Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Idon’t recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
I smooth down the skirt of my dress one last time, the fabric softer than anything I’ve ever owned.
Nerves flutter in my stomach as I inspect every small detail of my appearance, from the way my curls fall at the sides of my face to the way my cheeks are perfectly rosy.
Oliver chose a black, ankle-length dress with a sweetheart neckline.
The black opera gloves and heels really tie everything together.
I feel beautiful, something I’m not quite used to feeling.
My heels click against the pavement as I step outside, bracing against the frosty evening air. Snow drifts lazily in the air, and for a moment the world feels hushed. My gaze swings through the parking lot, and that’s when I see him.
Oliver leans casually against the driver’s side door of a sleek, classic convertible Mercedes-Benz. It’s absurdly elegant against the cracked pavement of my student apartment building. The faintest grin tugs at Oliver’s mouth when I slowly walk toward him.
He’s devastating in a pinstripe three-piece suit, his hair neatly combed, and a maroon bowtie just slightly askew like he’s too effortless to bother with perfection. He looks like he’s walked straight out of my personal Great Gatsby fantasy.
When his eyes sweep over me, my skin flushes warm despite the cold. God, I hope he likes what he sees.
“How do I look?” I ask, spinning around.
Oliver’s eyes darken as his mouth curves, slow and devastating. “You look like trouble.” He walks toward me, heat rushing to my face as he takes my hand. “Beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous. Absolutely ravishing. Should I go on?”
I look away, my stomach fluttering. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”
“I know,” he says, his voice teasing.
“How humble,” I quip, and he snorts.
“I’m a lucky man. Not a single person will be able to take their eyes off you tonight.” He eyes me again before leading me to the passenger-side door. “Your carriage awaits.”
“This is insane,” I say with a laugh.
“Insane?” He arches a brow. “No, Dollface, this is style. This is how a Bishop makes an entrance.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart is doing flips in my chest.
The engine roars to life as we pull away from the curb. He glances at me with a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Ready to make history tonight?”
I grip the edge of my seat. “Only if we don’t get caught.”
Bishop Manor glows like something out of a dream. Every window spills golden light, a string of lanterns lining the long, curved driveway. A wreath bigger than my kitchen door hangs proudly above the entrance. Everything about this place screams wealth, and it makes me feel out of place.
Oliver pulls the car to a stop, my breath catching as he rounds the car to open my door and offers his hand with a theatrical bow.
“My lady,” he says, lips brushing my gloved knuckles. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” I say in my best posh accent, making him chuckle.
Inside, the air hums with laughter and music.
The ballroom is drenched in gold and silver, a tree stretching nearly to the ceiling twinkling at the far end.
Couples in gowns and tuxedos twirl across the polished floor.
It feels as though I’ve stepped into a different time, or a different world entirely.
I imagine this to be something like how Oliver felt when he first found me under that archive table.
Oliver guides me to the dance floor, his hand firm at my back. “Do you trust me?” he asks, leaning in so that his lips graze my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Do I have a choice?”
He grins, spinning me effortlessly into the first steps of a waltz. His movements are fluid, his gaze never leaving mine. My world narrows, the steady press of his hand at my waist keeping me grounded in him. I feel myself stumble, and he chuckles, catching me easily.
“You’re a quick study,” he says softly.
“I nearly face planted a minute ago. This is all you.”
His smile softens, the earlier teasing turning to something deeper. “I won’t ever let you fall, Beck.”
My chest pounds as the words wrap around my heart and squeeze. For the first time, I truly let myself hope. It’s been so easy to fall for Oliver, and that scares me, knowing that he’s not mine to love. He doesn’t belong here, even though everything in me aches for him to.
His breath warms my cheek as he leans into me, eyes flicking from my mouth to my eyes. My lips part on instinct, but then he stills. His attention flicks past my shoulder a moment before his expression shifts.
“Don’t look now, but father’s old office is down the hall.” He nods subtly. “No one’s watching it.”
I follow his gaze with a small glance, my heart still pounding in my chest. The roped-off corridor is wide open. “We waltz, we smile, and we vanish.”
