God, the woman will drive me mad...
Now, where hadthatthought come from?
Was it, in fact, the woman and not the house, not the demons and ghosts which lingered in the walls, that was driving him to lose his reason altogether?
He’d outright sprinted to the door to prevent her from leaving, after declaring that that was precisely what sheshoulddo. What he demanded. His stomach had fallen to his boots at the thought that she might no longer haunt the house, a bewitching ghost of flesh and blood. There had been a terrible feeling of loss in his heart when she had turned from him. Abandoned him.
And when he’d looked into her eyes, those unfathomable, haunting brown pools, he had not seen fear. Confusion, anxiety, yes, but no fear, no disgust. None of the emotions she should have felt looking athim, the man who had nearly taken her life. She had trusted him in that moment, still as a statue and speechless, perhaps, but he had seen her trust that he would not hurt her again. If anything, she’d seemed more upset at the prospect of leaving; he was sure he’d seen the threat of tears glistening in her eyes. But when he had cornered her, prevented her leaving...
He really should have let her go. He knew that. She was a liar. Self-confessed. Full of secrets. And temptation. Yet he had not. Against his better judgement, against all reason, he had let her stay.
Now, Liam sensed, there would only be trouble.
Sighing heavily, he returned to his desk and the mounds of work which awaited him.
There would be trouble. And he would regret this.
Not nearly as much as you would’ve letting her go...
Drat the woman.
Damn the house.
Damn it all.
Chapter Six
During the week that followed, Rebecca was careful to avoid Liam, as careful as he seemed to be avoiding her. They each carried on with their lives in their separate spheres, moving throughout Thornhallow without ever needing to encounter the other, as if they’d come to a unified decision that neither should spend too much time in the company of the other, lest trouble be found.
She heard him sometimes, riding out across the park or speaking to Mr Bradley or Mr Brown in his study. Sometimes she would find a barely touched tray of food there, as she made her nightly rounds, or an empty decanter of whisky in the library. Other than that, and the incessant praises the others sang of the prodigal son’s return, it was as if he truly was the wraith so many believed haunted the house.
As the days passed, Rebecca tried to concentrate on her duties, tried her very hardest to be nothing more than what she should. But even as she prevailed, for the most part, in chasing the master from her thoughts, she could not seem to chase away the lingering curiosity regarding the key she’d been left.
Nothing good could come of satisfying that curiosity, of trying the key in the one locked door she inherently knew it opened. So she steadfastly continued her progress through the house. The second-floor drawing room succumbed to her invasion first, then the art room, school room, long-abandoned nursery, and finally the second-floor gallery, which had once been used for fencing and dancing, if the mats, masks and broken pianoforte were anything to go by.
But each day, as the sun’s rays began to disappear, as she finished her tasks in this room or that, she invariably found herself standing before the door to the East Tower. Each evening she stood there, studying the large, medieval-looking oak door, as if one day it might simply swing open and reveal nothing but an empty, meaningless room.
Yet she knew, somehow, that behind that door lay nothingbutmeaning. It was why she knew she shouldn’t give in to temptation, and why she couldn’t prevent herself from doing so. Something behind that door called to her, inviting her in, until finally, a week after nearly being dismissed again, she could deny the call no longer.
Having finished in the second-floor gallery, she stood once again before the door, the key and a candle in her hand, knowing she should turn back, that this act would change everything, and knowing full well she would do no such thing.
A cold gust of wind whistled through the darkened corridor, nearly blowing out the candle, and Rebecca shivered.
No ghosts. Only wind.
Shielding the candle from any further draughts, Rebecca took a step forward, then slid the key into the lock. It took some effort to turn it, rust, cobwebs and general disuse having stiffened the mechanism.
Finally, she was able to swing open the heavy door enough to go in, albeit with a loud creak that might have awoken any dead hidden therein. Before her, a staircase, narrow and winding, barely visible at the edge of her light.
She went over and stood at the foot of it.
It was richly furnished, with a once-plush runner, now worn, its edges threadbare, and ancient tapestries lining the stone walls. This place was so very different from the rest of the house. Someone with very peculiar tastes had left their mark here.
The wind howled down the staircase from above, and for a moment Rebecca toyed with the idea of returning another day—duringthe day—when the darkness was not so enveloping, when her imagination might not run so wild with every creak, every whisper of wind, every creeping shadow. When one’s rational mind might more easily dismiss the blood-soaked tales that surrounded this place.
Yet Rebecca was unable to turn away. Something was beckoning her up those stairs. She had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that, perhaps, the final piece of the dismal puzzle that was Thornhallow Hall lay there.
So, with a steady hand tightly clutching the thick ropes which served as handrails, Rebecca began her ascent.
