Chapter 2

I dressed quickly, choosing a simple sweater and trousers, and made my way downstairs. The kitchen was warm and bright, and Mrs. Whitmore was already there, arranging scones on a tray.

"Good morning, miss," she said, her voice gentle. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," I lied.

She set a cup of tea in front of me and a plate with a warm scone and butter. I thanked her and ate in silence, watching the sunlight creep across the stone floor.

"I thought I might explore the house today," I said, when I had finished. "Get my bearings."

Mrs. Whitmore nodded. "There's a lot to see. The east wing is mostly guest rooms and storage. The west wing..." She paused, her hands stilling on the counter. "The west wing has been closed for some time."

"Closed?"

"Mrs. Ashford kept it locked. She said it was unsafe, but I always wondered if there was more to it."

I thought of the note in my pocket. When you are ready, look west.

"Is there a key?" I asked.

Mrs. Whitmore was quiet for a moment. Then she crossed to a drawer by the sink and pulled out a small brass key, worn and dark with age. "This was among her things. I never knew what it opened, but perhaps..."

She held it out to me, and I took it. The metal was cool and heavy in my palm.

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitmore."

"Be careful, miss."

I nodded and left the kitchen, the key tucked safely in my pocket.

The west wing was quieter than the rest of the house. The hallway was narrow, the wallpaper faded to a soft rose pattern that must have been beautiful once. Dust lay thick on the floor, and my footsteps left clear marks as I walked. The air smelled of old paper and something metallic, like rust.

I counted the doors as I passed them. Four on the left, three on the right. All locked. But at the end of the corridor, a single door stood slightly ajar.

My heart beat faster as I approached. I pushed the door open slowly, and it swung inward with a long, low creak.

The room was a study. A desk sat beneath a tall window, its surface covered in papers and envelopes. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents dusty and disordered. A lamp with a cracked glass shade stood on a side table, and a portrait hung above the fireplace, the face too dark to make out clearly.

I stepped inside, and the floorboards groaned beneath me.

The desk was the obvious place to start. I pulled open the drawers one by one, finding old ledgers, dried ink bottles, and a collection of letters tied with a frayed ribbon. I untied the ribbon and spread the letters across the desk.

They were addressed to my grandmother. The handwriting was neat and feminine, and the first letter began with a date: twenty-three years ago.

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you worry, but I am safe. I cannot tell you where I am, only that I am far from Ashford and the people who would harm me. I have found proof of what Richard did. The original agreement was altered, and I have the evidence. But I cannot return until I am certain it is safe. Please keep this secret. For now, it is all I have.

My hands trembled as I read the signature at the bottom: Isabelle.

My mother. Isabelle Ashford. The woman who had supposedly abandoned her family.

I read the letter again, and then a third time, trying to understand. The original agreement. Richard. Richard Blackwood. Alexander's father.

The other letters told a similar story. My mother had discovered something about a business agreement between the Ashfords and the Blackwoods, something that had been altered to benefit the Blackwood family. She had tried to expose it, and then she had disappeared.

But she had not abandoned anyone. She had been protecting herself. And my grandmother had known.

I sank into the chair behind the desk, the letters clutched in my hands. The truth was so close, but it raised more questions than it answered.

What was in the original agreement? How had it been altered? And why had my grandmother kept this secret for so long?

I heard a sound behind me, and I turned quickly.

Alexander Blackwood stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"You shouldn't be here," he said.

"This is my house," I replied, my voice sharper than I intended. "I can go anywhere I please."

"This room was locked for a reason."

"My grandmother left me a note telling me to look west. She wanted me to find this."

He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the desk and the letters. "What did you find?"

"Letters from my mother. She didn't abandon anyone. She was running from something. From someone."

I held up one of the letters, and Alexander's gaze flickered to it. For a moment, something like pain crossed his face, but it was gone before I could be sure.

"Your father," I said. "Richard Blackwood. He altered an agreement between our families. That's why my mother left."

Alexander was silent for a long moment. "That's what you think."

"It's what the evidence says."

