The peace Paul had found after reading Reginald's letter felt like sunlight after a century of storm. Blackwood blossomed under its gentle warmth. Spring unfurled in earnest – Isabella's roses erupted in a cascade of crimson and ivory, the new plantings around Alexander's namesake bush thrived, and laughter, genuine and frequent, echoed through halls that had known only whispers and dread. Preparations for Alexander's first birthday party infused the house with a bustling, joyous energy. Clara had returned from Paris, her quiet presence adding another layer of gentle contentment. Eleanor, overseeing the final touches on the workers' village square named for Alexander, seemed almost… settled.
Sandra, heavy with the burgeoning life of their second child, moved through the days with a serene exhaustion. The physical demands were greater this time, a constant reminder of the precious, fragile miracle growing within her. She often rested in the refurbished morning room, sunlight streaming through the windows, watching Paul play with Alexander on the thick rug. The sight of her husband, the fearsome Beast of Blackwood, patiently stacking wooden blocks only for their gleeful son to send them tumbling, never failed to fill her with a profound, aching tenderness.
One such afternoon, Clara joined her, sketching the scene with swift, sure strokes. "He is remarkably gentle with him," Clara observed softly, her pencil whispering across the paper.
"He has learned," Sandra murmured, a hand resting on her rounded belly. "Learned that strength isn't just for breaking, but for holding safe." She winced slightly as the baby shifted, a firm pressure against her ribs.
Clara's gaze sharpened with concern. "Are you alright?"
"Just enthusiastic," Sandra smiled, shifting in her chair. "This one seems determined to make their presence known early and often." She watched Paul lift Alexander high, the baby shrieking with delight. "We thought perhaps… Eleanor. For a girl. To honor another survivor who found her way home."
Clara's pencil stilled. A faint blush touched her cheeks. "It is a beautiful name," she whispered. "And a worthy honor."
The moment was shattered by the sudden, sharp crack of splintering wood, followed by a thunderous crash that vibrated through the very floorboards. It came from the direction of the grand entrance hall.
Alexander wailed in startled fright. Paul instinctively clutched him closer, his head snapping towards the sound, his body instantly coiled for threat. Sandra surged to her feet, a jolt of pain shooting through her abdomen as she moved too quickly. Clara dropped her sketchbook, her face pale.
"Stay here!" Paul commanded, his voice tight with controlled alarm. He thrust Alexander into Clara's waiting arms. "Lock the door."
Sandra ignored him, propelled by a surge of adrenaline and dread. "Paul—"
He was already gone, striding towards the hall, his posture radiating lethal intent. Sandra followed, Clara close behind, clutching a sobbing Alexander.
The scene in the entrance hall was one of chaotic ruin. A section of the ornate wooden scaffolding erected for painters to reach the vaulted ceiling and clean the massive chandelier had collapsed. Splintered planks and tangled ropes lay scattered across the marble floor. Two painters, thankfully conscious but groaning, were being helped to their feet by ashen-faced footmen. Dust motes danced violently in the shafts of sunlight piercing the gloom.
But Sandra's eyes flew past the debris, past the injured men, to the spot directly beneath where the scaffolding had fallen. The spot where, moments before the crash, Mrs. Bell had been directing the placement of floral arrangements for the birthday party. The elderly housekeeper lay partially buried under splintered wood and canvas drop cloths, ominously still.
"Mrs. Bell!" Sandra gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She started forward, but a firm grip on her arm stopped her.
"Stay back, Sandra!" Paul barked, already moving towards the wreckage with purposeful strides. "The structure might be unstable! Davies!" His voice sliced through the panic. "Send for Dr. Evans immediately! And fetch ropes and crowbars!"
Mr. Davies, who had appeared from his study, paled but nodded curtly, springing into action. Footmen rushed forward at Paul's gesture, carefully beginning to lift the larger beams away from the housekeeper's prone form. Paul dropped to his knees beside her, his movements swift but precise, checking for signs of life.
Sandra watched, her heart hammering against her ribs, each beat sending a fresh wave of discomfort through her strained abdomen. She felt Clara's hand slip into hers, cold and trembling. Alexander's cries had subsided into frightened whimpers against Clara's shoulder.
