Birdsong stitched its way through Florence's sleep, delicate and insistent, until morning gently claimed her. She stirred, half-drowned in dreams, and for a fleeting moment did not know where she lay. The realization struck her all at once; sharp and disorienting only softened by the swift return of memory.
Drawing a breath, she reached for the white robe draped over the chair beside her bed and slipped it around herself before stepping into the corridor with cautious feet. Eulothorne's presence lingered in her thoughts like a shadow that refused to disperse.
Is he a pervert? The question rose unbidden as she descended the lavish staircase, fingers tightening around the hem of her robe as though it alone guarded her modesty.
"Good morning, miss."
She froze mid-step, heart lurching, straining to place the voice before continuing downward. At the foot of the stairs stood Finley, composed and polished, like a gentleman awaiting the lady of the house. Relief loosened her shoulders.
"Good morning, Lord Finley," she said quietly. "May I ask where the dress I wore yesterday is?"
He paused, head tilting. "You wished to have it dried?"
Her heart skipped, dread flickering through her chest. She had feared he might have done something, anything, to the only respectable gown she possessed.
"Miss Helen disposed of it," he replied, far too casually, as if speaking of a withered bouquet.
"Disposed?" Florence echoed, forcing calm into her voice. "My dress?"
"It was unsuitable for a woman of your standing." His tone remained light. "Lord Eulothorne mentioned you would attend the Loxleys' mourning for the late Lord Gillian. I thought it fitting to provide you with something that would remind them you are of their caliber. You are an heiress, after all."
"Oh… yes." Florence frowned inwardly. Is he watching me? How could he know such things?
A servant approached and placed a long box into her hands, nearly identical to the one she had received at Eulothorne's manor the night before.
"Do not worry," Finley added, observing her expression. "I did not pay for it. Lord Eulothorne's coffers were more than sufficient."
Shock and confusion washed over her as she stared at the box. Whatever game was being played, its boldness unsettled her, and its purpose remained obscured.
"Open it," Finley urged, eyes alight with anticipation. "Green does not flatter you. Your mother's taste may well be the poorest in all of London. Are women in Manchester always so… colorful? I could never endure such a thing."
Florence met his mockery with a blank stare. Fashion had never been hers to command, she had neither the means nor the freedom to choose what she wore. With a weary sigh, she lifted the nearly five-foot box and carried it back toward the guest chamber, unease trailing her like a second shadow.
The wind rose sharply, fingers of cold air tugging at Florence's hat, nearly tearing it from her head. Before it could be lost to the street, Finley caught it in time and, with practiced gentleness, settled it back upon her hair, his hand lingering only long enough to secure it before the carriage arrived. Florence exhaled, uncertain whether the gesture was simple courtesy, or yet another thread woven by Eulothorne's unseen hand.
As far as she remembered, Eulothorne had always possessed influence. What unsettled her now was the realization that his reach extended far beyond what she had ever imagined.
It was hardly surprising she had never known. Before Eulothorne left Manchester for London, they had already been wed. After the marriage, whatever small freedoms Florence once held were swiftly stripped away. The world beyond the walls had become foreign to her; when visitors came, she was kept out of sight, as though she were something fragile, or shameful: to be hidden.
With a weary sigh, Florence settled into the carriage seat, drawing a slow breath as tension coiled in her chest. She would face the Loxleys again soon, and the thought alone made her pulse quicken.
"This will be over once the will is divided," she murmured to herself, a thin reassurance against the dread rising within.
The carriage set her down a block before Gillian's manor, near a modest boutique tucked into the street like a secret. Under her father's guidance, before death had claimed him, she had been told to seek out a tailor here. The moment Florence crossed the threshold, recognition dawned, and the tailor's face lit with astonished delight.
"Oh my, Lord Gillian's heiress… come, come."
