Paranoia had taken hold of Lord Avon, His Lordship’s eyes growing increasingly suspicious by the day, his words piercing as if he suspected everyone of some nefarious purpose.
Their once humor-filled dinners had gone silent.
Her husband would sit in seething silence, throwing guarded glances at Lord Avon every now and then, as if searching for a shred of recognition in his oldest friend. More than once, Lady Hargreaves would hear their muffled, angry arguments as she listened in at the closed study door.
Her husband never answered her questions, only stating that he and Lord Avon had had a disagreement—one they would resolve in time.
She should’ve known something was wrong when Bram turned to her one morning as they walked the length of the beach, his eyes flickering in the direction of the house. “It’s worth it, is it not?”
Lady Hargreaves shaded her eyes from the overbearing sun. “Is what worth it?”
“Weavingshaw,” Bram said, as if speaking to himself. “It’s worth everything.”
Lady Hargreaves never let go of the regret that she had not bitterly disagreed with him that day. That Weavingshaw was not worth everything. That it was not worth him. That it wasneverworth him.
—
By autumn, the boy was gone.
He was taken,her husband had told her softly.Kidnapped.
He muttered excuses for his disappearance, but Lady Hargreaves was deaf to it all, her grief its own monster. She begged:Find him, please find him, that poor motherless boy.
But no one went looking for him.
And through it all, her husband forced her to remain at Weavingshaw. He told her that they could not leave when their business was unfinished. What that business was, he did not disclose—despite her wild pleading.
No longer did Lady Hargreaves allow her husband into her chamber. Every night he knocked on her door, and every night he found it locked.
The less anyone in that house spoke of Bram’s disappearance, the more she began tohateher husband. As the months passed, she watched as Lord Hargreaves’s bond with Lord Avon snapped, deteriorating into a frenzy of distrust and anger.
Now the silence during their dinners was choking.
During one such night, Lord Avon had suddenly stood up, slamming his hands on the table.
“Leave, Charles. Leave this house—I command it.”
Lord Hargreaves paid him no mind as he continued to slice his roast. “I will not, Percy. Not until you return what you have stolen. It belongs to the both of us. That was the agreement.”
Stolen? Were they speaking of Bram?
Lady Hargreaves eyed them both carefully, but it was clear they were not speaking of the missing son. Her heart cracked at this realization.
Lord Avon’s face flamed. “Without Mrs. Van, you know everything is worthless.”
“Then we shall find her,” Lord Hargreaves continued, putting down his knife and fork. “Until then, Percy, we will not leave.”
Vaguely, Lady Hargreaves realized that she had not seen Mrs. Van in some time—not since Bram had also been taken. She wanted to demand answers; she wanted to stand and scream until her ears bled. But Lady Hargreaves only kept silent, wondering why no one commented on the dying woman at the dinner table.
—
Lord Avon sent for his mistress to be brought to Weavingshaw.
Moira.She was a slight thing, with shy eyes and a girlish figure. She played the pianoforte beautifully. Distantly, as if through a haze, Lady Hargreaves noticed one evening that the girl wore the Avon ring on her left hand.
She heard Lord Hargreaves’s whispered accusation to Lord Avon as they sat listening to the girl play. “You’ve married her, haven’t you? Does she know where you’ve hidden it?”
Lord Avon’s voice was a snarl. “You won’t find it, Charles. Weavingshaw will keep my secrets. So will the new Lady Avon.”
