It turned with ease—well-oiled still, despite the years. The mechanism clicked, and she pushed the door open.
The sitting room beyond stole her breath.
Even through the dust, even with Holland covers draped over every piece of furniture, even with curtains drawn against windows that hadn’t admitted sunlight in nearly a decade—it was beautiful. The ceiling had been painted with clouds and cherubs in the Italian style, the plasterwork picked out in gold that had dulled but not disappeared. Built-in bookcases lined one wall, their shelves still holding leather-bound volumes arranged by height and colour. A pianoforte stood in the corner, its surface grey with neglect.
And everywhere—on every table, every shelf, every available surface—small treasures that spoke of the woman who had loved this room. A porcelain shepherdess. A crystal vase that would catch rainbows when the sun struck it. Sheet music stacked beside the pianoforte, the top page showing the beginning of a Mozart sonata.
Maribel moved deeper into the room, her fingers trailing across shrouded furniture, leaving tracks in the dust. Through a doorway she glimpsed the bedchamber beyond—a massive four-poster bed draped in ghostly white, its carved posts reaching toward a ceiling painted with morning glories.
At the far end of the sitting room, a door stood slightly ajar.
She crossed to it and pushed it open.
The conservatory.
Glass panels formed the outer wall, looking down over what must have been the garden Julian had mentioned—the garden where the late Duchess had hosted afternoon teas and welcomed tenant children and created the sort of warmth Thaddeus had spent eight years trying to forget.
Through the grimy windows, Maribel could see the bones of it still. Overgrown paths winding between beds choked with weeds. Stone benches half-swallowed by ivy. Rose trellises sagging beneath the weight of unpruned canes. And in the centre, barely visible through the tangle—a fountain. Stone nymphs pouring water that no longer flowed, their faces green with moss, their graceful forms disappearing into wilderness.
It must have been magnificent once.
It could be magnificent again.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and certain. This room. This garden. All of it abandoned not because it was unwanted but because the wanting had become unbearable.
Maribel turned back to the sitting room and pulled the cover from the nearest chair.
Dust billowed into the air, making her cough, but beneath the grime the fabric was still vibrant—a deep rose damask that must have been the height of fashion when it was new. She ran her hand across it, feeling the quality of the weave, the careful craftsmanship.
This was the room that Thaddeus kept hidden. Gathering dust in a corner was a portrait of a woman, and Maribel approached it slowly.
Though her entire being ached to have the room cleaned, she knew it was not her choice, not her place. It had to happen, that much was certain. But there was no doubt that convincing Thaddeus thereof would be a challenge indeed.
The woman was beautiful. The late duchess, she knew.
She had the same eyes as Thaddeus, though hers seemed lighter. As though she did not carry loads that were too heavy to hold.
Instead, she smiled.
Would Thaddeus have the same smile?
The thought came sudden and unbidden, and she fled from the room quickly. Her hands trembled in the lock as she closed it off to the rest of the house once more.
The following day brought sunshine for the first time in a week.
Oliver was beside himself with pent-up energy, bouncing from nursery to corridor and back again whilst Maribel tried to convince him that yes, the grass would be too wet for play just yet, and no, the frogs would not have forgotten him during the rain.
“But Thomas said?—”
“I know what Thomas said, sweetheart. But?—”
She didn’t finish. Oliver had already darted to the window, pressed his small nose against the glass, and gone very still.
“He’s there,” Oliver whispered. “Thomas is there. By the garden wall.”
Maribel joined him at the window. Sure enough, the red-haired boy was visible beyond the hedgerow, wielding what appeared to be a small rake with more enthusiasm than skill.
“I could just go say hello,” Oliver said, his voice carefully neutral in the way of children testing boundaries they know are fragile. “Just for a moment. Just to tell him about the rain.”