"Evidence can be misinterpreted."

"Then explain it to me."

He looked at me, and I saw the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to tell me to leave, to forget what I had found. But something held him back.

"I don't have all the answers," he said finally. "But I know that my father... he made choices. Some of them were not good ones."

"That's an understatement."

"I'm not defending him. I'm telling you the truth as I know it."

"Then help me find the rest of it."

He hesitated. The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncertain.

"I can't promise anything," he said. "But I can try."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"There's more to this house than you know," he said. "And more to this story. But if we're going to uncover it, we need to be careful."

"Careful of what?"

"Of the people who don't want the truth to come out."

He turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. I stayed where I was, the letters still in my hands, the weight of what I had discovered pressing down on me.

The truth was out there. And now, with Alexander's reluctant help, I might finally find it.

But as I looked out the window at the grey sky and the bare trees, I wondered what else I would uncover along the way. And whether I was ready for it.

The truth was out there. And now, with Alexander's reluctant help, I might finally find it.

But as I looked out the window at the grey sky and the bare trees, I wondered what else I would uncover along the way. And whether I was ready for it.

For a long time, I remained seated, watching the branches sway in the wind.

The study felt different now. What had once seemed like an ordinary forgotten room had become something else entirely. It was almost as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for someone to uncover what had been hidden within them.

I looked down at the letters.

My mother's handwriting was delicate, each word carefully formed. I wondered how she had felt when she wrote them. Had she been frightened? Angry? Lonely?

Had she ever thought about returning?

I picked up the final letter again, searching for something I might have overlooked. There were no dates on the envelope, only a small mark in the corner that looked like the beginning of a name.

I turned it towards the light.

Nothing.

With a quiet sigh, I placed it back on the desk.

I couldn't remain in the study forever. My eyes were beginning to ache, and the light outside was fading. I gathered the letters and carefully tied the ribbon around them again.

Before leaving, I took one final look around the room.

The bookshelves.

The fireplace.

The desk.

And the portrait above it.

I approached the painting, trying to make out the face beneath the dust and shadows. It appeared to be a woman, perhaps in her forties, with dark hair and a serious expression. Her eyes seemed unusually familiar, although I couldn't explain why.

I reached towards the frame, intending to wipe away some of the dust.

Then I noticed something.

A small inscription had been carved into the wooden edge.

Some truths are better remembered than spoken.

I read it twice.

Whoever had written those words had clearly understood the importance of silence in this house.

I stepped away from the portrait and left the study, pulling the door almost closed behind me.

The corridor seemed darker than before.

I walked slowly towards the main staircase, my footsteps echoing against the wooden floor. As I passed the other doors, I couldn't help wondering what they contained.

Were they ordinary guest rooms?

Or had something else been hidden behind them?

At the end of the corridor, I stopped and looked back.

The door to the study remained slightly open.

For a moment, I considered returning.

Then I continued downstairs.

The entrance hall was quiet.

A grandfather clock stood against the far wall, its pendulum moving steadily behind the glass. The sound seemed louder than before, filling the empty space with a slow, rhythmic ticking.

I paused beside it.

There was something strangely comforting about the familiar sound.

Beyond the entrance hall, the drawing room was dimly illuminated by the remaining afternoon light. I could see the outlines of the furniture through the open doorway.

I decided to explore it.

The drawing room was considerably larger than I remembered. Heavy curtains framed the tall windows, and a pale rug covered most of the polished floor. Several armchairs were arranged around a low table, while a large fireplace dominated the opposite wall.

I approached the mantelpiece.

There were several framed photographs arranged along it.

Most showed my grandmother at different stages of her life. In one, she stood beside a group of people at what appeared to be a garden party. In another, she was sitting on a bench with a young girl.

I recognised the girl immediately.

Isabelle.

My mother.

She couldn't have been more than seventeen.

I picked up the photograph.

My mother was smiling, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She looked carefree, almost as though the world had never given her a reason to worry.

I wondered what had happened to that girl.

What had changed her life so completely that she had eventually been forced to leave her home?

