Page 186 of Love at First Fright

Lady Grimthorne straightened. The downtrodden widow fell away, revealing steel beneath. “I decided I wouldn’t be collared anymore.”

Charlie inhaled sharply.

“I was fifty-seven years old,” she said. “I’d spent my entire life being obedient. Being good. Following every rule society demanded of me whilst watching the men around me do whatever they pleased.” Her eyes met mine. “Cornelius killed his father. Murdered that poor girl. Terrorised countless others. And he would inherit everything. My manor. My life’s work. He would install himself here like some feudal lord and continue his cruelties with impunity.”

Her hands clenched into fists.

“So I killed him.”

The words dropped into the silence like stones into still water.

“You…”

“All by myself,” she said. “I told no one. Not the remaining staff. Not my daughters. No one.” A grim smile touched her lips. “A terrible sickness swept through Wiltshire that autumn. Whole families struck down. Villages decimated. People died in their beds, in their fields, in the streets.”

She drifted towards the portrait again. Stared up at Cornelius’s painted face.

“I insisted that all our servants stay home with their families. Begged them, actually. Told them the manor would operate on reduced staff until the sickness passed. That their loved ones needed them more than we did.” Her voice dropped. “Most were grateful. They’d heard the stories. Knew people who’d died.”

“Clever,” Charlie murmured.

“Cornelius came to visit. Checking on his inheritance, no doubt. Making lists of what he wanted done here. And making sure his elderly mother was still breathing.” She laughed bitterly. “I told him I felt unwell. Asked him to come with me to help fetch something from the wine cellar in the basement—a particular vintage Reginald had been fond of. I wanted to toast his memory.”

The basement.

“He was… surprised at first. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms.” She laughed, a terrible hollow sound. “But vanity won out. The chance to appear like the dutiful son, caring for his ailing mother. He couldn’t resist.”

She turned from the portrait.

“I locked him in.”

The simplicity of it. The absolute cold calculation.

“Just like that?” I asked.

“Just like that.” She met my eyes. “There was a wine cellar down there, yes. But also a storage room behind it. Reinforced. My husband had it built to protect valuable documents, silver, things we wanted kept secure. A heavy door. Iron bolts. No windows.” Her expression didn’t change. “I told him the wine was in there, he fell for it, and I locked him in and walked away.”

“Your own son,” I breathed.

“My own son,” she agreed. “The man who murdered his father. Who drowned a young woman and called her a witch. Who used his position in the Church to abuse, to exploit, to destroy.” Her voice hardened. “I couldn’t bear the thought of him taking over this manor. Of living under his thumb. Of watching him mistreat my daughters, my grandchildren. Of him continuing his reign of cruelty for another thirty or forty years.”

Charlie released my hand and began to clap. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Charlie—” I started.

“No, seriously.” He looked at Lady Grimthorne with genuine admiration. “That took guts. Proper guts.”

Lady Grimthorne’s form wavered. “I’m not proud of it.”

“Maybe not,” Charlie said. “But you did what needed to be done.”

“He made a terrible noise at first.” Her voice fell distant, memory pulling her back across the centuries. “Shouting. Banging on the door. Threatening me with hell and damnation.” A pause. “I told the remaining staff to stay away from the basement. That Cornelius had fallen ill with the sickness and I didn’t want anyone else infected. That I would personally take that risk. Bring him food and water. Tend to him myself.”

I whistled low.

“They thought I was being a devoted mother.” The bitterness returned to her words. “Risking my own health for my son. How noble. How selfless.”

“How long?” Charlie asked quietly.