A cold dread seized Julia, tightening its icy grip on her heart. Finch. And Elsie. Caught.
Julia's mind raced. Lies. She needed a good one, something plausible. "Mr. Finch, I... I was simply lost. I took a wrong turn from the main staircase. This house is so vast, you see, and I was merely trying to find my way back to my room. Elsie, poor dear, was just showing me the way."
Her words hung in the air, flimsy and transparent. She saw it in his eyes, the subtle shift, the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He knew. He always knew.
"Lost, Miss Harrow?" Finch's voice was sharper now, cutting through her flimsy excuse. "For the third time this week, you find yourself 'lost' in the forbidden wing of this house? The very wing I have expressly, repeatedly, warned you to avoid?" His gaze, usually watchful, now burned with a cold fury. "Do you truly take me for a fool, Miss Harrow? Or do you take this entire household for a collection of simpletons?"
He took a step closer, his imposing figure looming over her. Elsie whimpered, clinging tighter to her apron. Julia felt a prickle of defiance rise within her, battling the terror that threatened to overwhelm her.
"What do you think you are doing, Miss Harrow?" Finch continued, his voice barely above a whisper, yet each word landed like a physical blow. "Who do you believe yourself to be? Just because you are Lady Marian's cousin, do you imagine you possess free rein in Blackwood Hall? Do you believe this house, its rules, its very sanctity, exist for you to trample upon at will?"
His words were daggers, aimed straight at her pride, at her very right to be there. The accusation stung, yet Julia refused to back down. This wasn't about defiance; it was about Marian.
"I am simply trying to understand, Mr. Finch," Julia retorted, her voice trembling, but firm. "To understand what happened to my cousin. No one will speak of it plainly. I am told she died of a fever, a simple fever, and yet the whispers, the secrets, the very air of this house scream a different truth."
She gestured vaguely around the silent hallway, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You, Mr. Finch, refuse to tell me. Lord Blackwood avoids the topic. Miss Thorne makes veiled accusations. How else am I to find the truth if I am not allowed to look for it myself?"
Finch's face contorted, a mask of cold anger replacing his usual impassivity. "The truth?" he scoffed, his voice rising, echoing through the quiet hall. "The truth, Miss Harrow, is that Lady Marian suffered a grave illness. She was cared for, loved, and she passed peacefully. There is no mystery. There is no 'truth' to uncover beyond the grief that still plagues this house."
He clenched his fists, his eyes blazing. "And yet, here you are, picking at old wounds! Disturbing the peace! Do you have any idea, Miss Harrow, the suffering Lord Blackwood endured? Do you comprehend the depth of his pain, seeing his beloved wife wasting away? He has only just begun to heal, to find some semblance of peace, and you—you come here, stirring up the past, looking for a 'killer' where none exists!"
His voice was a furious hiss, a torrent of righteous indignation. Julia stared at him, stunned. He truly believed it. He truly believed Marian had died of a fever. Or he was a magnificent liar.
"Mr. Finch," Julia began, trying to keep her voice steady, "I assure you, I have no intention of causing Lord Blackwood further distress. My only desire is to understand. Marian was my family. She was not herself in the months before her death. There were things… things she spoke of…"
She trailed off, remembering the journal, the terrified entries. But Finch cut her off, his eyes cold, unforgiving.
"Understand?" he sneered, a cruel twist to his thin lips. "You wish to understand? I believe, Miss Harrow, that you simply wish to pry. To create drama where there is none. Perhaps you enjoy the morbid fascination of a grand house and a tragic death. Perhaps you enjoy… attention." His gaze flickered meaningfully to Elsie, then back to Julia, a silent accusation of manipulation hanging in the air.
His words sliced through her. Attention? Was that truly what he thought? That she was so shallow, so vain, that she would invent such a horrifying mystery for mere amusement?
Before Julia could respond, Elsie, who had been trembling silently, let out a choked cry. "Mr. Finch, please!" she begged, her voice barely a whisper, yet laced with desperate courage. "You mustn't speak to Miss Harrow like that! She is a guest in this house!"
The words seemed to snap something within Finch. His eyes, already alight with anger, blazed. He turned on Elsie, his hand rising.
SMACK!
The sound cracked through the silent hallway like a whip. Elsie stumbled back, a crimson mark blossoming on her pale cheek. Her hands flew to her face, and a fresh torrent of sobs wracked her small frame.
Julia stared, a horrified gasp trapped in her throat. Her blood ran cold, then boiled with a furious, righteous heat. How dare he? How dare he strike her?
"You impudent, ungrateful wretch!" Finch bellowed, his voice a guttural snarl. "You forget your place, girl! You are a maid! A servant! You will address your betters with respect and you will hold your tongue unless spoken to! Do you understand me? Or do I need to remind you of your duties again, with more… persuasion?"
