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“Cassandra, I have no idea what you’re talkin-”
Just then, Lady Radcliffe reentered the drawing room, and we both fell silent, our eyes back on our embroidery hoops.
“We shall see.” Cassandra whispered, a small smile still on her face.
“What was that Cassandra?” The Ladyship quipped in a shrill voice, her hawkish eyes observing our progress.
The girl shook her head.
“Ah, nothing, grandmama. I was simply correcting one of Amelia’s stitches.”
Lady Radcliffe sniffed in approval, and the room settled back into a familiar formality.
Laterthatnight,Ifound that I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, concentrating on the pitter patter of the raindrops outside of my window, but rest was elusive. I just couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Marsden, and how drastically he had changed from the boy I had known so many years ago.
I remembered him as charming, funny, and full of life. From what I’d seen of him now, the first two were likely still true. His smile was disarming, and his sarcastic honesty, while jarring, was certainly amusing. But there was a weariness to him that hadn’t been there before. A bitterness.
As if he was tired of life… perhaps because he had seen all it had to offer, and it had been disappointing.
I couldn’t fathom that. I had seen so little of the world myself, of course, but the idea that one could everstopfinding life worthwhile was foreign to me. I certainly didn’t love being at the disposal of Lady Radcliffe, and I knew my future prospects were dim.
But despite all of that, there were reasons to find happiness and beauty in my situation. Even I, anobody, could find joy in the world. There was reason to hope for some sliver of happiness, however small.
Had Lord Marsden forgotten that, somehow?
When the clock struck midnight and I was still awake, I decided I had had enough. Sleep was unlikely to find me, with my mind so abuzz. I slipped out of bed, throwing my thin shawl around my shoulders, and stepped into the dark hallway. The house was completely silent at this hour; only the faint hoot of an owl, perched in a nearby tree, penetrated the night air.
I walked down the stairs, pausing to look at the portraits along the way.
Henry and Violet Thorne.
It was Lord Marsden’s parents, painted in their youth. I recognized their faces from the few times I had seen them at Rosehill as a child. The Lord clearly took after his mother. She was a renowned beauty, with golden skin, pale blonde hair that fell in curls around her small shoulders, and eggshell blue eyes.
They were both dead, or so Uncle Nicholas had said.
They died from liquor.
I found myself staring at them for a while, wondering what they must have been like… straining to try and remember anything about them at all, and realizing that I could not, simply because they had never been here.
I thought I could understand why Lord Marsden had not returned here in so long: with no remaining family, it probably did not seem like a home.
Had it ever, I wondered?
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a distant crashing sound. It was coming from one of the downstairs rooms. I felt a chill run up my spine, but I took a deep breath and calmed myself. I was not the subject of a gothic novel, and no vampires were going to come sneaking around the corner.
I hoped, anyways.
I crept down the stairs, drawing closer to the origin of the noise. As I turned a corner, I saw a sliver of flickering light emerging from below the library door.
Who would be in the library at such an hour?
My curiosity got the best of me. I stepped closer to the door, only hoping to peek through the crack to see inside. Suddenly, an old floorboard creaked beneath me, sending a loud crack through the hall.
A deep and awfully familiar voice spoke out from behind the door, sending yet another chill running up my body.
“Whoever you are, please make your presence known.”
It was Lord Marsden. His voice was silky smooth and lacked the exhaustion it had at dinner, but still unmistakable.
