Chapter 8: The Rose and the Blade
The silence that followed Lady Catherine's departure hung over the solarium like a funeral veil.
Eleanor remained seated on the stone floor, the velvet-bound journal cradled in her lap. Her fingers had gone numb, but she couldn't bring herself to move. The words written by Margaret Elwood still echoed in her mind, as real as if the woman were beside her.
Nathaniel stood near the broken door, one hand resting against the splintered wood. His face was unreadable — not angry, not broken, but something in between. Like a man caught between the past and the future, unsure which path he belonged to.
"She killed her," Eleanor said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper. "And buried it beneath silence."
Nathaniel didn't respond.
The wind rustled through the cracked panes of the solarium windows, carrying with it the scent of roses long dead.
Eleanor looked up at him. "What will you do?"
"I don't know," he murmured. "Part of me wants to scream. Another part just… wants to leave."
She rose to her feet slowly. "You can't."
He turned to her, eyes sharp. "Why not?"
"Because this place is yours. Not just the manor — the truth. You came back for it. You found it. You can't let her win by running."
He studied her for a long moment. "You sound like someone who's not planning to run either."
"I'm not," she said softly. "Not anymore."
A silence stretched between them.
Then Nathaniel stepped forward, gently brushing dust from her cheek. "You've changed."
"So have you," she whispered.
He let his hand linger for a second too long, then turned away.
"We should leave before she locks this place down."
Eleanor nodded and tucked Margaret's journal beneath her shawl.
As they stepped back into the corridor, she knew the world would never feel the same.
---
The next morning, the manor was filled with unusual tension. The servants moved with quiet urgency, their eyes downcast. Eleanor heard whispers about the solarium door — how it had been found open, how Lady Catherine had ordered it sealed again, this time with iron bolts.
But she said nothing.
Neither did Nathaniel.
They met only once in the corridor, and shared a quiet glance. The unspoken agreement passed between them like a breath:
Wait. Watch. Then act.
Eleanor spent the day in the library, rereading the final entries in both journals. There were hints, scattered lines, small clues. Margaret had mentioned a letter — one she'd written to Jonathan the night before she vanished.
She had placed it beneath the rose bush.
The one in the solarium.
Eleanor's heart pounded.
It might still be there.
---
That evening, Eleanor returned to the garden under cover of dusk. The moon had not yet risen, and the air was heavy with the coming of rain. She wore her thickest cloak and brought a lantern, its glow tucked behind her shawl.
She found the solarium from the outside — or rather, what remained of it. A low wall of ivy-covered brick, tall arched windows now opaque with grime. The glass had long since cracked in places, but the ironwork was intact.
She searched until she found the edge of the rose bush — the same one described in Margaret's journal. Its thorns curled like hooks, and its petals had faded to dry crimson.
Eleanor dug with her bare hands.
The soil was cold, packed tight, laced with roots.
Minutes passed. Her fingernails tore. Her knuckles bled.
Then her fingers closed around something thin and brittle.
She pulled it free — a scrap of folded parchment, sealed with red wax, now cracked with age.
She broke the seal.
Inside was a letter. The ink had faded, but she could still make out the script.
> My dearest Jonathan,
I fear she knows. I heard her last night, whispering to the maid. I was to be dismissed — sent away to the coast. But I know what that means. I know the stories.
I wanted to tell you in person. I wanted to see your face. But she's watching me always.
If I do not return to you — know this: I loved you. Not for your name, not for your promise, but for your soul. You were kind to me in a world that was cruel.
And if this house swallows me whole, I pray that someone, someday, will find this letter and let you rest.
With all I was,
Margaret
Eleanor folded the letter and held it to her chest, tears stinging her eyes.
She had been silenced — but not forgotten.
---
The confrontation came the next morning.
Eleanor stood outside Lady Catherine's door, her hand curled into a fist. The letter and both journals sat inside her satchel.
She knocked once.
"Enter," came the clipped reply.
Lady Catherine sat by the window in a heavy velvet chair, already dressed in deep navy. Her hands rested on a cup of untouched tea.
Eleanor stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
"Did you think I wouldn't find it?" she asked, voice steady.
Lady Catherine didn't turn. "You're speaking in riddles again."
"I found her letter."
At that, the older woman flinched — barely, but enough.
Eleanor continued. "Margaret Elwood. She loved him. And he loved her. She was going to leave with him — until you had her silenced."
"She was a maid," Lady Catherine snapped. "He had a duty."
"He had a heart. And she didn't deserve to be erased."
Lady Catherine rose slowly, her voice trembling with quiet fury. "Do you think I wanted any of this? To watch my husband fall in love with another woman in my own house? To raise a child in silence because his father chose a servant over me?"
Eleanor stepped closer. "You could have let her leave."
"I did. I arranged her departure. She refused. She wanted more."
Eleanor's heart hammered. "So what did you do?"
Lady Catherine's voice dropped to a whisper. "I told her to go to the solarium. That I would speak to her. But she never came out."
Eleanor's blood turned cold. "Did you…?"
"I locked the door," she said. "She was screaming. And then she wasn't."
The room spun.
"You buried her in silence," Eleanor said, voice shaking. "Then lied to your son. And tried to bury me with her."
Lady Catherine turned back to the window.
"You'll leave Ashvale," she said quietly. "This house is not yours. It never was."
"No," Eleanor said. "It's his. And he deserves the truth."
---
She found Nathaniel in the garden, beneath the old oak where his father had once carved initials into the bark.
He didn't speak as she handed him the letter.
He read it once.
Then twice.
When he finished, he looked up at her, eyes shining.
"She loved him," he whispered.
Eleanor nodded. "She died for that love."
Nathaniel closed his eyes. "And my mother…"
"She admitted it," Eleanor said. "She didn't say the words. But I saw it."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, "We're leaving."
She blinked. "What?"
"Tonight. With the journals. The letter. Everything. This house is a tomb, Eleanor. I've had enough of its silence."
She hesitated. "But your inheritance—"
"She can keep it. I want the truth more than I want her name."
Eleanor met his gaze.
"And me?" she asked softly.
He stepped forward, brushing a hand over her cheek. "I want you too."
Her heart fluttered.
He leaned in and kissed her — slow, deep, unhurried. As if the world was finally giving them permission to feel everything they'd been holding back.
When they pulled apart, he smiled.
"We'll leave through the carriage path at dusk."
"I'll be ready."
---
That evening, Eleanor packed only what mattered.
The letter. The journals. A photograph of Margaret. The rose locket she had found beneath the floorboard in the solarium — containing a single white petal, now dried and delicate.
At dusk, the carriage rolled down the old drive, wheels crunching gravel, wind stirring the trees.
Eleanor didn't look back.
Ashvale Manor stood tall behind them, its windows glowing like watchful eyes. But for the first time, she didn't feel haunted.
She felt free.
---