Rosamund
Dora’s mouth snapped shut. She stared at the floor, her hands trembling at her sides, and I could see it — the words still trapped in her mouth. She had been about to say something else, something Mrs Harlow hadn’t wanted me to hear.
"Ended how?" I asked, looking directly at Mrs Harlow. "Are you trying to tell me that the Duke never planned a wedding ceremony for any of his former fiancées?"
"I couldn’t speak to the specifics, my lady. I only manage the household." Her face was smooth, pleasant and completely blank. "But to the best of my knowledge, a wedding ceremony has never happened. Perhaps, you should ask His Grace’s private secretary; she might have answers."
"I already did, and she made it clear that she’s organised the ceremonies of the other ladies." I drew in a deep sigh. "Fine, did she organise something else that wasn’t wedding-related?"
"I wouldn’t know, my lady," Mrs Harlow said with a small smile. "I only care about my duties within the household. Will there be anything else?"
I held her gaze for a long moment, hoping to get even a hint from it, but nothing was there. Then I turned to Dora. The girl’s eyes flickered to mine for a fraction of a second. There was something in them that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t fear, nor was it the blank, dutiful mask she usually wore.
It was desperation.
As though she was trying to tell me something through sheer force of will.
Then Mrs Harlow placed a hand on Dora’s shoulder, and the look vanished, and Dora sagged slightly against her.
"Come, Dora. We have duties to attend to."
Dora curtsied and followed Mrs Harlow out of the room without another word. But at the threshold, she paused, just for a heartbeat. Her head turned slightly, as though she wanted to look back, before Mrs Hollow’s hand guided her through the door.
It closed behind them with a soft click.
Fanny was at my side immediately, her voice filled with excitement. "Did you see that? She was about to say something, but Mrs Harlow cut her off."
"Yes, Fanny. I saw."
"That woman is controlling what Dora tells you, what. Whatever happened to those fiancées, the servants know, and someone has made sure they stay quiet"
"I doubt it’s Mrs Harlow," I said thoughtfully. "She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who has absolute power."
"Or whoever Mrs Harlow answers to," Fanny’s added, her eyes darkening. " Still, there has to be someone in this house who will talk. Someone, Mrs Harlow, doesn’t have a leash on. A stable hand, a kitchen boy, someone who is not afraid."
"I know! and you must find them, Fanny," I turned to her. "But you must be careful. If Mrs Harlow finds out you’re asking questions —"
"I know," she flashed me a soft smile. "I’ll be smart about it."
I nodded and sat back down at the writing desk. If the wedding was going to serve any purpose beyond a death sentence, I needed to make at least a small effort to look like I wanted it to happen. If the Duke suspected I was deliberately sabotaging it, he’d hand the reins back to Jennifer, and I’d lose the only leverage I had.
I picked up the quill and began drafting a rough plan. Venue: the estate hall. Music: whatever musicians could be found locally. Food: defer to the kitchen. Guest list...
I stared at the blank space ’Guest list’ and felt the absurdity of my situation press down on me. Just as I leaned forward to write, a voice filtered into my ears.
Rosamund.
I paused, my quill poised halfway.
The voice was faint, barely there, like a whisper caught on a draught from a window that wasn’t open.
I turned from the desk to my maid, sitting not too far from me. "Fanny, did you call me?" I asked.
Fanny looked up from the stocking she was mending. "No. Why?"
"Nothing. I thought I heard you call my name."
I turned back to the paper. My hand was trembling slightly, but I gripped the quill tighter and wrote ’Flowers’ beneath ’Guest list.’
Minutes passed, and the scratching of my quill and the ticking of the clock were the only sounds in the room. The voice came again, the second time. This time, sounding more urgent.
Rosamund.
I spun around again and turned towards Fanny, but she was still sewing.
"Fanny," I called her.
She looked up, "Yes, my lady."
"Did you just say my name? Again?"
"No." She frowned. "I didn’t call your name, my lady. Are you alright though? You look pale."
"I’m fine," I managed a weak smile. "Just a headache."
I turned back to the desk and pressed my fingers against my temples. The wine. It had to be the wine still affecting me and making me hear voices.
But it wasn’t, was it? The wine had been two nights ago.
The afternoon crawled by. Fanny attempted to help me flesh out the wedding plan while I pretended to concentrate. The sun moved across the sky, painting long shadows on the chamber floor.
And the voice kept coming.
Rosamund.
Sometimes just my name. Sometimes a breath, a sound, like someone exhaling close to my ear. By late afternoon, I had stopped asking Fanny. I sat perfectly still each time it came, my fingers frozen around the quill, my jaw clenched, waiting for it to pass.
It always passed. And then it always came back.
By evening, I had counted eleven times.
Fanny had gone to the kitchen to fetch supper, and I was alone in the chamber for the first time all day. The fire crackled in the hearth. The clock ticked on the mantle, and in the silence between each tick, the voice slipped through.
Rosamund.
I set the quill down and folded my hands in my lap. My heart was hammering, but I kept my breathing steady. I knew what this was. Wasn’t this what the servants at Briarwood had described?
That the Duke’s fiancées, the ones who survived long enough to be found, all had the same story. They heard things.
Voices that no one else could hear. Whispers that followed them through the halls of Wellspring until they couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what wasn’t.
And then they went mad.
Outside, the sun slipped below the treeline and the gardens dissolved into shadow. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck seven.
And somewhere inside my head, in a place no lock or door could reach, the voice whispered my name one more time.
Is this how it started for Catherine?