock clicked. The door creaked open.
It revealed a woman whose presence was as unyielding as the oak behind her. She was dressed in severe black, her gown a shapeless expanse from neck to hem, her hair scraped into a bun so taut, it seemed to pull her face smooth. Thin lips pressed into a line of displeasure, and her dark brows formed a forbidding shelf across her pale countenance.
“Who are you?” Juliet demanded.
The woman regarded her with the dispassion of a governess appraising an unruly charge. “We have had this conversation before,” she tutted, her tone clipped. “I have told you who I am. We have been introduced by your aunt and uncle. Do try to remember, dear.”
“I have never seen you before in my life!” Juliet retorted, her disbelief sharpening into defiance now.
The woman raised a single brow. “And yet, I have seen you every day for a month.”
“A month?” Juliet breathed. “I have been here for a month?”
“No. I have been in Lord and Lady Wetherby’s employ for a month. Before that, they were attempting to manage your behavior themselves, with some assistance from the household staff. You, my lady, have been here for most of your life.”
Juliet pressed a trembling hand to her temple, as though she might steady the world that suddenly felt as though it had turned upside down. Her voice wavered as she spoke. “How—how long has it been since I was at Ravenscourt? Since Horatio was wounded by the poacher…”
The woman paused, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her otherwise impassive face. Then, she drew a measured breath.
“You have never been to Ravenscourt Castle, dear child, nor have you ever met His Grace, the Duke. I know nothing of an injury, and neither do you. Since your illness began, you have not left this house and have rarely left this room. I am your nurse, and my name is Mrs. Swift.”
Juliet gaped at her, the words registering but refusing to take root. “That is not true. It cannot be true…” she whispered, her voice scarcely audible. “I was at Ravenscourt. I lost my pet mouse, Archie … and the—the Duke helped me find him. We were caught together—there... there was a scandal—”
“A scandal that resulted in the Duke agreeing to marry you to salvage your reputation,” Mrs. Swift replied evenly, inclining her head slightly, as though indulging a fanciful child. “And then, as these stories often go, he fell in love with you, and the marriage became one in truth as well as in name. A charming tale, my lady. But a tale nonetheless.”
“No!” Juliet insisted, her voice gaining strength as her memories surged forward. “I remember Horatio! I remember Ravenscourt!”
For the first time, a flicker of sympathy softened Mrs. Swift’s rigid features. She clasped her hands before her, her voice lowering to something almost tender.
“Child,” she began, the word steeped in an unwelcome pity. “I have cared for many who have suffered the maladies of the mind. I know how vivid your dreams may seem to you, how utterly real. But that does not change the truth—they are dreams, nothing more. And while you are unable to reconcile yourself to the nature of reality, you must remain confined. For your own safety.”
The finality of her words struck like the cold clang of a cell door closing, and Juliet staggered under the weight of them, her breath quickening as panic clawed at her chest. To be imprisoned was a purely physical torment. To have her memories of Horatio dismissed as dreams was far… far worse.
“How do you know it is all fantasy?” Juliet demanded, desperately.
“Because I have been informed by your Aunt and Uncle of your fabrications and their concerns for your safety. And because I have observed you with my own eyes over the last month.”
“I have not been here for a month!”
“Yes, you have,” Mrs. Swift replied calmly.
“I was at Ravenscourt. I was tending to Horatio. Mr. Hall, the butler, was there. It did not happen a month ago!”
“It did not happen at all. Listen to yourself!” Mrs. Swift’s voice lashed out, sharp as the crack of a whip. Then, as if recognizing her own lapse in control, she closed her eyes and inhaled a calming breath. “You tended to an unmarried Duke while he was injured? You fell asleep in his presence. At his bedside no less. In what world would such scandalous behavior be permitted, dear?”
Juliet opened her mouth to retort, but her gaze drifted past Mrs. Swift’s shoulder, catching sight of a familiar figure hovering just beyond the doorway. “ Edith …”
Mrs. Swift stiffened and turned, following Juliet’s gaze. Edith stood there, her gloved hands folded primly before her.
“This is no concern of yours, Miss Edith,” Mrs. Swift said sharply, her eyes narrowing. “I have full authority over my patient.”
“I merely wished to visit my cousin and inquire after her health,” Edith replied sweetly.
“And as you can see,” Mrs. Swift muttered, her tone cold enough to frost glass, “ now is not the time.”
She slammed the door on Edith, shutting her out of the room. Then, she turned back to Juliet, clasping her hands together before her.
“It would be better for all if you surrendered this ridiculous fantasy, dear. The sooner you admit to your confusions, the sooner you can begin to heal. Until that time, you will remain confined to your rooms. I sincerely hope that tomorrow we will not have to endure this conversation again.” Her gaze hardened, and her lips curved in a tight, humorless smile. “That being said, I am prepared to repeat it every day, from now until the day of judgment if necessary.”
She spun and marched from the room.
Juliet heard the key in the lock a moment later. She ran to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, of course.
Juliet hammered at the door again, shouting until her voice went hoarse—but there was no answer beyond the door. Eventually, exhausted in body and spirit, she wilted to the floor, her back to the door and tears flowing freely down her cheeks.