"She was very beautiful, wasn't she?"

I turned.

Mrs. Whitmore stood near the doorway.

"Yes," I replied, looking at the photograph again. "She was."

Mrs. Whitmore approached the mantelpiece.

"She loved this room. When she was younger, she used to sit by that window and read for hours."

I glanced towards the armchair beside the curtains.

"That one?"

Mrs. Whitmore nodded.

"Your grandmother used to complain that she spent too much time reading and not enough time going outside."

A faint smile appeared on her face.

"Your mother would simply smile and return to her book."

I placed the photograph back.

"Did she have many friends?"

"Several. Although she was rather particular about whom she trusted."

I looked at Mrs. Whitmore.

"Was Alexander's father one of them?"

Her expression became difficult to read.

"Mr. Blackwood was a frequent visitor to the house."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Mrs. Whitmore looked towards the window.

"No, miss. It doesn't."

I waited, but she offered nothing further.

"Mrs. Whitmore, I know you probably don't want to discuss the past, but I need to understand what happened."

She turned towards me.

"Some memories are difficult to revisit."

"I understand."

"Your grandmother spent many years trying to protect this family."

"From what?"

Mrs. Whitmore hesitated.

"From the consequences of other people's decisions."

Before I could ask another question, she excused herself and returned to the kitchen.

I remained in the drawing room, staring at the photograph.

It seemed that everyone in Ashford Manor knew something.

Everyone except me.

By the time dinner was announced, the rain had begun again.

I entered the dining room and found Alexander sitting near the window. He was reading something on his phone, but he put it away when I approached.

"Good evening."

"Good evening."

I took my seat.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

The dining room was unusually formal, with its long table, polished silverware, and high-backed chairs. I still wasn't accustomed to eating in such a large room with only one other person.

"Do you always eat here?" I asked.

"Usually."

"Doesn't it get lonely?"

Alexander looked up.

"Sometimes."

His answer surprised me.

I had assumed that someone like him, someone who seemed so comfortable in a house like Ashford Manor, would never admit to loneliness.

"Why don't you eat with Mrs. Whitmore?"

He gave a faint smile.

"She's usually busy making sure everyone else has eaten."

I looked towards the empty chairs.

"There must have been more people here once."

"There were."

"What happened?"

He placed his glass down.

"Families change. People leave. Some don't come back."

His words lingered between us.

I wondered whether he was talking about my mother.

Perhaps he was talking about someone else.

"Do you remember much about your childhood?" I asked.

"Enough."

"Did you spend a lot of time here?"

"During holidays. My father preferred the Blackwood residence, but he often brought me here for business meetings."

"With my grandmother?"

"With your grandmother, yes. And occasionally with your mother."

I looked up.

"You met Isabelle?"

"Only a few times. I was young."

"What do you remember?"

He seemed to consider the question.

"She was kind. She used to ask me about my books and school. I remember that she never spoke to me the way adults usually did."

I listened carefully.

"How did they usually speak to you?"

"Like I was expected to become someone important before I had even figured out who I was."

For the first time, I saw a little of the person behind his reserved expression.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It was."

He looked down at his plate.

"My father had very particular expectations."

I thought about the letters.

"Was he strict?"

Alexander gave a quiet, humourless laugh.

"Strict would be a generous description."

I didn't press him.

Instead, I looked towards the window, where rain traced thin lines down the glass.

"Do you think he knew my mother was writing to my grandmother?"

Alexander didn't answer immediately.

"I can't say."

"Do you think he knew she was hiding?"

"Possibly."

"Would he have tried to find her?"

He looked at me.

"I don't know."

I studied his face.

There was something about the way he avoided certain questions that made me wonder how much he truly knew.

"Alexander?"

"Yes?"

"Are you afraid of discovering what your father did?"

He went still.

Then he placed his fork down.

"Wouldn't you be?"

I didn't answer.

He continued.

"I've spent most of my life hearing that my family built everything through hard work. That the Blackwood name meant something. That my father was a man who understood business better than anyone."

