Chapter 34 The Motherless Boy #2
She pretended happiness for Bram’s sake.
She could clearly see that the boy’s soul was embedded within Weavingshaw, spellbound by it.
From the window, she’d once watched as Bram and his father walked the lands with holy reverence, cutting through the Deathgrips that grew in a tangle around the estate, both reaching down to grasp a piece of earth in their cupped hands.
It was clear in their movements, the broadness of their shoulders, the angle of their jaws, even the slant of their brows, that they were father and son.
Lady Hargreaves wondered how she had ever thought that Bram would inherit his looks solely from his mother; it became unmistakably clearer with every year that he had the Avon bearing in spite of the darkness of his hair and eyes.
During those sweltering days, she and Bram left notes for each other in a postbox they had nailed to a tree beside the wild beach. She would hum to him the same lullaby she’d sung to him as a babe.
Bram was always a quick child, sharp and observant, and she knew that he’d also started to notice the odd changes of behavior that had begun to unsettle his father that summer.
Paranoia had taken hold of Lord Avon, His Lordship’s eyes growing increasingly suspicious by the day, his words piercing as if he suspected everyone of some nefarious purpose.
Their once humor-filled dinners had gone silent.
Her husband would sit in seething silence, throwing guarded glances at Lord Avon every now and then, as if searching for a shred of recognition in his oldest friend. More than once, Lady Hargreaves would hear their muffled, angry arguments as she listened in at the closed study door.
Her husband never answered her questions, only stating that he and Lord Avon had had a disagreement—one they would resolve in time.
She should’ve known something was wrong when Bram turned to her one morning as they walked the length of the beach, his eyes flickering in the direction of the house. “It’s worth it, is it not?”
Lady Hargreaves shaded her eyes from the overbearing sun. “Is what worth it?”
“Weavingshaw,” Bram said, as if speaking to himself. “It’s worth everything.”
Lady Hargreaves never let go of the regret that she had not bitterly disagreed with him that day. That Weavingshaw was not worth everything. That it was not worth him. That it was never worth him.
—
By autumn, the boy was gone.
He was taken, her husband had told her softly. Kidnapped.
He muttered excuses for his disappearance, but Lady Hargreaves was deaf to it all, her grief its own monster. She begged: Find him, please find him, that poor motherless boy.
But no one went looking for him.
And through it all, her husband forced her to remain at Weavingshaw. He told her that they could not leave when their business was unfinished. What that business was, he did not disclose—despite her wild pleading.
No longer did Lady Hargreaves allow her husband into her chamber. Every night he knocked on her door, and every night he found it locked.
The less anyone in that house spoke of Bram’s disappearance, the more she began to hate her husband. As the months passed, she watched as Lord Hargreaves’s bond with Lord Avon snapped, deteriorating into a frenzy of distrust and anger.
Now the silence during their dinners was choking.
During one such night, Lord Avon had suddenly stood up, slamming his hands on the table.
“Leave, Charles. Leave this house—I command it.”
Lord Hargreaves paid him no mind as he continued to slice his roast. “I will not, Percy. Not until you return what you have stolen. It belongs to the both of us. That was the agreement.”
Stolen? Were they speaking of Bram?
Lady Hargreaves eyed them both carefully, but it was clear they were not speaking of the missing son. Her heart cracked at this realization.
Lord Avon’s face flamed. “Without Mrs. Van, you know everything is worthless.”
“Then we shall find her,” Lord Hargreaves continued, putting down his knife and fork. “Until then, Percy, we will not leave.”
Vaguely, Lady Hargreaves realized that she had not seen Mrs. Van in some time—not since Bram had also been taken.
She wanted to demand answers; she wanted to stand and scream until her ears bled.
But Lady Hargreaves only kept silent, wondering why no one commented on the dying woman at the dinner table.
—
Lord Avon sent for his mistress to be brought to Weavingshaw.
Moira. She was a slight thing, with shy eyes and a girlish figure. She played the pianoforte beautifully. Distantly, as if through a haze, Lady Hargreaves noticed one evening that the girl wore the Avon ring on her left hand.
She heard Lord Hargreaves’s whispered accusation to Lord Avon as they sat listening to the girl play. “You’ve married her, haven’t you? Does she know where you’ve hidden it?”
Lord Avon’s voice was a snarl. “You won’t find it, Charles. Weavingshaw will keep my secrets. So will the new Lady Avon.”
Lady Hargreaves listened quietly as the young Lady Avon’s fingers skimmed over the keys, and she felt a fierce regret for this girl. There was nothing she could do. Nothing anyone could do.
Weavingshaw had already condemned them all.
—
A week had passed, and the new Lady Avon was nowhere to be found. No one dared utter her name.
Lady Hargreaves was unsurprised.
Nor was she surprised when she saw Lord Hargreaves ride out at dawn to meet Lord Avon, a sword at his hip.
She waited for him at the edge of the forest, away from the watchful eyes of the servants, and he came staggering back at noon, blood staining his shirt. His eyes were red-rimmed.
When he saw her, he let out a sob. “I’ve done it.
He’s dead. Percy’s dead.” He reached for her, clinging to her neck, burying his face into her shoulder while she stood motionless.
He babbled nonsense. “I had to…Percy has grown in power since the trade…the Limitless Vessel…he would’ve destroyed us all.
You’ve seen him, Gemma, the way that paranoid ideas have begun to breach his mind?
The Avon curse has rotted his brain. He could not have…
I should not have…allowed him…such influence…
” He continued to weep like a child. “Speak, my love. Please—say something to me. I cannot stand your anger anymore.”
“And Bram?” she asked quietly, her voice steady.
He did not look at her. His response came after a shuddering moment. “Gone. With Percy’s death, he is gone.”
Anger welled up in Lady Hargreaves’s throat, and she pounced on her husband, clawing at his eyes. “I know you did it! You son of a bitch! You did something to him!”
Lord Hargreaves did nothing to defend himself. He merely placed his bloodstained hands over his head, repeating the words over and over again as if in a trance. “They are both gone. Can’t you understand? I had to do it.”
—
That night, Lady Hargreaves filled her pocket with rocks. She paid one final visit to the postbox she had used to hide small gifts for the child she had once loved fiercely. That she still loved fiercely. She left two letters—one addressed to her Bram, and one to her husband.
She would no longer tie her fate to that of a murderer.
Then, her eyes dry, Weavingshaw at her back, she walked into the ocean.
And even that did not release her from this cursed land.