The enforced stillness was a cage worse than Blackwood's gilded reputation had ever been. Sandra lay propped against a mountain of pillows, the view from her sitting room window taunting her with the vibrant spring unfolding just beyond the glass. Sunshine gilded the new leaves on the oaks, birds flitted between Isabella's blooming roses, and the distant sounds of construction from the workers' village carried on the breeze – a symphony of progress she was barred from conducting. Her body felt alien, heavy, and frustratingly inert, while her mind raced like a trapped bird, battering against the bars of bed rest.
Dr. Evans's daily visits were brief, solemn affairs. He checked her pulse, measured the baby's strong, steady heartbeat – a profound relief that never quite erased the underlying fear – and reiterated the non-negotiable terms: *Rest. Quiet. Minimal movement.* The placental previa, he explained with gentle gravity, was a precarious ledge; any misstep could lead to a catastrophic hemorrhage. The memory of the terrifying stillness after the collapse haunted her, a chilling counterpoint to the life now fluttering determinedly within. Paul's face, etched with raw terror in those moments, was seared into her memory. His vow – *I will not fail you* – was both a comfort and a weight. She saw the strain it placed on him, the way the mantle of protector sat heavier than ever, sharpening his edges, deepening the shadows under his eyes.
He spent hours in his study with Davies, their voices a low, urgent murmur through the connecting door. She caught glimpses of ledgers, lists of names, the grim set of Davies's jaw as he departed on some errand. Paul himself moved through her room like a storm contained, his touch tender but his presence crackling with suppressed fury. He brought her meals himself, read to her from Alexander's favorite picture books when their son was brought for carefully supervised visits, his large frame dwarfing the nursery chair. But his eyes constantly scanned the room, the corridor beyond the open door, as if expecting an assassin to materialize from the wallpaper.
"Any progress?" Sandra asked one afternoon as he set a tray of delicate broth and toast beside her. Alexander, having exhausted his patience with quiet cuddles, was being carried off by Clara for a walk in the walled garden, his protests fading down the hall.
Paul sank into the chair beside her, running a hand over his face. The weariness was palpable. "Davies is chasing shadows," he admitted, his voice tight. "The hook was definitely cut. A fine saw, expertly done to mimic stress. The painters are cleared – their tools and alibis hold. We've reviewed every servant with any conceivable link to my father or Hemsworth. Questioned the foreman at the village site. Nothing concrete." He slammed his fist softly against the armrest, the frustration boiling over. "Someone walked into *my* house, violated *my* sanctuary, and nearly killed…" He choked, unable to voice the possibilities – Mrs. Bell, Sandra, their unborn child. "And I can't find them!"
Sandra reached for his clenched fist, prying his fingers open and lacing hers through them. "We will," she said, her voice steady despite her own fear. "They made a mistake. They revealed their malice. Malice leaves traces, Paul. We just have to look differently." She squeezed his hand. "Tell me about the workers' village. Davies mentioned tensions?"
Paul sighed, leaning back. "The usual grumblings magnified by fear. Some resent the new housing regulations – no livestock inside, designated waste areas. They call it 'Barton interference.' Others feel the rents, though subsidized, are still too high compared to their old hovels. Davies suspects agitators might be stirring the pot, exploiting the discontent."
"Exploiting discontent is a powerful tool," Sandra murmured, her gaze drifting to the window. "Especially for someone who wants to destabilize you. A happy, settled workforce isn't prone to sabotage. A resentful one…" She let the implication hang. "Who benefits from unrest? Former landlords displaced by the village? Competitors who'd like to see Barton projects fail?"
"Possible," Paul conceded. "But the hook… that feels personal. An attack *here*."
Before Sandra could respond, a soft knock sounded at the open door. Eleanor stood there, a basket of freshly cut roses in hand – white ones from Isabella's bush and a single, vibrant crimson bud from Alexander's. Her expression was carefully neutral, but her eyes held a watchful alertness.
"Forgive the intrusion," she said softly. "I thought some flowers might brighten the room." She placed the basket on a side table, the scent of roses instantly perfuming the air. She moved with her usual quiet grace, but Sandra noticed the way her gaze flickered towards Paul, then back to her, a silent question hanging.
"Thank you, Eleanor," Sandra said warmly. "They're beautiful. Please, sit for a moment. Tell me, how is Mrs. Bell today? I feel wretched, trapped here while she suffers."
