Chapter Eight

Nearly three weeks since he had returned. It might have been a year—it wouldn’t have changed anything. Liam knew he would have to face it. Face her. Sooner rather than later had been his plan, but that plan had been so much easier to make in the warm, safe confines of a London pub.

Countless times since his return he had tried, every time coming closer than the last. He had used the excuse of following Mrs Hardwicke’s progress as incentive, somewhat successfully. Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Now, he stood before the door. It was there—she was there. Just out of reach, beyond the safe, solid barrier of centuries-old oak. He could feel her there. Feel her everywhere in this forsaken house.

Hal...

The door he had seen so many times in his dreams seemed unreal now. Different. In his nightmares it had been a great impassable barrier, full of ancient magic and dread. It had stood between him and his sister, taunted him as it kept him from her. Yet now, standing before it, Liam saw it in all its acute simplicity.

Only a door.

And beyond it, only a room.

Why could he not then bring himself to enter? He had faced the rest of the house, returned here and survived even though he’d been certain it would be the end of him. The nightmares had lessened. He slept somewhat peacefully for the first time in years. There had been no incidents since...well, since he had nearly killed Mrs Hardwicke.

Liam shuddered at the thought. But he’d faced that and come out the other side, alive.

Revived. Restored.

Facing the demons, exorcising them, had helped. This was it, the final demon.

The final ghost. Dammit, man, open the door!

He had faced barren, desolate, unforgiving wilds. Faced men whose hearts were black and who knew nothing but violence. He had faced death a hundred times over. Why not this? Why did his hand tremble as he lifted it towards the handle? Why did his heart beat so quickly and his breathing become so shallow he doubted he could draw breath?

Hal is not in there.

There were no such things as ghosts, only those of his own making. His own wraiths of guilt and shame. Mrs Hardwicke had spoken but the truth. It had helped, fuelled his determination to return here. But if there were no ghosts, then why could he feel Hal’s presence? Feel her in every whisper of wind as it howled around the lonely tower? Feel her in every stone, every creak of wood?

Liam made to flee again, but stopped himself. He needed to be free. To see, to know. To ask forgiveness. To face his past so he could finally draw the poison of it from his veins.

This is why you returned.

Turning back would only prolong the torture. The sooner he faced it, the sooner he could leave and never return.

With a deep, steadying breath, Liam drew the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. A twist of the wrist, a click. His hand was steady and sure now as it swung open the door. Determined, he rushed in, and took the stairs two at a time. He didn’t pause at the first door—he would go back there, but first he needed to go to her room. He needed to face the worst first. He needed to—

What in the name of...?

There was no darkness. No cobwebs. Not a speck of dust. Only...

Light. Order. Cleanliness.

Liam was stunned, his eyes taking everything in, an indescribable anger rising within him. His instructions could not have been clearer.

How could she have dared come here? How could she have robbed him of his purpose thus? Where had she even got a key? Nothing was to be touched. It was to be left as Hal had. His father had closed this room, and Liam had sworn to keep it thus.

Untouched.

Until he was ready.

But nothing remained. It had all been carelessly swept away by his new insolent, impudent, disrespectful housekeeper.

Liam howled, in pain, in anger, in regret. His eyes desperately sought a trace, any trace, of what he’d come to find. All they found was a tiny vase filled with dog violets on the mantel, beneath Hal’s favourite creation she insisted be hung there, the painting which now mocked him. He remembered the day she had painted it, her fingers and cheeks covered in the full spectrum of colours. He should have known that day, should have seen it.

But all I saw was innocent romanticism...

He grabbed the vase and sent it flying across the room. How could she? Did the woman have no brain, no heart at all? What had she sought to do here? He stared at the mess of crystal and petals on the floor. Such a cruel jest to lay flowers beneath...

Liam screamed again. But this time it was a name.

‘Mrs Hardwicke,’ Liam bellowed at the top of his lungs. ‘Mrs Hardwicke!’

Not even the multitude of thick stone walls, and three floors which separated them, could prevent Rebecca from hearing him. Indeed, the whole house seemed to reverberate, and Rebecca winced as her quill went scraping across the neat and tidy numbers she had just been entering into the ledger.

With a sigh, she set it back in its inkstand, and rose. Just as she did, Gregory burst in, flushed and frightened.

‘I heard, Gregory,’ she said calmly, smoothing her skirts. ‘The East Tower?’

‘Aye, m-ma’am,’ he stammered.

‘I am on my way. You and the others return to your duties.’

Shooing him away, for which he seemed rather grateful, Rebecca grabbed her courage, and her skirts, and began the long ascent to the East Tower.