He paused.

"If any of that was built on something dishonest, then I suppose I would want to know."

I nodded slowly.

"Then we're looking for the same thing."

"Perhaps."

Dinner continued, but the atmosphere had changed.

For the first time, I didn't feel that Alexander was simply an obstacle standing between me and the truth.

He might be just as uncertain as I was.

And perhaps that made him more difficult to understand.

After dinner, I returned to my bedroom.

I placed the envelope containing my mother's letters on the bedside table and changed into something more comfortable.

The rain had stopped, leaving the air cool and still.

I sat beside the window and watched the garden.

A few lamps illuminated the pathway, their light falling across the wet stones. Beyond the garden, the trees stood motionless beneath the darkening sky.

I thought about my grandmother.

I remembered the little things she used to do when I was younger. The way she would insist that I wear a coat even when the weather was pleasant. The way she would leave books beside my bed because she believed reading was better than spending all day indoors.

I remembered her voice, too.

Gentle, but firm.

She had always seemed to know when something was bothering me, even when I tried to hide it.

How could someone who had cared for me so deeply have kept such an important secret?

Perhaps she had been protecting my mother.

Perhaps she had been protecting me.

Or perhaps there was another reason entirely.

I reached for the envelope and removed the letters.

This time, I decided to read them in the order they had been written.

The first letter was calm and reassuring.

The second was more detailed.

The third contained a reference to an agreement.

The fourth mentioned a meeting that had apparently gone wrong.

I carefully examined the final letter.

There was a sentence I hadn't paid enough attention to earlier.

Mother, if anything should happen before I can return, remember that the truth is not always found in the documents people choose to show you.

I frowned.

What did she mean?

Was she suggesting that the original agreement was incomplete?

Or was there another piece of evidence?

I read the sentence again.

Then I placed the letters back inside the envelope.

My mother had known that someone might attempt to hide the truth.

And she had left behind these letters because she wanted someone to find them.

Someone who could continue where she had been forced to stop.

I looked towards the door.

The house was silent.

But I no longer felt entirely alone.

Somewhere within its walls, my mother's past was waiting for me.

The next morning, I woke earlier than usual.

The sky was pale, and the rain had left the garden covered in tiny droplets. I dressed and made my way downstairs, hoping to find Mrs. Whitmore before the day became busy.

She was in the kitchen, arranging breakfast.

"Good morning, miss."

"Good morning."

She placed a cup of tea on the table.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Better than yesterday."

"I'm glad."

I took a seat.

"Mrs. Whitmore, may I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you remember whether my mother had a favourite place in the house?"

She considered the question.

"She liked the library. And the conservatory, although she rarely went there during winter."

"Was there anywhere else?"

Mrs. Whitmore looked towards the window.

"She sometimes spent time in the west wing."

I looked up.

"The west wing?"

"Yes. Before it was closed."

"Why?"

"I couldn't say. She used to go there with your grandmother."

I considered this.

"Did she have a room there?"

"Not exactly. There was a small sitting room near the end of the corridor. Your mother liked it because it overlooked the gardens."

I remembered the study I had discovered.

"Was it near the study?"

Mrs. Whitmore nodded.

"Quite close."

I took a sip of tea.

"Did my grandmother ever explain why she closed the west wing?"

"No. She simply instructed us not to enter."

"Was anyone allowed to go inside?"

"Only your grandmother, occasionally."

I looked down at my cup.

There was clearly more to the west wing than an old study.

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitmore."

She nodded.

"Will you be going there again today?"

"Perhaps."

She gave me a concerned look.

"Just be careful, miss."

I smiled faintly.

"I'll try."

The morning passed slowly.

I spent some time in the library, looking through the books and trying to find references to the Ashford family.

Most of the books were old editions, their pages yellowed and their covers worn.

I found several books about local history, property law, and business management. There were also a few family records, but nothing that immediately seemed relevant.

I was beginning to lose patience when I noticed a small photograph tucked between two books.

I pulled it out.

