Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
The lane that led to Harston Hall was narrower than she remembered.
The trees seemed to have drawn closer in the years since she fled, branches bent, limbs tangled over the rutted path as though the wood itself wished to bar her way.
The farmer had set her down at the crossroads, only half convinced she wasn’t mad.
From there, she had walked the last mile alone, her valise swinging at her side, her breath caught somewhere between dread and determination.
When the house appeared through the thinning mist, Adeline stopped short. It looked sick.
The Hall had once been proud, oak and limestone, tall chimneys, the rose garden climbing across the west wall.
Now the shutters hung askew. A windowpane near the front door was broken and stuffed with rags.
The gravel drive had become a wash of mud, and the great fountain stood cracked and dry, as if someone had taken a hammer to it in a fit of rage.
He’s sold half the house.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The front door was unlatched.
When she pushed it open, the familiar groan of the hinges felt like a warning.
The entrance hall yawned before her, echoing and cold.
The marble floor had been swept, but only half-heartedly.
Dust lay in long stripes where carpets had once lain.
The portrait of her mother, once over the fireplace, was gone, leaving a pale rectangle on the wall. Her throat closed.
She crossed the hall slowly. Every footstep bounced back at her, hollow and lonely.
The dining room on the left had been stripped bare: only the long table remained, gouged by careless hands.
Chairs were gone. China cupboards stood open and empty.
Her father must have sold the lot. He had always cared more for appearances than for comfort, but now even the illusion had vanished.
The air smelled of damp stone and old grief.
Her mother’s rooms were at the end of the east corridor, overlooking the terrace garden. The door had once been painted a soft blue. Now the paint flaked, showing grey wood beneath. Adeline touched the handle and felt the prickle of memory tighten her chest. She stepped inside.
The room was gutted. No rug. No cushions.
The elegant escritoire was missing its drawers.
The little jewelry table, her mother’s favorite, was overturned, its velvet lining gone.
Shelves were bare save for a few abandoned books, their spines cracked.
The wardrobe doors hung open like ribs. Adeline swallowed hard.
She crossed to the dressing table and laid her fingers on its scorched surface.
“Mama,” she whispered. Her voice sounded small in the empty space.
A sound behind her snapped the silence. Not a shout. Not a threat. Merely a soft, weary exhale.
“Lady…Lady Adeline?”
She turned. A stooped woman stood half in the doorway, apron grey with age, hair pinned in a careful bun.
Mrs. Grogan. Housekeeper. Loyal. The one who had held Adeline at age twelve when her father came home drunk and raging.
The one who had told her mother, in secret, to hide the account book in her sewing box.
“Mrs. Grogan,” Adeline breathed.
The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “Child, you shouldn’t be here. You must leave, leave now, before he comes back. I thought you were safe in London. What are you doing walking into the lion’s den?”
“I had to,” Adeline said. “I came for the truth.”
Mrs. Grogan stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind herself.
Her eyes darted as if the walls themselves might listen.
“You’ve picked a poor time for truth. His lordship is past reason these days.
The staff’s down to a skeleton crew, and even we sleep with one ear open.
He’s been in a fury these last few weeks.
We expect him back by dusk.” She lowered her voice. “If he finds you here…”
“He won’t,” Adeline said, though she wasn’t sure. “Please. I need your help.”
The housekeeper’s face wavered between relief and dread. “Help with what?”
“Did you see what happened to my mother?”
The question sucked all the warmth from the room. Mrs. Grogan wet her lips. Her gaze slid to the hearth as though secrets lived there.
“Lady Adeline…” She twisted the corner of her apron. “Your father’s a gentleman. My word against his…it wouldn’t stand. Even if I wanted to tell it.”
“You did see something,” Adeline whispered.
Mrs. Grogan closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek.
“I saw him strike her,” she said, voice trembling.
“He thought I’d gone down to the stillroom.
But I’d left my keys on the landing, fool that I was, and came back for them.
The door was open just a crack. He hit her once.
Then again. She fell against the escritoire.
I saw the blood. I saw him take the marble paperweight…
the one with the blue veins…and…” Her voice broke.
“I couldn’t breathe. I ran before he saw me.
When I came back, she was on the floor, and he was shouting for the doctor. ”
Adeline covered her mouth to keep the sound inside her chest. A sob slipped through her fingers.
“I wanted to speak,” Mrs. Grogan said, wringing her apron. “God forgive me, I did. But who would have believed me? A servant against a lord? I’d have been thrown out without a reference, or worse. And you went away before I could get word to you. Later…he kept the staff tight, watched everything.”
Adeline stepped forward. “Mrs. Grogan, I don’t blame you. But I need your testimony now. Everything you saw. Winston, His Grace the Duke of Greystone, he’ll protect you. Come with me. All of you who remain. We’ll go to Greystone. You’ll be safe there.”
A sharp creak sounded in the corridor.
Mrs. Grogan went white. “Too late.”
Footsteps, fast and purposeful, echoed across the landing. Heavy boots. The rhythm she knew too well. The rhythm she had fled in terror five years ago. Her father. Adeline froze, her heart thundering.
His voice struck the air like a whip. “Who’s there? Is someone in those rooms?”
Mrs. Grogan grabbed Adeline’s arm. “Hide…behind the desk…go!”
Adeline shook her head. “No. If he finds you helping me…”
“It’s me he’ll strike first,” Mrs. Grogan whispered. “Not you.”
The footsteps stopped directly outside the door.
A pause. One long, chilling moment. Then the handle turned.
The door flew inward, crashing against the wall.
Lord Harston stood there, coat dripping, gloves clenched in one fist. Rain plastered his greying hair to his temples.
His eyes, pale and sharp, fixed on Adeline with a fury she hadn’t seen since the night her mother died.
“So,” he said softly. Too softly. “The prodigal returns.”