Halfway up the tower Rebecca fell upon a landing, and another large oak door, though this one had no lock. Again, rust and disuse meant it took her a moment to open it. Lifting up the candle once she had, Rebecca let her eyes scan the contents of the circular room she now found herself in.
Once, it seemed to have been a lady’s sitting room. Tastefully decorated, in delicate hues, and elegant floral patterns, it contained all manner of little areas within it.
Rebecca slowly made her way around the room, discovering all the distinct worlds which had been created, careful not to disturb them. There was something...a caution, a warning. She could look, but not touch.
She had been invited in, but was not yet trusted enough for anything more.
A richly decorated mahogany Carlton House writing desk sat beside one of the impressive and strangely large windows which surrounded the room. Papers still lay upon it, scribbled on and blotted with ink. A quill lay beside them, and dust which once had been flowers filled a miniature vase. And there, an easel, set before another window, a sketch of some nymph-like creature upon it. Paints, and a palette peppered with dried mounds of coloured material, lay beneath it, along with worn and now useless brushes. More sketches, papers and charcoal lay on the sill beside it all. There, a telescope. And beyond it, a little sitting area, with a coffee table and moth-eaten chairs.
Lifting her candle even higher, Rebecca noticed there were more sketches, notes, ceramic flowers, wooden figures, even fanions, all around the room. She felt her heart clench and tears sting at the back of her eyes. This room was unlike any of the others. Lost in time, yes. Abandoned, yes. But in a heartbreakingly different way.
This room had belonged to someone very special. She could feel her presence in everything. Every detail, every personal touch. It had all been preserved, frozen, as a reminder. There was an infinite sadness permeating through to her bones. This place was a shrine.
Hers. The Earl’s sister. The one they say he murdered...
Shaking her head, taking a deep breath, she left the room, closing the door behind her as quietly as she could before continuing upstairs.
But he didn’t. He isn’t capable of such a thing. He’s just...
Grieving.
Perhaps that was why she needed to see this place. She was being called to see what lay at the heart of Thornhallow’s distress, the master’s distress.
You are the one who invited me, little one whose name I do not know. Though I declare that I still do not believe in spirits...
At the top of the tower Rebecca found another door, identical to the others. It was colder up here, and the howling of the wind as it swept around the solitary tower, creeping in through every crack, made it seem even more so. Again, Rebecca lifted her candle, mindful of its growing flickering as gusts of wind caught the flame, and entered the room.
Her bedchamber...
An elegantly carved four-poster bed with graceful hangings. A dressing table, and chairs by the window. A trunk, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers. All the very finest, most elegant furnishings, which again had been decorated with drawings, paintings and mementos.
Taking a further few steps into the room, Rebecca noticed a shawl and an old porcelain doll, shabby from use, not abandon. A lump formed in her throat and she turned away, unable to bear the reminder of life, youth and innocence too quickly taken.
The blackened, disused hearth seemed to echo her mournful thoughts, and the wind rushing down it sounded like an otherworldly lamentation. Rebecca’s eyes stopped above the mantelpiece, where a striking painting had been hung in a place of honour. An unlikely subject for a young girl’s bedroom, but as Rebecca peered closer, examining the free flow of brushstrokes, vivid choice of colours and haunting face peering out back at her, she noticed the signature at the bottom:H. Reid.
So you painted this, then, young mistress... How talented you were...
And beneath the painting, another tiny vase, surrounded by dust.
‘I see now, Miss Reid, what you wished me to,’ she whispered, respectfully making her way out. ‘I shall return, and we shall be friends, you and I.’
For although Rebecca still did not, and never would believe in ghosts, she believed every word she spoke to the air. She believed that every house was alive. Retained memories.
And she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was some spirit in this one which had invited her in, and somehow needed her.
Liam was, during that week, just as eager to avoid Rebecca as she suspected. He, too, heard her sometimes, carrying on upstairs, sometimes singing, subjecting more rooms to her fearsome touch. Sometimes he would notice another book missing from the library, but other than that, it was as if hehadhad the courage to send her away.
The papers Leonards had sent along with those concerning her had given him ample work and worry that week. And Leonards’s attached note, warning that he was no further on in his quest, threw Liam into a foul mood.
And though the old solicitor, and Bradley, had done the best they could to keep his affairs in order over the years, there was still much to be done. He had ten years’ worth of accounts, end-of-year reports, decisions, hirings, dismissals, new tenants, returns and other matters to familiarise himself with before he could even consider taking charge and imposing his will. Not only upon the Thornhallow estate, but the house in London and other assets, holdings and schemes the title was currently linked to.
It had been so easy, running away without care or concern, leaving his father and then Leonards and Bradley to handle it all whilst he sought a new life, his own fortune, far across the sea. It had been easy to forget all those who depended on the Earldom for their livelihoods, all those other responsibilities which came with the title. Now, coming back, trying to make up for lost time... It was overwhelming, to say the least.
His days he spent either knee-deep in paperwork, ensconced in legal volumes, or out on the estate, sometimes with Bradley, but most days alone. He had taken to regularly visiting those who worked and lived on Thornhallow land, speaking to them, getting to know them again, seeing first-hand what had become of them all.
Bradley had come and undertaken his discreet evaluation, taking the opportunity to once again praise Rebecca’s achievements, which had only served to darken Liam’s mood further. He needed no reminders of the woman’s witchcraft and presence. Not when he could still feel her skin against his fingertips, and smell her scent all around him, reminding him of so many things he wished to forget.
Evenings, too, were spent mainly at his desk, until such time as he could no longer think, or see. He retired, usually to the library, where he drank and lost himself in bitter, tormenting memories. Many nights he slept there, and Thomas had taken to ensuring he had a change of clothes, and histoilette, ready when that occurred.
