29

T here was nothing worse than an argument with Wes. They were always the kind that cut deep and hurt everyone. He would go off and lick his wounds, but I couldn’t afford to stop digging into Florence.

I needed to know everything about this place, about this house.

About her.

I would be the first to admit that the lines were blurring quicker than anticipated, and there was very little I could do to stop it once it had started. Florence was all consuming and my restraint was wavering with each small laugh and sweet smile. It was in the way she familiarized herself with each of us. With Koen, there was laughter, jokes, and brazen curiosity. She had seemingly come out of whatever shell she was in the day we met her.

She was unknown and fresh. Seemingly a creature we had never run into before and questions swarmed me faster than I could ask them of her. The lines that blurred were that of logic and infatuation but, slowly, I was caring less and less which of the two my head and heart were consumed by.

She wore her hair down more each passing day, her laugh grew louder, and her questions about society and life outside of the Manor became more frequent. Better yet, she appeared more often around the house, only hiding when Wes was stomping around. But, even then, I could see the intrigue brewing behind those sparkling emerald eyes. Florence was just waiting for him to come to her, which… spoke volumes about the attention and care she provided us all effortlessly. Shifting the way she cared for us individually. My mind wandered, wondering if anyone had ever taken the time to care for her the way she so naturally did us.

With each day, it felt less like we were squatting and more like we were–

Home .

I pushed into the library, shaking free of those consuming thoughts, and set everything down on the table before rolling my sleeves up. My arm was starting to feel better, stinging less each time I moved to card my fingers through my hair or lean impatiently against the table. I stared down at my research, bewildered and overwhelmed.

“There’s got to be something in this library that explains you.” I ran a hand over my notes and turned to the rows of books. Against the far wall of the library was an odd collection of leather-bound journals that I could have sworn were not there before.

I wandered toward them, fingering the worn and collapsing spines in passing before grabbing the one at the end. Unlike the ledger that Florence had shown me before, these were old. The most pristine of them all was made of dark red leather, almost brown in color, it was so dark, and engraved in the front was a small capital F.

“ Florence, ” I whispered and made my way back to the table, sitting down in the chair and flipping open the pages. A light smile formed on my lips at the sight of her soft handwriting. True to her nature it was a little messy but curved around the bottoms of the letters, and she left little doodles of flowers and birds in the margins. Every entry was a story, her writing fluid and easy to read. It was—simply put—a novel of her life.

I swallowed tightly, reached for my glasses, and continued to flip. The first entries were dark. They were mostly confused and pleading…

Florence marked the passing of time with seasons. The winter was seemingly her worst time of the year. Sadness consumed her in those months, without the sunlight to soothe her gentle soul. My heart ached as I continued.

There had to be over a hundred entries in this journal alone. Each page was a pouring, heartbreaking confession. Raw and straight from Florence, it was her experience with the house, with time, and with loneliness. But at times the entries became a softer, more genuine curiosity for herself and her surroundings.

I collected all the little moments where her light shone off the page. Her intelligence was astounding. Her thoughts on childbirth and abortion were far past her time, each one more in-depth as she started to work through it, but she noted every little idea she had in that journal. I stopped on an entry near the end of the journal, Spring:

I sat perched at the edge of the chaise and undid the laces of my boots. They thumped gently against the floor where I dropped them unceremoniously, stretching out my legs and wiggling my toes in the silk stockings before standing to remove my bodice.

My eyes wandered to the chaise, it’s where I could always find her. Even when she disappeared, fading into the shadows and mazes of the Manor, she always showed back up, and she was always there. I leaned back in the library chair, holding the journal up to my face, and continued to read.

As I took to task removing the many layers of my dress, it occurred to me that being cooped up alone in the Manor, there was no reason to be fully dressed every day. Despite that, I always had. At first it had been due to the fact I never felt truly alone here, and always had a feeling of uncertainty that I was being watched by someone. Though since my discovery of Agatha’s letter, I now knew there was indeed something watching… but it was a some thing and not a someone, and that put a lot of nerves at ease.

Agatha’s letter… begrudgingly, I leaned forward in my chair, jotting down a note to remember the question before diving back into the entry. My chest was warm with anticipation for her next words.

Perhaps now, it was just to maintain some semblance of routine and normalcy.

I let the final petticoat hit the floor and stepped out of the pile of skirts around me. I wandered over to the closest bookshelf to peruse the titles along the spines of the novels. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of works in this library, and I had a mind to read every one of them–after all, I had the time for it. As I scanned the titles, my fingers worked mindlessly at loosening the laces of my stays— just enough to ease the unfastening of the busk closure. It opened easily, and I draped it over the back of the dark green velvet settee nearest to me and continued my exploration of the shelves... It only took a moment more before I settled on a novel by Currer Bell.

I smiled, recognizing the pen name of Charlotte Bronte. Of course out of all the books in this library she would manage to choose a literary canon, and a female one at that.

I selected the book and reveled in the creamy feeling of the leather and the weight of it in my hand. I hugged it to my chest and the tome felt tangible and cool through the thin layer of my chemise. I settled into the chaise longue that was tucked into the back corner of the library, next to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The drapes were drawn open now. The Manor and I had come to what I believed to be a bit of an understanding in that respect. Windows stayed open now, and light and fresh air allowed both the Manor and myself to breathe.

I inhaled the scent of grass mixed with old pages and sighed. The weather outside was gloomy, and it appeared as if the sky could open at any point to drench the world in rain but, in my experience, that was the best time to be curled up with a book. I had so missed getting lost in a story. I flipped open the cover, luxuriated in the cracking noise, and plunged deep into the world on the page.

I adored her love of books and stories. It didn’t matter the topic, she just always wanted to know more, and it excited me. I wet my bottom lip and unbuttoned the top of my shirt. The library was so warm in the mornings. I palmed the journal and ran my hands through my hair before flipping the page.

I was barely aware of the day slipping away from me, it had rained at some point in the early evening, I think—but I had only vaguely noticed due to the click of the window shutting to keep out the dampness. I was fully engrossed in the tale that was unfolding—the struggles, the longing, the pining for a forbidden love. I read enraptured, long past the sunset and into the small hours of the morning. Until, at some point, I was no longer reading—I was dreaming .

I dreamt of a man with dark features; deep-set brown eyes that seemed to pour into me and fill me with warmth in a way I had never known. His hair was unruly and curled at the nape of his neck, creating the perfect hold for me to wind my fingers through. His broad brow furrowed slightly as he took my mouth with his, gently at first and then with intensity that built until I was sure I would not be able to continue to stand. Seeming to sense this, his hand reached behind me to pull me in tightly, entwining our bodies so closely that there was no part of him I could not feel against me.

I shifted in the chair, my cock twitching instinctively at her words.

“Fuck.” I closed the journal over my fingers and held it in my lap as the flush of heat rose up my neck and coated my ears red.

All of the other entries had been tame, no mention of her sexual frustrations, but… She had left the journal out in the open… was I wrong for reading it? Could I even stop myself if it was? I looked down at the journal and then around the library before flipping it back, opening and reading more.