He raised his hand again, threateningly. Elsie flinched, cowering.
A red haze descended over Julia's vision. All fear vanished, replaced by a pure, unadulterated rage. This man, with his starched collar and his self-important pronouncements, thought he could simply brutalize a vulnerable girl. Not in her presence. Not ever.
Julia stepped forward, her hand rising before she even fully comprehended the action.
SMACK!
The sound echoed through the hallway, sharper, more resonant than Finch's own. Her palm stung, but a fierce satisfaction coursed through her veins. Finch staggered back, his head snapping to the side, a crimson mark appearing on his own cheek. His eyes, wide with shock, fixed on her.
"You vile, arrogant man!" Julia spat, her voice shaking with barely suppressed fury. "How dare you! How dare you lay a hand on her? She is a woman! And you, a man, a butler, no matter your perceived authority, have no right to strike a woman, least of all one who poses no threat to you!"
Her chest heaved, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Every ounce of her usually reserved nature had shattered, replaced by a storm of righteous indignation.
Just then, a new voice, shrill and accusatory, sliced through the tense silence. "Miss Harrow! What is the meaning of this insolence?"
Agnes Thorne, grim-faced and severe, stood at the end of the hall, her eyes narrowed, her thin lips pursed in disapproval. She looked like a specter, a harbinger of all the judgmental, repressive forces of Blackwood Hall.
"Insolence?" Julia whirled on her, her fury redirected. "You call this insolence, Miss Thorne? This man just struck Elsie! A frightened girl who was simply trying to defend me!"
Agnes's expression hardened. "Elsie knows her place, Miss Harrow. And you, it seems, have forgotten yours. Your behavior in this house has been nothing short of scandalous. Meddling where you do not belong. Stirring up trouble. And," she paused, her gaze raking over Julia with a chilling disdain, "constantly throwing yourself at Lord Blackwood, like some common… harlot."
The word, hissed with venom, landed like a slap. Harlot. Julia's breath hitched. That accusation, that constant insinuation, had been a festering wound beneath her skin since she arrived. It was always there, in Agnes's eyes, in her clipped tone.
"Ah, yes, Miss Thorne," Julia responded, her voice dangerously quiet, each word laced with a cold, cutting precision. "Because a woman cannot possibly be interested in uncovering the truth of her cousin's death, can she? No, she must simply be here to seduce the widower. Tell me, Miss Thorne, does your piety extend to blind obedience, or merely to convenient slander?"
Agnes Thorne gasped, her pale lips parting in shock. For once, the formidable housekeeper seemed utterly speechless.
Finch, recovering from the shock of Julia's slap, straightened, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light. "This is beyond the pale, Miss Harrow," he snarled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I will inform Lord Blackwood of your transgressions immediately. Every word. Every act. Your defiance. Your presence in the East Wing. And the… company you keep there."
His gaze flickered towards the corridor from which she and Silas had emerged, a clear threat. Julia met his stare, her chin lifting. The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer weariness of battling this suffocating household, suddenly overwhelmed her. She simply didn't care anymore.
"Go on, then, Mr. Finch," Julia said, her voice surprisingly calm, almost weary. "Tell him. Tell everyone. I confess, I am quite tired of all of you and your secrets. I am tired of being dismissed. I am tired of being lied to."
She took a step towards the dark archway leading into the East Wing. "I will continue to seek the truth about Marian. And neither you, nor Agnes, nor even Lord Blackwood himself, will stop me." She fixed her gaze on Finch, her eyes blazing with a renewed, fierce determination. "And if you ever, ever lay a hand on Elsie again, Mr. Finch, you will regret it. Do you understand me?"
She reached out, her fingers gently but firmly clasping Elsie's arm. The young maid flinched, then looked up at Julia, her tear-filled eyes wide with awe.
"Come, Elsie," Julia murmured, her voice softening as she pulled the trembling maid closer. "We're leaving."
She turned, guiding Elsie away from the furious Finch and the stunned Agnes. As they walked, she could hear Agnes's sharp whispers behind them, "Disgraceful! Lord Blackwood will hear of this! Utterly disrespectful!"
Julia ignored her, focusing on the terrified girl beside her. Elsie clung to her, a small, fragile anchor in the stormy sea of Blackwood Hall. Julia felt a fierce protectiveness swell within her. She would shield Elsie. She would find answers. She would not be broken by this house.
They had almost reached the grand staircase, just a few more steps to the relative safety of the main hall, when Julia, still focused on Elsie, felt a sudden, immovable presence directly in front of her. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat.
Alistair.