Read Chapter 10: A Visitor from the Village

The mid-morning light did little to warm the east corridor, but Evelyn barely noticed the chill. She had not slept. Every creak of the old house had been Annabel’s voice, every shadow Lord Blackwood’s accusing stare. She had spent the hours before dawn tracing Miss Reeves’s pattern across the ledger’s damaged pages, committing dates to memory, trying to find the rhythm of the dead woman’s secret visits.

The sound of carriage wheels on gravel pulled her from her thoughts.

She pressed her face to the nursery window and watched a modest black carriage halt before the main entrance. A thin man in a dark coat stepped down, carrying a weathered leather bag. He moved with the unhurried certainty of someone who had been summoned many times before.

Dr. Bell.

Evelyn had heard the name in passing—the physician who attended the Blackwood children when their coughs turned stubborn, who had been called to the estate for every fever and fracture for the past two decades. He was also, she recalled with a quickening pulse, the man who had signed Annabel Blackwood’s death certificate.

She smoothed her skirts and made her way downstairs, arriving in the great hall just as Mrs. Coyle was showing the doctor inside. The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Evelyn.

“Miss Hartley. The children are in the schoolroom. Dr. Bell has come to check on Clara’s lungs.”

“I’ll fetch them directly,” Evelyn said, but she did not move. She looked at the doctor—a man perhaps sixty, with silver hair and kind, tired eyes. He carried the scent of camphor and old paper. “Dr. Bell. I’m Evelyn Hartley, the new governess. It’s a pleasure.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than politeness required. “Miss Hartley. I understand you’ve taken over for Miss Reeves. A terrible business, her leaving so suddenly.”

Mrs. Coyle shifted her weight. “I’ll prepare the morning room for the examination.”

She disappeared down the corridor, leaving Evelyn alone with the doctor. The silence stretched.

“I’ve heard you’ve been asking questions about the family,” Dr. Bell said quietly, his voice stripped of its earlier cordiality. He set his bag on the hall table. “And about Miss Reeves.”

Evelyn’s throat tightened. News travelled fast in the village, then. Or perhaps it travelled faster within the house itself.

“I’m new here,” she said carefully. “I’m trying to understand the household. The children speak of their aunt Annabel with such fondness, and yet the family never mentions her.”

Dr. Bell studied her for a long moment. Then he glanced down the corridor where Mrs. Coyle had gone, and his shoulders seemed to drop a fraction of an inch.

“Annabel Blackwood died in 1857,” he said. “A carriage accident on the road to Milford. Her brother identified the wreckage himself.”

“But the body,” Evelyn pressed, her heart hammering. “Was it ever recovered?”

“A question I’ve asked myself many times over the years.”

He looked at his hands. The knuckles were white around the handle of his bag.

“I signed the death certificate at Lord Blackwood’s request,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “He was beside himself with grief. I had no reason to doubt him. But I was in the village when the accident was reported, and I rode out myself to the site. There was no body, Miss Hartley. Only the shattered carriage, and her trunk, and a single glove.”

Evelyn felt her breath catch. “Then how did you—?”

“I trusted a grieving brother’s word.” Something flickered behind his eyes. “I’ve carried that trust like a stone ever since.”

He was watching her now with an intensity that made her feel exposed. “You remind me of her, you know. Miss Reeves. She asked me the same questions, almost word for word, about a month before she left. And I told her what I’ve just told you—that Annabel’s body was never found, and that I had never believed my own signature.”

Evelyn’s mouth went dry. “What did she do with that information?”

“She thanked me.” Dr. Bell’s gaze was unflinching. “And three weeks later, she was gone. Lord Blackwood told the village she’d taken a position in London. But I saw her face, Miss Hartley. I saw her face the last time I visited, and she did not look like a woman planning to leave. She looked like a woman who had found something.”

From down the corridor came the sound of Mrs. Coyle’s footsteps returning. Dr. Bell straightened, his features smoothing into professional calm.

“Clara’s cough has persisted,” he said, loud enough to carry. “I’d like to listen to her chest.”

Evelyn nodded mechanically, but her mind was spinning. Miss Reeves had asked the same questions. Miss Reeves had known the body was never found. And Miss Reeves had been silenced for it.

She turned to fetch the children, but Dr. Bell caught her arm, his grip light but firm.

“One more thing,” he murmured. “In my forty years of practice, I have seen many grieving families. I have watched men bury wives and women bury children. I know what grief looks like.” He paused. “Lord Blackwood’s grief, the way he spoke of his sister, the way he still speaks of her—it’s not the grief of a man who lost his sister to the road.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s the grief of a man who lost her to something he couldn’t name. Perhaps something he did.” He released her arm. “Take care, Miss Hartley. The Blackwoods have a way of swallowing those who ask too many questions.”

He followed the sound of Mrs. Coyle’s voice towards the morning room, leaving Evelyn alone in the great hall. The house creaked around her, old bones settling, and she thought of the hidden room in the east wing, of the child’s voice calling from inside the walls.

Annabel had not died on the road to Milford. Evelyn was certain of that now. She had died somewhere else—or not at all—and the secret was buried so deep that even the doctor who signed the certificate had never had the courage to unearth it.

She climbed the stairs with leaden feet, and when she entered the schoolroom, Thomas and Clara looked up from their books with matching expressions of curiosity and worry.

“Is Dr. Bell going to bleed me?” Clara asked.

“No,” Evelyn said, forcing a smile. “He’s just going to listen to your breathing. Thomas, you can come down as well, so we can make sure you’re both well.”

She led them downstairs, but her mind remained in the east wing, tracing the lines of Miss Reeves’s final entry. *Trapped.* Not “gone.” Not “run away.” Trapped.

As Clara ducked into the morning room with Dr. Bell, Thomas tugged at Evelyn’s sleeve.

“Miss Hartley?”

“Yes, Thomas?”

He looked up at her, his grey eyes unnervingly steady. “Do you think Uncle is lying about Aunt Annabel?”

The question struck her like a physical blow. “Why would you ask that, Thomas?”

He shrugged, but his gaze never left hers. “Because Miss Reeves used to ask me the same questions you do. About the east wing. About Aunt Annabel. And before she left, she gave me something. She said if anyone ever came asking the right questions, I should show them.”

Evelyn knelt down, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. “What did she give you, Thomas?”

The boy glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Come with me. But we have to be quick. Mrs. Coyle checks the nursery after lunch.”