“ Juliet ?” came a whispered voice beside her ear.
At first, it was so soft that Juliet thought she had imagined it. Then it came again, and she realized it was Edith. She turned, peering into the keyhole. Edith's gray eye was looking back.
“Edith! Thank goodness! You must let me out! Please!”
“I don't have the key, and... and they will take away my books if I help you. They said you are unwell...” Edith murmured.
“All lies, Edith!” Juliet insisted.
“But why would mama and papa and Mrs. Swift all lie?” Edith asked.
Juliet took a deep breath, wanting to convince Edith but not wanting to seem mad. If she became too passionate, too animated, it might just feed into the lies that the Godwins were telling.
Assuming they were lies.
That small voice at the back of her mind shocked her. Of course they were all lies. As to the why ...?
“Aunt Margaret wants to make sure that it is Frances who marries Horatio and not me. This is a ploy to keep us apart.”
Edith's eye disappeared from the keyhole. There was silence from the other side of the door for a moment. Juliet waited, biting her lip, heart pounding.
“They said you would say that. Exactly that.”
“They also said that I have been under the care of Mrs. Swift for a month! You know that is a lie!”
“It has been a month since Mrs. Swift arrived,” Edith said, quietly.
Juliet stared at the keyhole, unable to believe it. It could not have been a month since she fell asleep at Horatio's bedside. It was impossible...
“And… and they said I have never been to Ravenscourt! I went there for the annual masked ball with Aunt Margaret, Uncle Gilbert, Frances, and yourself.”
“I remember. But I returned early that evening, and they said you never stayed for too long too. That you had an episode and were brought back for your own safety.”
“And do you remember me returning?” Juliet demanded.
“It was… at night. I was asleep. Your door was always locked and they said you were under sedation to keep you calm, that I shouldn't try and talk to you,” Edith whispered.
Juliet wanted to scream.
It was so obvious to her! She could not understand why Edith would not sneer at the lies she had been told and release her from her prison.
A sick feeling of helplessness grew in the pit of Juliet's stomach then. What had become of Horatio? Was Frances now by his side? Would she win him over? Or was he being told that Juliet had given him up, returned to Wetherby, not wishing to see him again? How long would it be before he forgot her? More seriously, how long would her illness allow her to go on before she could see him again and tell him they were all lies? Was it the Godwin's plan to keep her prisoner until she succumbed?
“Juliet, I must go. I will be punished if I am caught here,” Edith whispered, urgently, “…but I will come back. I will sneak out of my room tonight when everyone has gone to their beds.”
“Can you get the key?” Juliet pleaded desperately.
Edith paused and Juliet could feel the girl's indecision. She had no doubt that Aunt Margaret had been very persuasive. She would have used reason and bullying to ensure Edith's cooperation. Using lies that Edith could not disprove, nor Juliet for that matter, and threatening Edith with the removal of the only thing she cared about, her books.
Juliet realized then that to gain her cousin's cooperation, she would need to be patient with the girl. Edith was seventeen, more than a child but less than a woman. Juliet would need to treat her with all the care she would show to a flighty horse, careful not to scare her off.
“If I can… I will try.”
“Thank you, Edith,” Juliet smiled. “Come and talk to me even if you can't. It will be good to hear your voice.”
Hours passed.
Mrs. Swift brought Juliet food and drink at tea time. Juliet found herself hungry and thirsty and emptied the tray she had been brought.
After a brief conversation in which Mrs. Swift calmly listed all of the things that Juliet believed to be true, and ‘proved’ them to be lies, Juliet found herself becoming sleepy. The sky was still light but she felt as though it were the end of a long, tiring day. She succumbed to slumber not long after.
When she awoke, the window was bright with sunshine and Juliet could hear birdsong. She knew, even without a clock, that she had slept the evening away, that this was the next day. Had Edith returned as she had promised? Had she whispered through the keyhole until, unable to wake Juliet, she had given up?
The conversation with Edith seemed hazy now, dream-like.
Juliet had dreamed of Horatio. That dream was vivid, but her memories of him seemed foggy. As though they were old dreams, fading in her mind as dreams always did, eventually.
Edith did not come back that day. Mrs. Swift brought trays of food to her and asked her questions about Horatio and Ravenscourt. Juliet realized that the woman was testing her, to see if she still believed that she had stayed at Ravenscourt and met the Duke.
She found the captivity exhausting.
No sooner had she been brought food and drink that she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Still, Juliet refused to give in to the pressure to admit that her memories were pure fantasy. She related everything she could remember and in as much detail as she could recall.
Everything except the intimacy.
That was her business alone, hers and Horatio's. Besides, it would make her look like a fantasist if she admitted to lying with Horatio.
As the days blurred together though, those weeks spent at Ravenscourt became harder to recall with clarity. Juliet began to wonder, at those times when she curled up to sleep, her mind foggy, whether it was actually she who was wrong. Whether Mrs. Swift and the Godwins were the ones in the right.
Had she truly imagined the entire thing?