EPILOGUE #2
Rowland’s mouth crashes into mine, urgent and unrelenting. His lips claim me like he’s sealing a blood pact, his hands tangling in my hair to keep me close. I return the kiss with equal passion, because I finally have somewhere to belong.
The kiss is hungry, claiming, possessive, as if he’s marking territory. When we break apart, he’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.
“You’re finally mine in every way that matters,” he whispers against my lips, his breath urgent and hot.
Father Henry clears his throat and takes us into the vestry to sign the marriage license. Rowland barely shakes the old man’s hand before walking me back to the car with an arm around my waist. I haven’t felt this light in over a decade.
“Want a honeymoon?” he asks as I start the engine.
I laugh. “Every day with you is a vacation.”
He squeezes my thigh, offering me a dazzling smile. “Happy, pet?”
“Ecstatic.” I pull out and drive through the country roads leading back to Rochester Manor.
Rowland shifts on his seat, his hand drumming against my leg, his breath coming in quick bursts.
“You okay?” I ask.
“We need to make preparations for the baby.”
“Like what?” I ask with a smile.
“Set up a nursery, for starters. The space behind the mirror would be perfect. I can convert it this week.”
I blink, my gaze darting across the front seat. “Wait. What’s behind the mirror?”
“A hidden room.” He grins like he’s sharing a delicious secret. “There’s a latch on the side of the frame. It’s the perfect size for a nursery, and we can keep an eye on the baby without needing a nanny.”
“How many other spaces are in this house that I don’t know about?” I ask.
“Countless,” he replies with a chuckle. “Our children will have plenty of places to play hide and seek.”
“You’ve been looking forward to this baby, haven’t you?”
He leans across the seat and kisses me on the temple. “I pictured breeding you from the moment I decided you’d be mine. You won’t need to lift a finger. I’ll build everything. A changing table, a crib, a rocking chair. Our baby will never want for luxuries.”
When we reach the manor, he carries me across the courtyard and over the threshold. I expect him to charge up the stairs or to the nearest surface to consummate our marriage but he sets me on my feet and presses a kiss on the tip of my nose.
“Meet me in the dining room in thirty minutes for brunch.”
“Will there be bucks fizz?” I ask with a smile.
“Absolutely not.” He places a hand on my belly.
Giggling, I race up the stairs to check out this hidden space. At this time of the morning, the master bedroom is drenched in light. Dust motes dance in the air, making the space look magical. I, Annalisa Burlington, am the lady of this entire manor.
I walk to the mirror and pull back the fabric of my dress around my waist. Now that I’m scrutinizing myself, my belly is rounder. All this time, I thought being in love and free from persecution had made me gain weight. Now, my heart swells at the thought of having a happy little family.
Although by the way Rowland talks in bed, he wants me constantly pregnant.
I feel around the mirror’s edge, my fingers finding a metal lever. When I press it down, the entire frame springs forward, and a doorway opens with a click.
The space is around nine feet by twelve. Large enough for a crib and a changing table. Sunlight streams in from a tall window, illuminating a set of shelves at the back.
This is perfect for our needs. I can already picture it painted in pastel colors, filled with toys and books.
As I turn to leave, my gaze catches a leather-bound book on the shelves. Curious, I walk to the end of the room and flip it open to the first page.
It’s a photo album, containing a picture of a stern-looking man dressed in a dark suit, waistcoat, and cravat. His stern features are framed with sideburns so thick, they look fake. Beneath the image, in neat handwriting, is the name:
EDWARD FAIRFAX ROCHESTER.
“Must be an ancestor,” I mutter.
The next page is a wedding photo. Old Rochester wears a top hat with his black suit and cravat, while the woman behind him is in a long, white dress with a high neckline and a veil covering her features. The only writing at the bottom says WEDDING 1847.
“So, his great-great-great-great-grandparents?” I shake my head, unable to calculate the distance.
The next several pages contain pictures of their children, of the eldest sons growing up to be haughty looking gentlemen who marry nameless women who bear their heirs.
They go on and on from black-and-white to color.
I tune out until I reach a man who looks startlingly like Edward Rochester, but wearing clothing from the seventies or eighties.
The text below reads HENRY ROCHESTER.
“Their father?” I whisper. “Has to be.”
