Read Chapter 34: A New Beginning

The chapel smelled of candle wax and cold stone. Evelyn stood at the back, watching Annabel kneel before the plain wooden coffin that held Miss Reeves. Morning light slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes in golden shafts. The girl had been there for nearly an hour, silent, her shoulders straight.

Lord Blackwood stood beside Evelyn, his hands clasped behind his back. He had not spoken since they entered. Neither had she. There was something sacred in the quiet that neither wished to break.

At last Annabel rose, brushing the dust from her skirts. She turned, and Evelyn saw something new in her face—a settled quality, a calm that had not been there before. The wild grief that had marked her first days at Blackwood had given way to something steadier.

"I should like to arrange the funeral," Annabel said. Her voice carried through the empty chapel, clear and sure. "Here, in the family plot. She was more family to me than anyone who shares my blood."

Lord Blackwood inclined his head. "It shall be done. I will speak with the vicar this afternoon."

Annabel walked toward them, her steps measured. She stopped before her father, looking up at him with those sharp grey eyes that were so like his own. "And after that, I should like to speak with you. Properly. There are things I need to know about my mother—about all of it."

Lord Blackwood's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "You deserve the truth. All of it."

"I do," Annabel said simply. Then she turned to Evelyn. "Walk with me, Miss Hartley. The garden is beginning to bloom."

---

They walked the gravel path between the rose beds, where the first tight buds were showing colour. Annabel's hand brushed the leaves as she passed, a lingering touch that spoke of ownership.

"I have been thinking," Annabel said, "about what comes next."

"And what does?"

Annabel stopped, facing the eastern wall where the woods began. Miss Reeves's body had been found there, beneath the gnarled oak. But the woods themselves were green and alive with spring.

"I am the heir. Miss Reeves's testament will confirm it. And I am of age now—sixteen last November. I can take control of my own inheritance."

Evelyn hesitated. "Your father—"

"Loves me," Annabel finished. "I know that now. He has made mistakes, terrible ones, but he loves me. And Blackwood is mine to care for. Not his, not my aunt's. Mine."

The words hung in the air, weighted with responsibility. Evelyn studied the girl's face, searching for bravado and finding none.

"Have you spoken to him of this?"

"Not yet." Annabel resumed walking, her pace deliberate. "I shall do so this afternoon, during our conversation. I intend to ask him to remain as steward, to help me learn what I must know. And I intend to ask you to stay as well."

Evelyn's step faltered. "Annabel—"

"I mean it." The girl turned, her expression earnest. "The empty schoolroom, the lessons I never had—I want them now. But more than that, I want what Miss Reeves spoke of in her letters. I want Blackwood to mean something good."

"She spoke of a school," Evelyn said slowly. "In her diary. Plans for the village children."

"Yes." Annabel's eyes lit. "I read that passage again last night. She wrote of opening a school in the village, teaching reading and arithmetic to the children of the tenants and the mill workers. She said education was the only ladder that could not be pulled away."

Evelyn felt something shift in her chest—a stirring she had not allowed herself since arriving at Blackwood. The original purpose that had brought her here, the search for Annabel, was complete. She had fulfilled her obligation to the girl's mother. But the days since had been empty of direction, a waiting time while the household settled.

"I taught in London," Evelyn said. "A parish school for girls. It was small, but we managed."

"Then you know how." Annabel took Evelyn's hands in hers. "My father would fund it. I would fund it, from my own allowance. We could call it the Reeves School. After her."

Evelyn looked down at the girl's hands—young, still smooth, but with a strength emerging. "You would do this? Truly?"

"Miss Reeves gave me everything. My survival, my wits, my chance at a future." Annabel's voice caught, but she pressed on. "This is how I honour her. Not with mourning cloth and cold stone, but with something living. Children learning their letters. Girls who would otherwise be sent away to serve finding a different path."

The words pierced Evelyn. She thought of her own childhood, of the charity school that had taken her in after her parents died, of the mistress who had seen something in her and nurtured it. That woman had changed the course of her life. The idea of becoming that woman for another generation of girls settled into her like a key turning in a lock.

