Chapter 30 A Silent Watcher
“So, you mean…” Violet’s brow furrowed in contemplation:
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Brielle’s expression mirrored her friend’s, a cold shadow passing over her eyes. “This coffin has been empty since the day it was interred.”
There was no keepsake from her mother. Not even her mother’s remains.
A wave of shock washed over Violet. “Lady Brielle, could it be… your mother is still alive?”
The same thought had crossed Brielle’s mind. Her hands clenched into tight fists. “I don’t know.”
If her mother truly lived, why stage such an elaborate death? If some dire reason had forced her to feign it, and Vincent was so vehemently against Brielle seeking her mother’s mementos, then logic dictated he should be aiding in concealing her mother’s survival. In that case, Vincent ought to have shown Brielle some semblance of protectiveness, even affection.
Yet, all she had ever received from him was a chilling, unwavering indifference.
If her mother was truly deceased, then why an empty coffin? Where had the body been taken?
For now, the puzzle refused to yield an answer. A profound sense of disappointment settled within her. The identity of her mother had dissolved into a deeper mystery than ever.
“What do we do now?” Violet whispered, her voice barely disturbing the graveyard’s hush.
Brielle’s reply was low and heavy. “Restore it. As it was.”
Together, they struggled to heave the heavy lid back onto the hollow coffin and carefully replaced the disturbed earth, patting it down until the grave site appeared untouched, save for the freshness of the turned soil.
Their task complete, a stubborn reluctance to accept defeat took hold of Brielle. She moved silently between the headstones once more, the torchlight casting long, dancing shadows, questioning if she had mistaken the plot. But her search confirmed the initial, unsettling discovery: no other marker in the Whitmore family crypt bore any connection to the woman who had given her life.
“Let’s go,” Brielle finally conceded, the words tasting of bitter resignation. Unraveling the enigma of her mother now seemed to hinge upon those keepsakes in Donna’s possession-items her stepsister would hardly relinquish willingly.
As she turned, torch in hand, a flicker of movement at the very edge of the light caught her eye-a fleeting silhouette against the deeper black.
Her pulse jumped. Without a second thought, she broke into a run, thrusting the torch ahead like a spear.
But after only a handful of strides, the darkness had swallowed the figure whole. She halted, breath coming in short gasps, the flame guttering in her grip.
Her sudden dash startled Violet badly. “Lady Brielle! Samts above, what is it? What did you see?”
Brielle’s gaze remained fixed on the impenetrable night ahead, her brow deeply furrowed. “We were followed,” she stated, the weight of the realization clear her tone.
“Followed? Are you certain it wasn’t just an owl? A deer? Violet peered nervously into the gloom. Only
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stillness and silence answered.
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“No.” Brielle’s knuckles were white where she gripped the torch. A cold knot of worry tightened in her stomach. Who had been watching them? Someone sent by Vincent?
“We should return. Now.”
“What? She exhumed her mother’s grave?”
An astonished voice erupted from within the study. The man within surged to his feet, his palm striking the polished oak desk with a sharp crack.
Reid gave a solemn nod. “With my own eyes, my lord. But the coffin… It contained nothing.”
Daniel’s astonishment deepened. “Nothing?” He leaned back slowly, a calculating gleam entering his eyes. “This explains Vincent’s evasiveness regarding Brielle’s inquiries about her mother’s effects. To even summon an exorcist… What disgraceful secret is he hiding?”
It was Vincent’s abrupt mention of calling a cleric to cleanse Brielle of “spirits” that had first pricked Daniel’s suspicion. He had ordered Reid to maintain a discreet watch on Whitmore Manor, never anticipating such a macabre discovery.
Owen, standing by the hearth, let out a low whistle. “The girl has nerve, I’ll grant her that. Desecrating her own mother’s resting place… If her father learns of it, he might very well have her beaten senseless.”
“Indeed,” Reid affirmed. “Had I not witnessed it myself, I would scarcely credit the tale. It is a most… unorthodox course of action.”
Daniel remained silent, his thoughts a tangled skein.
After a moment, Owen ventured another question. “Lord Daniel, do you believe the artifact you seek could be connected to Brielle’s mother?”
Daniel’s frown deepened. He tapped a clenched fist rhythmically against the desk. “That is of secondary concern at present. What matters is that Vincent’s favor now rests squarely with Donna. Brielle is little more than a cast-off piece in his game. Her impulsive act has complicated our original approach. Obtaining the item will now be far more difficult.”
Owen’s expression turned grave. “Perhaps you could petion the King for another marriage decree? His Majesty relies on your counsel. He would not refuse.”
Daniel considered it, then shook his head. “To wed two daughters of the Whitmores in succession would make my interest far too overt. Vincent is no fool.”
“But you have cultivated Donna’s trust for some time now,” Owen pressed, worry etching his features. “She appears utterly ignorant of the object’s existence. Shoul we persist with that strategy?”
Daniel sank into his high-backed chair, steepling his fingers in contemplation. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Finally, he addressed Reid. “Maintain your watch on Whitmore Manor. Report anything unusual.”
As Reid bowed and departed, Daniel turned his orders Owen. “Seek out Bruce. Inquire in detail about this sudden ‘illness’ that caused Brielle to cough blood. Determine if his diagnosis was… in error.”
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* Finished
“At once, Lord Daniel.”
The memory of Brielle, pale and bloodied at his threshold the previous night, had seemed to him the final, desperate flare of a guttering candle.
But a woman with the strength to journey to the family crypt and wield a spade did not resemble one on death’s doorstep. A dying rally could not sustain such exertion.
Bruce’s skill as a physician was reputedly beyond reproach. How, then, could he have made so grievous a miscalculation? The question lingered, unsettling and ripe with implication.