He nods. “Exactly.” His mouth tilts into a dangerous grin. “Ready, Dollface? Time to hunt for ghosts.”
The Bishop study is everything Oliver described and more—dark wood paneling, shelves that touch the ceiling, and the heavy smell of dust. Oliver shuts the door behind us, muffling the sound of the party outside.
“Father never let us in here unless summoned,” he says, scanning the shelves. “If Eleanor hid something here, it was meant to stay hidden.”
I pull the folded scrap of music from my clutch and smooth it out against the desk. Look where Father never looks.
“Where do we start?” Oliver asks.
I flip to the back of the note where I scribbled the various quotes Eleanor left for us.
“She quotes Jane Austen first. It was, ‘A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.’ That’s Mansfield Park.
” I search the shelves, pulling the worn volume from the shelf and opening it carefully.
A slip of paper rests against the first chapter, a single word scrawled in Eleanor’s careful hand: Next.
Oliver looms over my shoulder, his brows rising. “She was playing a game in case he figured it out.”
“It’s a breadcrumb trail. Unless you have all the pieces, it wouldn’t make sense.” I look at Oliver. “Read the next quote to me.”
He picks up the slip of paper and reads aloud, “Time will explain.”
My hands skim along the row until I find the slim navy binding. The book slides free easily. “It’s Persuasion,” I say, opening the book, finding another slip crushed between the pages.
Almost there, it reads.
Oliver exhales slowly, a strange mix of awe and sadness softening his face.
“The last quote was Gatsby. ‘It takes two to make an accident.’ There,” I say, pointing at the top shelf.
Oliver crosses the room, pulling the book from the shelf with a steady hand. He flips it open, and this time, instead of a slip of paper, a folded envelope slips free and falls into his palm.
“This is it,” he says, his breath hitching. “This is what she left for me.”
“Open it,” I say, my eyes meeting his.
He takes a step closer to me, his expression vulnerable. “Together?”
“Together,” I agree.
Oliver opens the letter carefully, the pages yellowed from age. With shaky hands, he holds it out for us to read, the atmosphere in the room shifting as though it’s holding its breath along with us.
My dearest Oliver,
If you are reading this letter, I trust you that you saw the same errors that I did. You were always the one I trusted to question what others accepted, to see past the Bishop name and into the truth.
The ledgers don’t add up. I am certain you have seen it too.
The numbers are not mistakes but masks. Father has been trading not only in land and business, but in people.
Father was hesitant to accept my help with the accounts.
He claimed I wouldn’t be competent enough for the task.
I originally did it to prove him wrong. You, of all people, know how stubborn I can be.
At first I thought it was an error, but the deeper I looked, the more I uncovered. Father has been making bargains with men whose wealth is steeped in violence, and to bind those bargains, he offered us—his daughters—as currency.
I was promised without my knowing, Oliver. Clara, too. We were promised to men twice our age as a bargaining chip to benefit father solely. We are no longer daughters in his eyes, but contracts.
I couldn't allow it. Clara is too tender-hearted and too trusting, and I know she would not survive in such a world. So, I did what I could. I staged a disappearance, a story that would mislead both father and his allies. Running meant disappearing from their reach, but also from yours.
Do not grieve us. This is not an ending, but a rewriting. As someone once said, “It is better to be lost and free than bound and broken.”
I left these clues because I know you. You will not stop searching until you understand. Please know that I did not betray you or abandon you. I chose only to protect what our father would not.
Clara sends her love. She begged me not to leave you behind, but I told her you were strong enough to find us in your own way, whether that be here or in body one day.
I ask just one thing of you. Choose to live, Oliver. Live a life you would be proud of, love the way that you loved us—fiercely, without limits—and take big chances. You are meant for great things. This world does not need another shadow. It needs you, Oliver, as you are.
With all of my love,
Eleanor
It’s silent for several moments until Oliver releases a pained breath. He shakes his head as he reads through the words again and again.
“My father was a gambler. I knew about his debts, but I never knew he’d be desperate enough to sell his own daughters like cows.
” His jaw tightens. “She staged this entire thing, feeling like they had no other options. And I was too blind to see it all.” His voice cracks, and my heart breaks for him.
