Chapter 1
The darkness felt cold.
It shifted around her like a living thing, swallowing sound as a chill prickled across her skin. Laughter drifted toward her, sending hope flaring painfully in Rose’s chest as she looked around.
The world seemed shadowed, faded at the edges, as if she were not truly present. She blinked and suddenly the scene changed. Her mother and father were walking away from her, their figures soft around the edges as if painted in watercolor.
“Papa?” Again, Rose tried to reach out as they stopped, but they did not move, did not even glace at her but instead turned and gazed into one another’s eyes, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Her voice held no strength, even her very self fading as a dreadful heaviness held her fast.
She blinked again.
A terrible, furious crack split the air, a crack echoing through the sudden void. The scent of smoke pulled itself into her lungs, making her want to scream, though she could not seem to even take a breath.
Her heart roared in fear, pulse racing as something wrapped around her chest, pulling her back, pulling her away from where her parents stood—no longer looking at each other but locked in one another’s arms.
Shadows rushed between Rose and her parents, obscuring them from sight.
Fear seized her.
A scream rent the air as she sat up in bed, her heart hammering, her nightgown damp and clinging to her skin.
The soft morning light filtered through a crack in the heavy drapes, sending a thin stream of sunlight across her bed, but it brought Rose no comfort.
The nightmare had returned for a second night, twisting her heart with fresh pain and grief.
Only two days had passed since word of her parents’ deaths had reached Garnham Manor, two days since the ground she had felt so steady beneath her feet had fallen away to nothingness.
She was alone.
Dropping her head into her hands, Rose allowed herself to weep, the grief already a constant friend.
“They are gone,” she whispered through her tears, the ache in her chest so great, it felt as if her very heart was being pulled from it. “I shall not see them again on this earth.”
It had been a terrible accident, she had been told.
A mishap that had led to disaster, something that no one had been able to anticipate.
Rose had not asked for further explanations, had not demanded that she know precisely what had taken place, for there had been no need.
It would not return her parents to her. It would not bring her comfort.
The stark truth that now faced her was that she had no place any longer, no ground upon which to stand.
This house, Garnham Manor, was no longer to be considered as her home..
Her parents would never again come to sit with her in the drawing room, laughing and delighting in each other’s company. She had nothing to call her own and no one to call family.
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes in an attempt to stem the flow. Grief, it seemed, held greater depths than she had ever imagined and conjured more tears than she had ever thought imaginable.
It returned to her, again and again, like a vicious beast that would not give up its attack. Rose was certain it wanted nothing more than to swallow her whole.
A quiet rap came to the door just as it was pushed open. “My lady?”
Rose dropped her hands, swallowing hard but doing nothing to hide her tears. “Margaret. Come in.”
Her lady’s maid, one who had been by her side for nearly a decade, quietly stepped in, a basin of fresh water in her hands.
Her expression was heavy, shadowed by the same sorrow that had settled over every person present in Garnham Manor since the tragedy, but that did not prevent compassion and sympathy from stirring in her eyes.
“My dear Rose,” she said in an almost motherly tone, “I pray you have not been awake and sorrowful for long?”
The tenderness threatened to unravel the fine threads of composure Rose had wrapped tightly around herself, her tears barely drying. “I dreamed of them.”
Margaret closed her eyes briefly, then set the basin down. “Mayhap you should have rested for longer, my lady.”
“I could not.” Rose looked away. “Sleep does not offer me any comfort.”
The maid said nothing for some minutes, preparing Rose’s toilette and allowing her some time to regain herself somewhat.
Slowly, the cobwebs of sleep began to drift away, though the heavy grief settled like a stone in Rose’s stomach.
When Margaret came toward her, Rose sighed heavily, unwilling to even swing her legs down from the bed.
“It is a difficult time, to be sure,” Margaret said gently, “but if you recall, my lady, Mr. Harrow is expected very soon.”
Rose closed her eyes. “I had forgotten.” Mr. Harrow was her late father’s solicitor and, once news had reached the house, had been sent for within the hour.