"I will help you," Evelyn said. "Whatever you need—planning, teaching, correspondence. I am yours."

Annabel smiled, bright and genuine. "Ours."

---

The afternoon passed in a flurry of activity. Annabel spoke with her father in the library for two hours. Evelyn waited in the morning room, pretending to read a volume of poetry while her mind raced with lists: slates, primers, ink, paper, benches, a stove for winter. The old mill house at the edge of the village had stood empty for years; she had passed it on her walks and noted the sound roof, the solid walls.

When Annabel emerged, her eyes were red-rimmed but her chin was high. "He has agreed. He will remain as steward and guide me through the estate's affairs. And he has given his blessing for the school."

"Annabel." Lord Blackwood appeared in the library doorway, his own eyes betraying the emotion he usually kept banked. "I have one condition."

The girl turned, wary.

"That the school bear both Reeves and Blackwood names. She was part of this family, in every way that mattered." He paused. "And so are you."

Annabel crossed the hall and embraced her father. Evelyn looked away, giving them their privacy, but she could not help the warmth that spread through her.

---

That evening, Evelyn sat at her desk in the schoolroom—no longer empty, now scattered with her own books and papers. Before her lay a rough floor plan she had sketched of the mill house, filled with notes and measurements.

She paused, looking about the room. The walls she had once found foreign were becoming familiar. The writing desk where Miss Reeves had scribbled her secrets. The window seat where Annabel had first confessed her fears. The blackboard she had cleaned upon arrival, finding it already marked with a child's practiced letters.

A knock sounded. Lord Blackwood entered, carrying a small glass of sherry.

"You have been at this for hours," he said, setting the glass beside her elbow. "Annabel tells me you have already planned the curriculum, the schedule, and the winter heating."

Evelyn laughed, a sound that surprised her. "One must plan for the cold."

"Indeed one must." He looked at her sketches, and something in his expression softened. "You have found your purpose."

"I have found a purpose," she corrected. "The school, Annabel's education, the estate's renewal—these will keep me occupied for years."

"And after?"

Evelyn met his eyes. There was a question there, one that had been gathering since the day he had asked her to stay. But the time was not yet right. Too much lay unsettled—Lady Beatrice in Bath, the journey to Kent, the testament waiting in Margaret Reeves's keeping.

"One step at a time, my lord," she said gently.

He nodded, accepting her answer. "Then I shall take the first step with you. We leave for Kent at dawn."

The words landed like a stone. Evelyn had almost forgotten, in the busyness of the afternoon, the plan they had formed—to ride for Kent before Lady Beatrice's family could reach the testament.

"Annabel will remain here," Lord Blackwood continued, "with Mrs. Hutchins and Thorne. I have sent word to Magistrate Hollings to meet us on the road. He should be in the village by midday tomorrow."

"And your lady wife's family?"

His face darkened. "They have made no move yet. But I do not trust their silence. There is a cousin—Lionel Ashworth—who manages Lady Beatrice's affairs. He is cunning and ruthless. If he learns of the testament before we secure it, he will find ways to challenge it."

Evelyn set down her pen. "Then we must be swift."

"We must be more than swift." Lord Blackwood produced a folded letter from his coat. "This arrived an hour ago, by express rider. From Margaret Reeves herself."

Evelyn took the letter, reading quickly. The script was fine and hurried, the words clipped with urgency.

*My lord—I have received word that my sister's effects are being sought by parties unknown. Men claiming to represent Lady Beatrice Blackwood called at my cottage in Rochester, inquiring after a testament. I denied all knowledge, but I fear they did not believe me. I am removing to my cousin's house in Canterbury, where I shall await your arrival. Come quickly. The document must not fall into their hands.*

Evelyn looked up, her pulse quickening. "They are already moving."

"Then we move faster." Lord Blackwood took the letter back. "We ride at first light. Pack light—no servants, no fanfare. Just you and I and two good horses."

"Just us," Evelyn repeated. The words felt laced with new meaning.

"Just us," he confirmed. His gaze held hers for a long moment. "I trust no one else with this. And I trust you with everything."