The silence stretches thick with grief. Oliver’s hands tremble, and without thinking, I reach across, covering his hand with mine. His fingers curl into mine instantly, holding on like he’s afraid I’ll disappear too.
“Oliver,” I whisper, “you’re not alone in this anymore.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, an intimate caress that sends my pulse racing again. For a moment, he just stares at me as though he’s memorizing me. I swallow down the emotions clogging my throat.
“I have to fix this,” he says. “They shouldn’t have needed to run to be safe. My sisters deserve to be remembered for something other than this.”
“You’re right,” I say, my heart in my throat. “Your sisters didn’t deserve any of that.” Tears sting my eyes, and I look away, trying to hide my emotions from him. When his free hand comes to my chin, tilting it up toward him, I nearly break. “I don’t want you to go,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“I have to,” he says, taking a step closer. “I owe it to them to protect them when my father wouldn’t.”
I grip his sleeves, desperate to hold him close to me. “What about us? I don’t know how to just go on like you didn’t happen.”
His hand comes up to cradle my cheek, thumb brushing away stray tears. “You’ve changed everything for me, Beck. You’ve made me want to live and to fight for something bigger than myself.” His voice drops, eyes locking with mine. “I love you.”
I shake my head, my breath rushing from me. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean every word.” His forehead presses against mine, eyes shut tight. “I didn’t believe in fate, in miracles or any of this until you. But now—”
I clutch his lapel. “Then stay,” I beg. “Don’t leave me.” My voice cracks, raw with a pain I can’t hide.
His lips brush mine, the touch soft yet desperate. It’s too much and everything all at once. I hold him close to me, his kiss growing more desperate. This is the kind of kiss I’ve only read about in books, the ones that light your entire body on fire and leave you desperate for more.
His kiss is a goodbye I don’t want to accept, but it also feels like a promise that I’m not sure he can keep.
When he pulls back, his breath shutters out. “If I stay now, I’ll lose them forever. But if I finish this…I’ll find my way back to you. I swear it.”
Before I can answer, the letter in his hands starts to glow. The air shifts, a low distant rumbling building in my ears. My stomach twists at the sound of a train blaring through the manor library.
The light around us intensifies, a golden glow spilling out from the letter. Wind whips through just like the day he came.
“Please,” I say, gripping onto Oliver like a lifeline.
His grip tightens on me, his body jerking as though being pulled by an invisible string. His eyes are frantic, locked on mine even as his body distorts and blurs into the light. “I’m yours, Dollface,” he says. “No matter the time, no matter the place, I’ll find you.”
Light flashes again, and in an instant, he’s gone. The silence crashes down on me. My knees buckle, and I collapse, the empty space where he stood mocking me. A sob wracks my chest, my fingers digging into the cold wood of the floor.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, the tears seeming to fall endlessly. It’s not until I hear a soft shuffle that I realize I’m somewhere I don’t belong.
“Child…”
I glance up through blurred vision to see her—the librarian. She kneels beside me, her steadying hand pressing into my shoulder. There’s an eerie knowing in her gaze that makes my heart lurch.
“What are you doing here?” I barely recognize my voice, so broken and small.
“Helping you stand. You’ve taken quite a fall.” Her tone is gentle, but her gaze is sharp. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Loving someone who belongs to another time.”
My breath hitches. “You know?”
“I know more than you think.” She smiles sadly.
“Eleanor was clever. Clara was so so gentle. They survived because they had each other. They left pieces of themselves, allowing those who came after a chance to know them. The Bishop bloodline isn’t gone, even though the books say it is.
You carry more of them than you realize. ”
The words slam into me, and my pulse stutters. “What are you saying?”
She doesn’t respond, but the corners of her mouth lift. “Some truths aren’t meant to be handed over. They’re meant to be discovered when the time is right.”
My vision blurs again. “He promised he’d come back. What if he doesn’t?”
“If you’re meant to be, he’ll find his way back. Love always leaves a thread to follow, even across time.” Her hand squeezes mine, and something inside me eases. “Come, darling. Let’s get you home.”
If we’re truly meant to be, I just have to trust that he will find his way back to me. A tiny sliver of hope blooms in my chest.
Come find me, Oliver.