It showed a younger version of my grandmother standing in front of Ashford Manor.

Beside her was another woman.

I recognised my mother immediately.

But there was something unusual about the photograph.

My mother was holding a small envelope.

I examined it closely.

The envelope had a symbol printed on the front.

A small tree.

The same symbol appeared on the corner of the letters I had discovered in the study.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a date, followed by a name.

Isabelle and Eleanor. Spring, twenty-four years ago.

Eleanor.

My grandmother.

I placed the photograph on the table.

The symbol bothered me.

Why had my mother used it on her letters?

Was it simply decorative?

Or did it mean something?

I searched the surrounding books again, but found nothing.

Eventually, I decided to take the photograph upstairs and compare it with the letters.

Perhaps there was something I had missed.

By late afternoon, I found myself standing outside the west wing again.

The corridor was as quiet as before.

I had brought the photograph and the letters with me, hoping to examine them together in the study.

The room looked unchanged.

Dust covered the desk, the bookshelves remained untouched, and the portrait above the fireplace watched silently from its place.

I sat down and spread the papers across the desk.

The photograph.

The seven letters.

The envelope.

I examined the small tree symbol again.

It appeared on three of the letters, always in the same corner.

I ran my finger over it.

The ink was slightly raised, as though it had been stamped rather than drawn.

I wondered whether it belonged to a family seal.

I opened one of the desk drawers and searched through its contents.

There were several old papers, a broken pencil, and a small collection of envelopes.

None had the symbol.

I moved to the next drawer.

Inside were a few business cards and an old notebook.

I opened it.

The first pages contained lists of names and addresses.

The handwriting was different from my mother's.

I turned several pages.

Then I found an entry.

Ashford correspondence — private.

Beneath it were several dates.

I recognised one immediately.

It matched the date on the first letter.

My attention sharpened.

I turned another page, but the remaining entries had been crossed out.

Someone had deliberately removed information.

I closed the notebook and placed it on the desk.

A strange feeling settled over me.

The west wing was not simply a place where old things had been forgotten.

It was a place where someone had kept records.

And perhaps someone had wanted those records to remain hidden.

A sound came from the corridor.

I looked towards the doorway.

For a moment, I thought it might be Alexander.

"Hello?"

There was no answer.

I stood and approached the door.

The corridor was empty.

I looked in both directions.

Nothing.

Then I noticed something on the floor.

A small piece of folded paper lay just outside the study.

I bent down and picked it up.

It was old, slightly yellowed, and had been folded several times.

I opened it carefully.

There were only four words.

Not everything is lost.

I stared at the message.

There was no signature.

No date.

Nothing to indicate who had written it.

I turned the paper over.

Blank.

I looked towards the corridor again.

Someone had left it there.

But who?

And why?

I slipped the note into my pocket and returned to the study.

I was about to gather the letters when I heard footsteps approaching.

This time, they were unmistakable.

Alexander appeared at the doorway.

"You seem to have made yourself comfortable."

I looked at him.

"Is there a problem?"

"Not particularly."

He glanced at the papers spread across the desk.

"Still looking?"

"Obviously."

He stepped inside.

"Find anything?"

I hesitated.

Then I showed him the small notebook.

He examined it.

"Where did you find this?"

"In the desk."

He opened it and read the entry.

His expression changed.

"Private correspondence?"

"Do you know anything about it?"

He shook his head.

"No. But this handwriting looks familiar."

I looked at him.

"Whose?"

He studied the page again.

"My father's."

I felt a sudden chill.

"Are you certain?"

"Quite."

I took the notebook from him.

"Then why would your father have kept records of my mother's letters?"

Alexander looked towards the window.

"Perhaps he was keeping track of what was being sent."

"Or perhaps he was trying to find out what she knew."

He didn't respond.

I closed the notebook.

"Alexander, I need you to be honest with me."

He turned.

"About what?"

"Everything you know about your father and my mother."

He looked tired.

"I've told you what I know."

"Then tell me what you don't know."

He was silent for a long moment.

