The first tendrils of dawn were painting the eastern sky with hues of pale rose and soft grey when Julia finally descended the stairs the following morning. The encounter with Lord Beaumont had left a residue of unease, a prickling sensation that lingered beneath her skin like a persistent chill. Sleep had offered little respite, her dreams filled with shadowy figures and Lord Beaumont's furious pronouncements.
Mrs. Higgins, her usual starched demeanor somehow even stiffer, waited in the hall. Her eyes, however, held a flicker of something Julia couldn't quite decipher – was it guilt? Fear? Or simply her usual disapproval of anything unconventional?
"The carriage is ready, Miss Julia," she announced, her voice flat.
Julia nodded, her gaze sweeping over the familiar entryway, now imbued with a strange sense of farewell. She had lived her entire life within these walls, surrounded by the comforting weight of tradition and the echoes of her parents' laughter. Now, she was stepping out into the unknown, driven by a promise and a growing suspicion.
Before departing, however, there was a matter that needed addressing—a loose thread that threatened to unravel her carefully laid plans. The spy. The knowledge that someone within her own household was betraying her, reporting her private affairs to Lord Beaumont, was a bitter pill to swallow. It wasn't just the betrayal itself, but the vulnerability it exposed. Someone was close enough to her to know her intentions, close enough to whisper secrets into the wrong ears.
Julia had spent the remaining hours of the night formulating a plan, a subtle and intelligent way to unmask the culprit without causing undue alarm or disruption. She wouldn't resort to accusations or confrontations, not yet. Instead, she would lay a trap, a carefully crafted scenario designed to reveal the truth.
"Mrs. Higgins," Julia began, her voice calm and measured, "before I leave, I have a small task for you."
Mrs. Higgins' eyebrows rose a fraction. "Of course, Miss Julia."
"I have decided to send a letter to my solicitor in Oakhaven," Julia continued, picking up a blank piece of parchment from a nearby table. "It contains some… confidential instructions regarding the estate. I need it delivered with utmost discretion. I was thinking perhaps young Thomas could take it this afternoon?" Thomas was a stable hand, a seemingly unremarkable boy who ran errands from time to time.
Mrs. Higgins frowned slightly. "Thomas? He's a bit slow, Miss Julia. Perhaps one of the footmen?"
"No," Julia said firmly, offering a faint smile. "Discretion is paramount. Thomas is less likely to attract attention. Please ensure he understands the importance of delivering it directly into Mr. Ainsworth's hands and no one else's."
She then wrote the letter, sealing it with her family crest. The contents, however, were nothing more than a code: "The bluebird flies at dusk. Observe the garden gate."
This was her bait. If her suspicions were correct, the spy would likely inquire about her message. The phrase was a prearranged signal to her most trusted groom, Silas, who would be watching the garden gate for any suspicious activity.
With the letter entrusted to a slightly bewildered Mrs. Higgins, Julia finally stepped into the waiting carriage. The leather seats were cool beneath her, and the familiar scent of polished wood and horsehair did little to soothe the knot of anxiety in her stomach. As the carriage wheels crunched on the gravel driveway, she glanced back at Harrington Estate, its familiar facade now tinged with a sense of farewell and betrayal.
The journey to Blackwood Hall was a study in contrasts. The rolling hills around Edgewood gradually gave way to a more rugged landscape. Ancient trees, their branches gnarled and twisted like skeletal fingers, lined the winding road. A sense of isolation grew with every mile, the air growing heavier, the sunlight dimmer.
As the carriage finally lumbered up a long, shadowed drive, Blackwood Hall loomed into view, a formidable silhouette against the bruised afternoon sky. It was a stark, imposing structure built from dark grey stone, its many windows like watchful eyes. There was a sense of age and secrets clinging to its walls, a palpable aura of melancholy.
The carriage halted before a massive oak door with iron hinges wrought into grotesque figures. A lone footman, clad in black livery, emerged silently, his pale face unreadable.
Julia felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air. This place… it felt heavy, burdened by something unspoken. The silence was profound, broken only by the wind in the trees and the distant caw of a crow.
The footman opened the door, and Julia stepped out into the chill. The air smelled of damp earth and old grief.
She climbed the stone steps slowly, her eyes drawn to the carvings above the doorway—serpents devouring their own tails. A symbol both eternal and unsettling.
The heavy door creaked open, revealing a vast, dimly lit hall. Tapestries hung from the stone walls, depicting ancient, somber scenes. Suits of armor stood like silent sentinels in the gloom.
A figure approached from the far end of the hall—tall, composed, his presence undeniable.
This, surely, was Alistair Blackwood.
As he came into view, she saw the darkness of his hair, the storm-grey of his eyes, and the quiet authority in his movement. His face was handsome, though marked by sorrow and sleeplessness.
"Miss Harrington," he said, his voice deep and resonant, tinged with fatigue. He extended a hand. "Thank you for coming."
His touch was cool, but electric. Julia nodded. "Mr. Blackwood. I received your letter."
He gave a faint, melancholic smile. "Then you understand my request."
"I do," she replied. "You wish me to catalogue the art collection."
"Yes," he said, stepping aside to let her enter. "Marian—my wife—always wanted to have the collection properly documented. She often spoke of preserving the history behind the pieces. Now, with things as they are… I thought it time."
His voice tightened slightly at the mention of his wife, and Julia did not press. She followed him into the drawing-room—an elegant space draped in velvet and shadows, warmed only by a flickering fire.
"Marian passed recently," Alistair said after a pause. "It was sudden. A fever—swift, cruel. The physician called it an inflammation of the lungs. She was gone within days."
"I'm so sorry," Julia said quietly, moved by the restrained pain in his voice.
"Thank you. She was… remarkable." He stared into the fire for a long moment. "I suppose that cataloguing the collection is a way to honor her wishes. And perhaps, to find some peace."
They spoke of the project for a time—the number of rooms, the paintings Marian had cherished, the rare sculptures acquired by distant Blackwood ancestors. But Julia noticed a hesitation in his eyes. He was holding something back.
Eventually, he looked up, his voice quieter now. "There's one more reason I asked for you specifically. Marian… admired your intelligence. She often said you had a way of noticing things others overlook."
Julia sat forward slightly, her expression steady. "You believe there's more to her death?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "It was sudden. But in the weeks before… she was uneasy. Restless. She said strange things. Spoke in half-thoughts. Mentioned secrets in the house… things I never fully understood."
"What kind of secrets?"
He shook his head. "She never explained. But after the funeral, a letter arrived. No name. No signature. It said: 'She knew too much.' That was all."
A chill traced its way down Julia's spine.
"Did she confide in anyone? A journal, perhaps?"
"I've looked. But Marian was private. Whatever she discovered, she kept to herself."
Julia's gaze wandered across the shadows of the drawing-room. A sense of quiet tension had settled over the house. The project, it seemed, would be more than an inventory. It might be the unraveling of a deeper mystery.
A servant entered, announcing dinner.
"Will you join me?" Alistair asked, his voice low.
"Yes," Julia replied. She had come to catalogue art. But already, Blackwood Hall was whispering darker truths.
They walked to the dining room in silence. The long table, the portraits, the flickering candles—all watched as they sat to eat.
But before the first course was cleared, raised voices erupted beyond the doors.
Then they flew open, and Lord Beaumont stormed in, face wild with rage.
"There you are, Julia!" he roared. "I knew you'd run here!"
Julia stood, her breath catching in her throat. Alistair's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing at the intruder.