He would do everything well, she knew, but there would also be a clipped, cold efficiency that she feared she might not be able to endure.
“He is coming to speak to me about what will happen next,” she said hoarsely.
“I know that my father was an earl and that his title will pass on, but I did not think that I should be thrown from this house so soon. I thought…” She swallowed hard, gripping Margaret’s hand for strength.
“I thought that I would be wed. I know that I am near past the expected age of matrimony, but Mama had all manner of plans and intentions for me. We did not ever speak of what would occur should they pass from this earth so quickly.” She looked back at Margaret, her vision blurring. “I am so very afraid.”
“Fear will not prevent his arrival,” Margaret replied, practical despite Rose’s worry.
“Come now, let us have you dressed and prepared.” When Rose nodded, her chin wobbling, Margaret paused for a moment before taking Rose’s other hand.
“You have strength in you yet, my dear Rose,” she said, with a firmness that seemed to bolster something within Rose.
Something she had not noticed before. “You will recover from this, though I understand that such an idea must seem almost impossible at present.”
Rose closed her eyes, too afraid to trust her voice.
“But you shall rally,” Margaret insisted. “And I am afraid that in order to begin such a process, I must insist that you not only dress but eat something also.”
Her stomach immediately knotted. “I am not certain I could.”
“Please.” There came a note of concern into Margaret’s voice. “I think it best, my lady. Even if it is only a few morsels.” She rested a reassuring hand on Rose’s shoulder as Rose managed to murmur her assent. “You have more courage than you know, my lady.”
Rose did not have the resources within her to protest. Instead, she allowed Margaret to lead her to the dressing table where her ablutions began. Tea was set out and left for her to drink as Margaret began to attend to her hair, though it tasted like ash as Rose drank.
Honey cake was picked at, with Margaret murmuring encouragements for her to eat as much as she could, but Rose’s stomach protested loudly. Everything, it seemed, remained as it had been.
Routines were followed without hesitation or deviation; expectations of daily requirements were set out for her to follow—but she simply could not. Not when her mother and father were soon to be nothing more than portraits on the wall and lingering whispers in her memory.
She did not know how long had passed. She sat quietly, dressed and prepared, by the fire in her bedchamber, the tea now long cooled and the honey cake mostly uneaten. Her head hung heavy, her shoulders rounded as a quiet knock at the door signaled the arrival of the butler.
Margaret went to answer it.
“Mr. Harrow has arrived, my lady,” she said as Rose closed her eyes tightly. “The butler had settled him in the library rather than your father’s study.”
“Most thoughtful,” Rose managed to whisper, rising from her chair but feeling decidedly unsteady.
The walk toward the library felt new and unsettling, as if she had never walked along these hallways before.
The portraits of relations long gone lined the walls, their painted solemnity watching her walk toward a future that none of them could prevent.
Her hands clasped together in front of her, fingers tight and cold as she stepped into the library and bobbed a curtsy toward a broad shouldered, older gentleman who wore wire rimmed spectacles with a kerchief at his neck.
“Lady Rose,” he began, falling into a deep bow. “Might I express to you my heartfelt condolences at the loss of both your father and your mother. I cannot imagine your pain at this time.”
“I thank you, Mr. Harrow.” Relieved that her voice did not tremble as she had anticipated, Rose gestured to a chair by the fireplace, grateful for the heat.
It was well into springtime, but the grief seemed have brought with it a persistent chill that Rose could never truly escape from.
“If we might sit together to discuss matters?”
He nodded, waiting for her to be seated before taking a seat opposite her though he perched on the edge of it rather than leaning back comfortably.
“I am sorry that we have to discuss such things so soon following news of your bereavement.”
Rose lifted her chin slightly, gripping her fingers all the tighter in her hands as she battled a fresh wave of tears that immediately threatened. “I quite understand.”
After a few moments, Mr. Harrow drew a few documents from his bag and settled them on a small oak table to his right.
“There are several matters relating to your father’s passing that require immediate attention.
” His tone had become businesslike, bereft of any sense of compassion or sympathy.
“There were, as you might be aware, some financial difficulties these last few years, which—”