The door stuck slightly as James forced it open, the wood swollen from years of damp. The air inside was colder than the rest of the house and heavy with the scent of mildew, old wool, and something sweeter underneath, like lavender sachets long gone stale. Wallpaper, once pale blue and patterned with tiny stars or flowers, peeled in wide,curling strips. Mold traced the corners of the ceiling. A child-sized rocking chair sat overturned near the hearth, one of its rockers splintered clean through. A faded rag doll, its stitching unraveling at the mouth, lay nearby, half-covered by a crumbling quilt.
“My sister was only eight when we were sent away,” James said. “It’s as we left it.”
In the corner stood a narrow iron bed, the mattress sagging, sheets grayed with time and stained by mice. The pillow still bore the faint indent of a small head, though whether that was memory or imagination, James couldn’t say. A once-bright toy chest, its lid warped and open, revealed a scatter of wooden blocks, a tin whistle rusted to silence, and the shredded remains of a storybook nibbled at the corners.
Near the window, a child’s chalkboard easel stood crooked. A stick of white chalk still lay in the tray, and on the slate Sophia had once drawn a crooked sun with rays and a smiling face. The smile had faded, washed half away by time. Rain had seeped in through the roof, staining the far wall with a long brown streak and warping the floorboards. In the worst corner, a puddle had formed beneath a hole in the ceiling, fed by every storm since the house was abandoned. Tucked beneath a windowsill, a small book of fairy tales sat open, its pages fused together, the ink bled into clouds.
He sighed, memories flooding him of the happy afternoons they’d spent in the room with their governess. Sebastian and Sophia had been good, obedient students, but James had been fidgety, wishing he could be outside instead of stuck inside learning his lessons. Looking back, he could see how good he’d had it. If only things had been different. They should have had more time together. They should have been allowed to grow up and leave this room when it was the right time, not pushed out as they had been.
“This will be a wonderful place for your children someday, Lord Ashford,” Georgiana said.
“I don’t plan on having any,” James said. “But perhaps my nieces and nephews will enjoy it.”
“May I ask why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t imagine I’d be a good father. In addition, it seems cruel to bring another life into the world. Not after everything I’ve seen.”
He led themback downstairs to show them his father’s abandoned study. Knowing it would take an emotional toll, he drew in a deep breath. This was where his father had spent many hours, running the estate with a benevolent hand.
James paused with his hand on the door, the worn brass handle cool beneath his fingers. “This was my father’s study.” He pushed the door open.
Dust swirled in the shaft of light from the tall, narrow window. Old smoke, paper, and time had worked its way into the oak-paneled walls. The great desk dominated the room, its surface littered with scattered papers, a cracked ink pot, and a stack of ledgers long gone stiff at the edges. One drawer sagged open slightly.
A cracked brandy decanter sat on a silver tray, alongside two dusty glasses, one of which bore a long fracture spidering through the rim. He didn’t touch it. The fireplace was cold, the iron grate bent at one corner. In the ash, he could just make out the blackened scrap of a letter, words burned to illegibility.
Above the hearth, the map of Ashford lands hung askew, the parchment yellowed and curling at the edges. His father had traced those lines with pride, explaining acre by acre to a boy who didn’t understand any of it yet.
His mother’s portrait still hung on the far wall. In it, his beautiful mother sat in a simple chair, with her hands folded in her lap and a gentle smile splayed on her rosebud mouth. James felt the old pressure behind his ribs and looked away. He’d been only two when she died,leaving him with no memories of her whatsoever. Instead, Papa had been his and his siblings’ whole world. Regardless, he wished then and now that he could have known her. It gave him some comfort to think of his father and mother somewhere together in an eternal love match.
“You look like her,” Georgiana said.
“Yes, I do,” James said. “My sister as well. Our mother died in childbirth.” He wasn’t sure why he’d felt compelled to tell her that detail but it was out of his mouth before he could think too much about it.
“I no longer have my parents either,” Georgiana said. “No matter what age we are when we lose them, grief remains.”
For a second, he and Georgiana locked gazes and a mutual understanding passed between them. She, too, had had troubles. He felt certain of it. What were they exactly? Who was this woman? And why was he so intrigued by her?
She walked toward the hearth, running her gloved hand gently along the mantel. “This is lovely. We can make it so again.”
Cecily followed in silence. She knelt near a small table tucked under the window and lifted a faded book from the dust. A dried flower slipped from its middle. “Someone pressed flowers in this.” She knelt to fetch the dropped flower but the petals were paper thin and disintegrated between her fingers. “I’m sorry. I should have left it alone.”
James looked away again, a painful knot in the back of his throat. “My sister used to press flowers often in a few of our books.” Did Sophia remember that?
No one spoke for a moment.
He cleared his throat. “We’ll likely turn this into a receiving room, eventually. Or a second library.”
Georgie turned to face him then, eyes steady. “Or you could restore it as it was. And use it while you run the estate as it should be run.”
He held her gaze. “Maybe.”
“It’s strange how rooms can bring emotion and memory to us in an instant,” Georgiana said. “That’s one of the reasons I love architecture. The spaces in which we dwell become a part of us. Losing them is painful.”
“Restoring them will be less so,” James said. “Or at least I hope so.”
Chapter Two
Georgiana