Eleanor perched on the edge of a nearby chair. "The pain is less, Dr. Evans says, but she's terribly frustrated. Impatient to be up. She sends her deepest regards and insists you *must* not worry about her." Eleanor paused, arranging the roses in a vase Sandra kept by the window. Her movements were deliberate. "I sat with her this morning. She's… confused by the medication, talks a great deal."
Sandra caught the subtle inflection. "Oh? What does she talk about?"
Eleanor kept her back to them for a moment, fussing with a rose stem. "Mostly the accident. Reliving it. The noise… the dust… falling." She turned, her expression carefully composed, but her eyes held a spark. "She mentioned something peculiar, though. In her rambling. She said, just before it happened, she thought she smelled pipe smoke. Strong, cheap tobacco. Near the east service door."
Paul stiffened. "Pipe smoke? Inside the hall? None of the staff smoke pipe, especially not cheap tobacco indoors. It's strictly forbidden near the furnishings."
"Exactly," Eleanor said quietly. "And the painters don't smoke while working. She thought it odd at the time, but then… the crash."
"The east service door," Sandra repeated, her mind racing. It was a lesser-used entrance, leading to a back corridor and the old servants' staircase. "Could someone have come in that way? Unnoticed?"
"Davies checked the door after the accident," Paul said, frowning. "It was locked from the inside. As usual."
"Was it *before*?" Sandra pressed. "During the commotion of preparations? When Mrs. Bell was distracted?" She turned to Eleanor. "Did she see anyone? Hear anything else?"
Eleanor shook her head. "No. Just the smell. And then the noise. She's adamant about the smoke, though. Kept muttering about it."
A cheap pipe smoker. An unfamiliar scent in the formal hall. Near a discreet entrance. It was a wisp of a clue, thinner than smoke itself, but it was something. A crack in the anonymity of their enemy.
"Davies didn't mention this," Paul said, his voice tight with a mix of frustration and renewed focus.
"Mrs. Bell only became lucid enough to mention it this morning, and only to me, I think," Eleanor explained. "She rambles. It might have seemed insignificant amidst her descriptions of the pain. But given the circumstances…"
"It's significant," Paul stated, rising. The lethargy of moments before was gone, replaced by the hunter's intensity. "A stranger. Or someone disguising their usual habits. Cheap pipe tobacco…" He paced the small space by the window. "We need to know who in the vicinity smokes that. The village workers? Delivery men? Someone passing through the grounds?"
"The grounds are extensive," Sandra mused. "Someone could linger near the east wing, observe routines, without being seen from the main house. Especially if they knew the land." A cold thought struck her. "The disgruntled villagers… some of them are local men, aren't they? Men who might have worked the Blackwood land before, or know it well?"
Paul stopped pacing, his gaze locking with Sandra's. The same chilling possibility resonated between them. The attack wasn't necessarily an inside job by a servant. It could be an outsider, fueled by resentment stirred up by the village changes, someone with knowledge of the house's layout and routines, who saw an opportunity to strike at the heart of the Barton prosperity and security.
"The workers' village," Paul breathed, the pieces clicking with ominous clarity. "Davies focused on the workers *in* the village. But what about those displaced *by* it? The men who lost their cheap rents in town slums when we cleared the land? The petty landlords who lost their exploitative incomes?" He strode towards the door. "Eleanor, stay with Sandra. I need to find Davies. Now."
He paused at the threshold, looking back at Sandra. The fear for her was still there, deep in his eyes, but it was overlaid now with a fierce, burning purpose. "You see?" he said, a ghost of his old, admiring smile touching his lips. "Traces."
"Go," Sandra urged, her own mind already whirring with possibilities. "But be careful, Paul. If they're bold enough to sabotage scaffolding… they're dangerous."
He nodded, a curt, determined gesture, and was gone, his footsteps echoing with swift urgency down the hall.
Eleanor moved closer to the chaise, her gaze thoughtful. "A pipe smoker," she murmured. "It seems such a small thing."
"Small things can unravel great schemes, Eleanor," Sandra said, settling back against her pillows, exhaustion warring with a renewed, sharp-edged vigilance. The scent of the roses filled the room – a poignant reminder of love, loss, and resilience. Outside, the spring day continued, deceptively peaceful. Inside Blackwood, the hunt had narrowed, the phantom enemy acquiring a scent: cheap tobacco and bitter resentment. The cage of bed rest still held Sandra, but her mind, sharper than any blade, was now fully engaged. The whispers in the sickroom had just given their unseen foe a voice. Now, they had to find the face.