The Woodhouse carriage rattled up the gravel drive to Willowmere Hall beneath a sky the color of tarnished silver. Mrs. Woodhouse fussed with Marianne's fichu, clucking like a hen. "Remember, dearest—delicacy! A man's sister is the key to his character. If she approves, half the battle is won."
Eliza stared out the window, the manor's gabled roofline sharp against the clouds. *What does Margaret Hale hold?* she wondered. *A secret? A scandal?* The serpent-and-sword crest above the door seemed to hiss a warning as they stepped out.
The butler, a gaunt man with a face like parchment, ushered them into a drawing room heavy with damask and dusk. Margaret Hale sat by the fire, her silhouette swallowed by an armchair. She was slight, her skin translucent as rice paper, her auburn hair streaked with gray. Yet her eyes—the same flinty gray as her brother's—burned with keen intelligence.
"Mrs. Woodhouse," she said, her voice a rasping melody. "How kind of you to call."
"The kindness is *entirely* yours, dear Mrs. Hale!" Mrs. Woodhouse simpered, settling onto the sofa like a broody hen. "We are *desperate* to make you welcome. My daughters—"
"Yes." Margaret's gaze swept over the sisters. "The eldest is clever, the middle one lovely, the youngest… preoccupied."
Clara blanched. Eliza stiffened. *She sees too much.*
"And where is Mr. Ashford?" Mrs. Woodhouse pressed.
"Theodore detests morning calls. He's likely in the stables, lecturing the geldings on political economy." A wry smile. "He was never one for society's theater."
"A sentiment your brother and my Eliza share!" Mrs. Woodhouse trilled. "Why, just yesterday, she compared a quadrille to a parliamentary debate!"
Margaret's brow arched. "Did she?" Her eyes locked with Eliza's. "Tell me, Miss Woodhouse—do you find honesty a virtue or a vice?"
"That depends," Eliza said carefully, "on whether the world prefers a mirror or a mask."
Margaret laughed—a dry, crackling sound. "Theodore warned me you were sharp."
"Did he?" Eliza's pulse quickened. "I'm flattered he noticed."
A cough rattled Margaret's chest. She pressed a handkerchief to her lips, the fabric blooming with a faint pink stain. "Forgive me. The English air is… *bracing*."
Mrs. Woodhouse leaned forward, a vulture scenting weakness. "You must let us nurse you! My Marianne is *angelic* with tonics. Why, when Lady Denham had the ague—"
"No." The word, though soft, carried steel. "I require no coddling."
An awkward silence fell. Marianne fidgeted. Clara studied a portrait above the hearth—a stern man with Theodore's jawline, the serpent-and-sword crest at his feet.
"Your father?" Eliza asked.
Margaret followed her gaze. "Yes. A man who believed in legacy. And sacrifice."
Before Eliza could probe, footsteps echoed in the hall. Mr. Ashford strode in, his riding boots muddy, his cravat askew. He froze at the sight of the Woodhouses.
"Margaret," he said tightly, "you should be resting."
"And you should be charming our guests," she countered. "Miss Woodhouse was admiring Papa's portrait."
His jaw twitched. "A futile exercise. The man was a ghost long before he died."
The fire popped. Mrs. Woodhouse cleared her throat. "Well! We mustn't overstay. Girls, thank Mrs. Hale for her *exquisite* hospitality—"
"Stay a moment, Miss Eliza," Margaret said. "Theodore will show you the conservatory. He's been… *cultivating* orchids."
Eliza blinked. "I—"
"A capital idea!" Mrs. Woodhouse practically shoved her toward the door. "Eliza *adores* orchids. Do you not, dear?"
Mr. Ashford's expression darkened, but he gestured to the hall. "This way."
* * *
The conservatory was a jungle of glass and steam, orchids spilling from shelves like frozen fireworks. Eliza trailed her fingers over a petal. "Your sister is intriguing."
"She is meddlesome," he snapped.
"Why did she really come here?"
He stilled. "You presume a motive?"
"I presume a woman doesn't flee Italy for aphids and ague."
A muscle leapt in his cheek. "Margaret is dying. She wished to see Willowmere… *whole* again."
Eliza turned. "Whole?"
He stared at the orchids, his voice hollow. "My father left this place in ruins. Debts. Secrets. Margaret thinks I can mend it."
"Can you?"
"Does it matter?" His gaze met hers, raw and unguarded. "Or are you only here to tally my failures?"
The air thickened. Eliza stepped closer. "I'm here because you left me a book. Because you speak in riddles and resent anyone who tries to solve them. Because—"
A crash echoed from the house. They hurried back to the drawing room, where Margaret lay slumped in her chair, a shattered teacup at her feet.
"Fetch the doctor!" Mr. Ashford barked, cradling his sister's head.
As chaos erupted, Eliza knelt to collect the shards. Beneath the saucer, she found a crumpled letter—half-burned, the words *… debts owed… consequences…* barely legible.
She pocketed it, her hands trembling. *Truths, like roses, have thorns.*
And some drew blood.