She was swiftly ushered into a spacious chamber that served as a fitting room, a tall mirror standing opposite a wooden mannequin. Draped upon it was a black mourning gown of fine crape, somber and exquisite, accompanied by a set of mourning jewelry crafted specifically for the wake; dark, restrained, and heavy with unspoken grief.
Florence wore the mourning black with an emptiness she could not disguise. How was she meant to grieve a man she had scarcely known? She could not comprehend the sudden gentleness of Gillian's final acts—yet perhaps this, too, was deliberate. Perhaps he wished only to ensure that his fortune would not rot in the grasp of the vain and ravenous Loxleys.
At the wake, she stood uncertain and still, unsure of where to place her hands or her gaze. Around her, grief unfurled in careful performances, tears streaked down faces, some born of genuine sorrow, others polished with calculation and quiet greed.
"So she is the bastard…"
The whispers slithered through the air, sharp and invasive. What should have been a solemn vigil became a cruel spectacle, dragging her beneath an unwanted spotlight.
"I wager she's here to snatch a portion of Lord Gillian's wealth. Illegitimate children always appear when there's coin to be claimed."
"Hardly surprising. Lord Gillian was generous enough to have a mourning gown made for her, and look at her. Not a tear in sight."
Florence lowered her head, her eyes fixing upon the open coffin at the front of the hall. The polished wood and lifeless stillness within felt mercifully quiet compared to the venom around her. In that moment, she would have rather lain there herself than endure the relentless murmur of scorn. She had grown so terribly tired of this; of being measured, dissected, and condemned by whispers she could never silence.
Instead of a grievous atmosphere, the whole wake felt like flaunting wealth. Everyone seemed to only arrive to please Gillian's brothers that they were to fall into some big wealth after today's wake. She knew she didn't want the wealth of her father either, but she felt like she's wasting an opportunity.
"Greedy, the lot of them."
An arm settled upon her shoulders, unbidden yet firm. Florence turned, startled, and found herself facing a man crowned with pale blond hair. He offered her a smile—too easy, too familiar—leaving her faintly unsettled.
"Darwin…" He extended a hand in greeting. "Darwin Loxley."
Florence inclined her head, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "Florence."
Recognition lit his features. He snapped his fingers softly. "Ah. Gillian's esteemed daughter."
Esteemed. The word echoed hollowly within her. Gillian had never struck her as a man inclined toward sentiment, much less indulgence toward a bastard child. Had he truly cared, he might have spared her a glance untainted by disdain, a visit unmarred by cold restraint. Instead, his appearances had been distant and cutting; brief encounters that bruised the fragile heart of the girl she once was.
"I doubt you know the first thing about wealth. Lord Gillian appointed me to guide you."
At those words, recognition struck Florence like a slow tolling bell. She remembered him now. In her former life, Darwin had approached her after the wake with the same promise; offering to shepherd her through the inheritance she scarcely understood. She had refused him then, ignorant that his offer had been bound to her father's dying wishes. Years later, Darwin had been found dead, his end shrouded in a mystery no one cared enough to unravel.
It seemed cruelly deliberate that the people of her past were resurfacing on the very days they once had, as though fate itself were retracing its steps. Only now, because she had fled her first marriage, the pattern had begun to warp.
Florence released a quiet sigh. Could I even save him this time? Could I divert the blade of fate that had already claimed him once?
She swallowed the thought whole and nodded instead. Perhaps, if she accepted his guidance now, Darwin's life might yet be spared.
The whispers returned, those venomous murmurs that never failed to find her. Bastard. The word slithered through the hall, sharp and familiar. Darwin's jaw tightened, his patience thinning as he bristled at their cruelty. Before he could answer them, a heavy thud sounded behind, echoing like a coffin lid striking stone.
A tall silhouette emerged from the doorway.
Florence's fists clenched at her sides.
Whether she had been followed or hunted, she could not tell; but she knew, with grim certainty, that Eulothorne had found her again.
"Condolences," Eulothorne said at last. Yet his eyes burned with something far more violent than grief.