Finally, he said, "My father once told me that the Ashford family had taken something that belonged to him."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"He never explained. I assumed he meant something related to the business."

"Did he mention my mother?"

"Not directly."

"Then why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I think it may be connected."

I looked down at the notebook.

The handwriting.

The dates.

The letters.

Everything seemed to lead back to the same people.

"Do you think your father knew where she was?"

Alexander looked at me.

"I think he was looking for her."

The room seemed to grow colder.

I thought about the words in my mother's letter.

I cannot tell you where I am, only that I am far from Ashford and the people who would harm me.

Perhaps she had been right to hide.

Perhaps she had known exactly who was searching for her.

Alexander stepped towards the desk.

"We should leave this room for today."

I looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because we're getting nowhere without understanding what we're looking at."

"Then help me understand it."

He glanced at the notebook.

"I will."

I studied his expression.

"Promise?"

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

"Promise."

For reasons I couldn't explain, I wanted to believe him.

That evening, the house was unusually quiet.

I sat in the drawing room, reading an old book that I had found in the library.

The fire had been lit, and its warmth filled the room. Outside, the sky had turned a deep shade of blue, and the first stars were beginning to appear.

Mrs. Whitmore entered carrying a small tray.

"Tea, miss?"

"Thank you."

She placed the cup beside me.

"Are you enjoying the book?"

"Very much."

She glanced at the cover.

"Your mother liked that one."

I looked up.

"She did?"

"Yes. She read it several times."

I smiled faintly.

"Perhaps I have something in common with her after all."

Mrs. Whitmore looked at me for a moment.

"You have more in common than you realise."

I wanted to ask what she meant, but she had already turned towards the door.

"Mrs. Whitmore?"

She stopped.

"Yes?"

"Do you think my mother will ever come back?"

The question escaped before I could think about it.

Mrs. Whitmore's expression softened.

She looked at me for a long moment.

"I think," she said carefully, "that some people never truly leave the places they love."

I looked down at the book.

It wasn't the answer I had hoped for.

But perhaps it was the only one she could give.

After she left, I sat quietly beside the fire.

The flames moved gently, casting shifting shadows across the walls.

I thought about my mother.

I wondered whether she was alive somewhere, whether she had a family of her own, whether she ever thought about the daughter she had left behind.

And whether she knew that I was finally beginning to understand why she had gone.

Later that night, I returned to my bedroom.

I placed the letters inside the bedside drawer and changed into my nightclothes.

Just as I was about to turn off the lamp, I noticed something unusual.

The door to my wardrobe was open.

I frowned.

I was certain I had closed it.

I stood and walked towards it.

The clothes hung exactly as I had left them. Nothing appeared disturbed.

Then I noticed a small object on the floor.

A photograph.

I picked it up.

It showed Ashford Manor from the front, taken many years ago.

On the back, someone had written:

The beginning of everything.

I stared at the words.

There was no date.

No name.

Only that sentence.

I turned the photograph over again.

The house looked almost identical to how it did now, except that the gardens were full of flowers and several people stood near the entrance.

I recognised my grandmother.

And beside her was Richard Blackwood.

They were standing close together, both smiling at the camera.

I studied the photograph for a moment.

Then I noticed someone standing behind them.

A woman.

Her face was partially hidden, but I could make out her dark hair.

I brought the photograph closer.

It was my mother.

And she wasn't smiling.

I looked at the photograph again, trying to understand why.

The image was old, but something about it felt important.

I placed it on the bedside table.

Then I noticed a faint mark near the bottom.

A small symbol.

A tree.

The same symbol I had seen on my mother's letters.

My heart began beating faster.

I turned towards the door.

The corridor outside was silent.

But I could no longer ignore the feeling that someone else was moving through the house, following the same trail I was trying to uncover.

I switched off the lamp.

For several minutes, I lay awake, listening to the wind outside.

And just before sleep finally took me, a thought crossed my mind.

Perhaps the greatest secret of Ashford Manor was not what had happened twenty-three years ago.

Perhaps it was the reason everyone had been so determined to forge