Read Chapter 21: The Hidden Correspondence

The room smelled of dust and old lavender, the lavender a last ghost of Miss Reeves herself. Evelyn had returned to the governess's quarters not an hour after leaving Mrs. Hutchins in the kitchen, knowing the housekeeper's eyes would be on her soon enough. She had perhaps a single window of time before suspicion closed in.

She had already searched the obvious places—the desk, the drawers, the pockets of dresses left hanging in the wardrobe like penitent shadows. But Miss Reeves had been a governess, and governesses learned to hide things in plain sight, to fold secrets into the architecture of a room that no one else bothered to inspect.

Evelyn ran her fingers along the underside of the writing desk, then the chair rail, then the baseboard near the window. Nothing. She knelt and examined the hearth, the loose stone she had checked twice before. Still nothing.

And then her gaze caught the mattress.

It was thin, horsehair, lumpy in places. She had pressed it during her first search and felt nothing but the coils of stuffing. But a mattress could be lifted. A frame could hide a shallow compartment. She curled her fingers beneath the edge of the mattress and heaved it up, the straw scratching against the wooden slats. And there, tucked into a gap where a knot had been carved from the plank, was a flat oilcloth parcel.

Her breath caught. She slid it free, let the mattress drop, and unfolded the oilcloth on the floor.

Inside lay a bundle of letters bound with a faded green ribbon, and beneath them, a single folded sheet of heavier paper. The letters bore Lady Beatrice's wax seal—a broken-armed blackbird. Evelyn's hands trembled as she untied the ribbon.

The first letter was dated eight months prior. Lady Beatrice's penmanship was precise, almost beautiful, which made the contents all the more chilling.

*My dear Reeves—*

*You have been with us three years, and I trust you understand the nature of our family's burdens. Annabel grows troublesome. She speaks of leaving, of making her own way. You know what that would mean for the estate. My brother's will was clear: the girl inherits everything upon her twenty-first birthday. She cannot be permitted to reach it.*

*I ask nothing of you but observation. Report her movements, her friendships, her follies. Keep her close. Keep her quiet. When the time comes, you will be rewarded handsomely for your loyalty.*

Evelyn flipped to the next letter, dated six months prior. The tone had sharpened.

*She has grown more defiant. You have failed to restrain her. I will not tolerate failure indefinitely, Reeves. Remember that you are as much a prisoner here as she is. Your niece in London—little Margaret, is it not?—remains healthy only so long as you remain useful. Do not mistake my patience for mercy.*

The letters continued in a descending spiral of menace. Each one tightened the vise on Miss Reeves. In one, Beatrice described the procurement of a tincture—foxglove, belladonna, "a pinch in her evening tea would be painless." In another, she threatened to bring in outside help if Reeves did not do her part. And in the final letter, dated only six weeks before Miss Reeves's disappearance, Beatrice's fury was barely contained.

*The girl has somehow learned of her inheritance. She grows suspicious. You will accompany her to the lake house next month. Accidents happen there. The cliffs are known for it. Do not fail me again.*

Evelyn sat back on her heels, the letters trembling in her grip. Miss Reeves had not been a willing conspirator. She had been coerced, threatened through her niece, given no choice but to play the loyal spy while searching for a way out. And she had found one—by helping Annabel disappear.

The injustice of it burned in Evelyn's chest.

She unfolded the final sheet of heavier paper. It was not a letter but a debt note, printed on fine vellum, embossed with the Blackwood crest. The handwriting was Mrs. Hutchins's, cramped and guilty.

*I, Gertrude Hutchins, do acknowledge receipt of the sum of fifty pounds from Lady Beatrice Blackwood, in full settlement of services rendered concerning the departure of the governess Reeves. This sum discharges all further obligation.*

*Signed this 14th day of October.*

The date matched the week of Miss Reeves's disappearance.

Evelyn read the note three times, each pass leaving a colder residue. Fifty pounds. A servant's year wages. Mrs. Hutchins had been paid for services concerning Miss Reeves's *departure*. Which could mean she helped Miss Reeves leave—or helped ensure she never left at all.

The oilcloth had one further item, a single loose page in Miss Reeves's own hand, folded tightly. Evelyn opened it with care. It was a letter, unfinished, the ink smudged at the end as if the writer had been interrupted.

*To whomever finds this—*

*I have discovered the full extent of Lady Beatrice's plan. She does not intend merely to remove Annabel from the inheritance. She intends to remove her from existence. The lake house visit was a pretext. There is a physician in the village, Dr. Marsh, who has been paid to sign a death certificate without examination. Beatrice means to drown the girl and claim it was an accident of the cliffs.*

*I cannot allow this. I have arranged for Annabel to leave the estate tonight. I will go with her as far as the crossroads. After that, I must return—my niece remains in Beatrice's power, and I cannot abandon her. But I will not abandon Annabel either. I have hidden proof of every letter, every threat. If I should vanish before this reaches proper hands, know that Lady Beatrice Blackwood murdered her own niece in spirit long before the body was meant to follow.*

*God forgive me for how long I waited.*

Evelyn pressed the page to her chest, her heart hammering. Miss Reeves had planned to return. She had never meant to flee permanently. And somewhere between that unfinished letter and her disappearance, something had gone terribly wrong.

A floorboard creaked in the corridor.

Evelyn froze. The footsteps were soft, deliberately light—someone trying not to be heard. She swept the letters and the debt note back into the oilcloth, folded it tight, and pressed it into the hidden pocket sewn inside her own skirt. She had only just smoothed her dress and risen to her feet when the door swung open.

Mrs. Hutchins stood in the doorway, her face pale, her hands clasped so tightly the knuckles showed white beneath her skin.

"MISS EVELYN."

The use of her title was a warning. The housekeeper's gaze swept the room, searching for what Evelyn had taken.

"I thought you might be feeling unwell," Mrs. Hutchins said, her voice too controlled. "You left the kitchen in such a hurry."

Evelyn forced a smile. "I was merely fetching a book."

The housekeeper's eyes narrowed. She had seen the shifted mattress, the dust disturbed on the floorboards. Evelyn could sense the calculations moving behind that pinched face—how much did the girl know, how quickly could Beatrice be informed.

"Mrs. Hutchins," Evelyn said, her voice steady despite the wild thrumming in her veins. "I found something in the garden this morning. A glove. Small, well-made. A lady's glove. I wondered if you might know to whom it belonged."

The lie was clumsy, but it served its purpose. Mrs. Hutchins's attention flickered with uncertainty, and in that moment, Evelyn saw her chance. She stepped forward, past the housekeeper, into the corridor.

"I'll return it to you if I find it again," she said over her shoulder. "Good evening."

She did not wait for a response. She walked briskly toward the stairs, her hand pressed against her skirt where the oilcloth rested against her thigh. The weight of what she carried felt enormous—evidence enough to destroy Lady Beatrice. But Miss Reeves's unfinished letter had revealed a deeper truth. Beatrice had never meant to let Annabel live. And if Beatrice had intercepted Miss Reeves before she could return—

Annabel was not safe in the crypt. She was not safe anywhere on this estate.

Evelyn reached her own room, locked the door, and sank onto the bed. The letters burned against her leg.

Mary would come for her at midnight. They were meant to bring Annabel food, to plan her escape. But everything had changed. Evelyn now carried the means to bring down the entire Blackwood fortune—if she could find someone trustworthy enough to carry it beyond the estate gates.

And she now knew, with terrible certainty, that Miss Reeves had not simply vanished. She had been silenced. And the woman who had silenced her was sleeping one floor above, dreaming of blackbirds.