"Is she...?" Clara whispered, unable to finish.
Paul gently brushed dust from Mrs. Bell's face. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and filled with pain. She coughed, a weak, rattling sound. "M-M'lord?" she rasped.
"Don't try to speak, Mrs. Bell," Paul ordered, his voice surprisingly gentle despite its command. "Help is coming. Where are you hurt?"
"My... my leg," she groaned. "And my arm. Oh, the pain..."
"Easy now," Paul soothed, carefully supporting her head. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze locking with Sandra's. The fear she saw warring with the rigid control in his eyes mirrored her own. "Sandra, Clara – take Alexander upstairs. Now. This is no place for him. Or for you," he added, his eyes dropping pointedly to her swollen belly.
The dismissal stung, but the logic was undeniable. The dust, the chaos, the potential for further collapse – it was dangerous. Sandra forced herself to nod. "Come, Clara," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. She turned, ushering Clara and the frightened child towards the stairs. As she climbed, each step sent a jarring throb through her abdomen. She paused halfway, gripping the banister, a wave of dizziness washing over her.
"Sandra?" Clara asked, alarmed, shifting Alexander to one hip to support her.
"I'm... I'm alright," Sandra breathed, closing her eyes for a second. "Just moved too fast." But a cold tendril of fear, separate from the accident, uncoiled in her gut. The baby had gone unnervingly still.
Downstairs, the commotion continued. Dr. Evans arrived swiftly, his medical bag clutched tightly. He joined Paul beside Mrs. Bell, his expression grim as he assessed her injuries. Sandra watched from the landing as the men carefully maneuvered the housekeeper onto a makeshift stretcher. Mrs. Bell cried out in agony as her leg was moved.
Once Mrs. Bell was carried away towards the servants' quarters where Dr. Evans could tend to her properly, Paul stood amidst the wreckage. He wasn't looking at the debris; he was staring upwards, at the remaining section of scaffolding, and at the heavy iron hook that had seemingly sheared off from the ceiling beam where the scaffolding had been anchored. His face was carved from stone, the earlier gentleness replaced by a chilling intensity. He picked up the broken hook, examining the fractured metal.
Mr. Davies approached him cautiously. "A terrible accident, my lord. The weight, perhaps... or faulty equipment..."
"Faulty equipment?" Paul's voice was dangerously quiet. He held up the hook. The break wasn't clean or aged; it showed signs of scoring, of deliberate weakness. "Look at this, Davies. This wasn't fatigue. This was *cut*. Nearly through. Designed to fail under weight."
Davies gasped. "Sabotage? But who—"
Paul's gaze swept the hall, taking in the shaken footmen, the pale-faced maids huddled in doorways, the remnants of the birthday preparations lying trampled underfoot. His eyes, hard and flinty, finally lifted to meet Sandra's where she still stood on the stairs. The message in them was clear and terrifying.
The peace was shattered. The foundations they had painstakingly rebuilt had just developed a sinister crack. The enemy wasn't Reginald in his grave. It was someone here, now, hiding in the light they had created. Someone who had tried to kill their housekeeper and could have easily killed Sandra, Clara, or Alexander had they been standing there. The target was unclear, but the malice was undeniable.
As Dr. Evans hurried past, heading towards the servants' wing, he paused, noticing Sandra's pallor and her hand pressed protectively over her belly. "Lady Barton? Are you unwell?"
Sandra forced herself to stand straighter, meeting Paul's burning gaze across the ruined hall. "I need you to check the baby, Doctor," she said, her voice clear and carrying despite the tremor beneath. "After you've seen to Mrs. Bell. Immediately."
The fear in Paul's eyes intensified, but it was quickly banked by a ferocious, protective rage. He gave her a single, sharp nod. The party preparations were forgotten. The joyous anticipation was extinguished. The hunt had begun anew, not in the shadows of the past, but within the sunlit walls of their reclaimed sanctuary. And this time, the stakes included not just their legacy, but the fragile, precious lives they cherished most. The scaffolding had collapsed, revealing a darkness they hadn't known still lurked. The celebration of life had been violently interrupted by a reminder of death's persistent shadow.