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CORA’S HEART BEAT UNCERTAINLY as she exited the duke’s bedroom, as if it had forgotten its rhythm in the turmoil. There could be no normalcy after this.
A man was dead.
The concept seemed strange.
She’d just seen him.
The duke had been full of life, despite his wrinkles and propensity to stoop.
The thought that he’d just stopped existing seemed ridiculous.
Yet his death was anything but ridiculous.
It seemed horrible to consider returning and lying down on the soft compilation of velvet coverlets and cotton sheets, ignoring that their host had done just that only to succumb to a violent death.
Had the duke taken in the beauty of his surroundings before he’d gone to bed? Had he admired the rich woodwork on the walls of his room or the shiny porcelain vases decorated with vibrantly colored depictions of Oriental landscapes before he’d gazed at the glittering crystals of the chandelier?
Poor Edmund.
She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a parent, especially under such macabre circumstances.
She glanced at the window in the corridor.
The snowflakes’ elegant descent to the ground, which had been sufficiently slow so that each snowflake pattern had been distinctly visible, had halted.
Utterly.
Now the snow thudded down, as if some eager worker were shoveling them from the sky. The sparkling, ivory landscape, where snow had adorned every branch, had vanished, replaced by an incessant whirl of white. Moisture fogged the windows, as if even the manor house was telling them not to bother to look out.
Cora retreated to her bedroom and eased onto the four-poster bed. It creaked against her. Updating mattresses was evidently not something prioritized at the manor house, and she glanced uncertainly at the ceiling as if she half-expected to see a chandelier crash down on her.
The ceiling was resolutely bare, and she turned off the single lamp. The room was thrown into darkness, but the house seemed to not have fallen asleep yet.
Creaks sounded, perhaps floorboards expanding and constricting, and the whole place seemed to groan. The wind blustered against the house, and the long branches, bare now of any leaves, tapped against the windows, perhaps warning her to leave, or perhaps as if trying to get in.
Would some madman be sneaking into various rooms now? When the duchess—or would she be the dowager now?—had first suggested that a stranger had done so, it had seemed reassuring that they needn’t imagine a person amongst them to have murderous tendencies.
Yet the thought of a stranger being here, perhaps clambering on balconies or crouching in wardrobes, was frightening.
Cora knew the blankets weren’t very heavy, but her chest hurt as if weighted by some invisible, yet powerful force.
Her fingers itched against the crocheted blanket that someone had made by hand, likely in the Edwardian Era.
This had not been the calming, peaceful holiday that her friend had told her about.
Home had never seemed so far removed.