Well, he was bound to take issue at some point... It really was only a matter of time...

Not that she had been afraid of what might happen when he discovered what she’d been doing in the place no one dared speak of. And if this was what sent him over the edge and got her dismissed, well, then, so be it.

‘There you are,’ Liam spat furiously as she entered the room.

Rebecca eyed the mess of crystal and flowers on the floor, and made to tidy them. ‘Do not dare touch that.’

‘I am here, my lord,’ she said confidently, ignoring him as she collected the shards into her handkerchief, and laid the flowers back on the mantelpiece. ‘Though next time might I suggest the bell?’

‘You insolent, insubordinate, pig-headed, nosy, stubborn woman,’ he raged, prowling around the room. ‘It wasn’t enough for you to disobey my orders with the rest of the house—oh, no—you simply had to push, didn’t you! For there is no doubt you are to blame for this! Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself, then?’ he demanded, ceasing his pacing.

‘Have I missed a question again, my lord,’ Rebecca said defiantly, standing proud and immovable. ‘Forgive me if I have.’

‘Why, woman, why?’ he pleaded, striding over to tower over her. ‘Why could you not leave this place be?’

‘Because I could not countenance it, my lord,’ she shouted, staring up at him. ‘This room was a mausoleum. A sorrowful, hollow reminder of something terrible. I understand, believe me, I do,’ she continued vehemently, ‘the need to preserve memory. To honour the dead. But your sister, she deserved beauty, and light, and attention. And, yes, flowers. I have disturbed nothing but the dust and dirt. The rest is as it was, I swear.’

‘Do not presume to speak of what you do not know,’ he hissed, his hazel eyes flashing dangerously. ‘You have no idea...’

‘No,’ Rebecca admitted softly. ‘I have no idea what happened to her. Or you.’

Liam winced, and she sighed, shaking her head remorsefully.

‘I apologise for upsetting you, my lord, it was not my intent. But I cannot—will not—apologise for doing what I believed to be right. I will leave, if that is your wish. For if I stay, I shall continue to bring her flowers every day.’

‘You have been sent to torment me, I think, Mrs Hardwicke,’ he whispered, the anguish in his voice and heart tearing through her breast. ‘More effectively than any demon from Hell itself.’

Rebecca’s breath caught, and her eyes filled with tears. His words had cut her to the quick, and she felt sick.

What have I done?

‘I shall leave,’ she said meekly. ‘I would never wish to cause you pain.’

‘I forbid you to leave, Mrs Hardwicke,’ he stated, his body tensing as though preparing to leap after her should she attempt it.

Rebecca’s heart skipped and she realised she had momentarily forgotten to breathe. Liam was still staring at her, anguish, rage and challenge in his eyes. She searched them, hoping to find the meaning to his words, but she could not. Why would he not allow her to leave? Could it be he wished to make her pay, suffer for the pain she had unwillingly inflicted upon him?

How could he compare her to such terrible things one moment, then bemoan her offer to leave him in peace? He had obviously wanted her gone from the first, and indeed she’d given him every chance, every excuse to dismiss her.

And yet here he was, forbidding her to leave.

‘I have duties to attend to,’ she added when he glared at her warningly. ‘My lord—’

‘Just, go. Please.’

He sighed, finally turning from her, and Rebecca bobbed a curtsey and fled, feeling as though she might indeed be ill. He’d had the air of a defeated man in that final moment, and the thought that she might have broken him...

It made her heart twist and writhe. She was not a cruel person. She had always strived to be good, and honest, and to spread love and care and joy, for she knew all too well what the absence of such things could do. And yet here was a man, already suffering, already on the edge with grief and God only knew what else, and she had pushed. Too far.

What were you thinking, Rebecca? Believing spirits had called you and instructed you...

Since arriving, she had tried to bring some light, and life, back into this house, and she’d thought she had. But then, he had returned, and nothing had seemed right anymore. Nearly every time they met it was a confrontation. Why could he not see?

Why are you so intent on making him see? On doing what you think right?

It was his house, after all. Not hers. Why could she not leave well enough alone? And why could she not leave him alone? Why, even now, did she feel the urge to run back? To fix him, or save him, or...

Even if he needed saving it would not be up to you to do so.

The night she’d found him in the library, she had admitted to herself that she liked and admired him. But now that seemed too easy an explanation, which did not even begin to define the pull she felt. The understanding, the connection.

As though...

As though he were a kindred spirit.

Leave well enough alone, Rebecca, she told herself as she passed the kitchens and gave everyone huddled there a glare, warning them to return to their work, and cease whispering about what had just occurred.

Cease trying to fix everything, and more importantly, cease trying to understand the master. Serve and obey.