I study his sharp features, noting the same cheekbones and aristocratic nose. This was the monster who locked up Rowland for supposedly murdering his sister while the real killer went on to kill and torture innocent women. His eyes are even colder than his son’s.
When I flip to the next page, the portrait on the other side makes my breath stutter.
Henry Rochester stands behind three kids in front of a massive fireplace.
Adele is easy to spot with her blonde ringlets and pale skin.
She’s about five years old, grinning with a missing tooth, alive and smiling instead of the horror I found in that locked room.
Edward is about ten, looking like his father’s mini-me. Same stern features, identical cold eyes, looking like the perfect predator in training.
But the third child makes my heart skip.
He’s the same height as Edward, with curly red hair, freckles and a smile as bright as the sun. His eyes are the same pale blue as his sister’s. The text below reads: HENRY, EDWARD, ADELE AND ROWLAND ROCHESTER.
Rowland?
I frown, my pulse picking up speed. Fingers trembling, I flip through more pages. Birthday parties. Christmas mornings. Every photo shows the same small family. Sometimes together, other times alone, but the red-haired boy is always labeled ROWLAND ROCHESTER.
And always with hair as curly and red as Orphan Annie’s.
My breathing shallows. I keep going. The final picture stops my heart.
Edward and Henry stand by two familiar gravestones on the grounds.
A woman weeps in the background, burying her face in her hands.
She wears the same black uniform I used to wear, the identical one belonging to the skeleton in the attic.
The headstones are child-sized. I can’t read the names. It doesn’t matter because Rowland already told me the story of how his father faked his death.
But I can’t stop thinking about that red-haired boy.
The only other family photos I saw around the house were in Adele’s room, from the time Rowland directed me to her corpse. I have to see them again. I have to know. Heart pounding, I set down the album, step through the mirror, and head for the door.
I haven’t been back to that room since I discovered the truth about Adele. Now, the thought of seeing her again makes my skin crawl, but I have to check those photos. I need to compare.
The hallway stretches ahead, with dead Rochesters watching from their frames. The pulse between my ears pounds so hard it muffles the echo of my footsteps.
My feet stop outside Adele’s door, not wanting to take me any further. I clutch my belly and groan. If I see that grotesque thing again, if I look into those glass eyes…
But the red hair on Rowland doesn’t make sense.
I turn the handle and step inside.
Adele still sits in her chair in the corner, a nightmare in lace and ribbons. I don’t linger on the sight. Turning away, I force my focus on the photos lining the walls. They’re the same family portraits from the album. Same three kids. Same labels.
Same red-haired Rowland.
Stomach roiling, I move from picture to picture, checking and double-checking. Every single photo shows a boy with flame-bright hair. Nothing like the man downstairs.
Nothing like the man with black hair who calls himself Rowland.
Nothing like the man I just married.
Panic claws up my throat and grips tight. There has to be an explanation. Hair dye. Photoshop.
Something.
Anything.
After reaching the end of the photos, I turn toward the door, carefully avoiding the sight of Adele. But my gaze catches what’s on the bed, and I freeze.
The curtains are drawn around it, hiding whatever’s on the mattress. But I can see the outline of a small figure. Dread sinks into my gut like lead.
I should run.
I should hide.
I should wipe the sight from my mind.
But my legs keep moving me forward.
My heart thrashes so hard that my sinuses fill with the scent of blood. I walk to the four-poster bed on legs that feel like water and pull back the curtain.
A small body sits propped against the pillows, arranged like a doll. Sunlight bounces off his red curls, and his glassy blue eyes shine bright. On the chest pocket of an old-fashioned white shirt is an embroidered monogram that reads:
ROWLAND.
I stumble backward, my hand flying to my mouth. The room spins like a broken ride. My stomach heaves. My eyes squeeze shut. I press a hand to my chest, my mind spinning back to the church.
When Father Henry pronounced us man and wife, my husband said I was finally his in every way that mattered. I drop to my knees, my palms hitting the floor.
What did Edward Rochester say before I left him to burn in that cottage?
“You won’t die like the others,” I whisper, my voice rising with panic, my hand clutching my pregnant belly. “Your prison will keep you at my mercy until the end of your days.”
Nausea hits me in the gut. The man I married, the man who put this baby in my womb never existed. It was Edward. Edward Rochester all along.
THE END?
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