Prologue
The Curse
Wraithmoor Abbey, Manhattan, New York City
October 2, 1860
Emma
The dense fog reeked of death this morning. It was so thick, she could barely see the stone steps in front of her as she climbed the winding staircase to reach the top of the grand estate.
The mansion was built on hallowed grounds, atop the ruins of an old abbey that was burned to cinders years ago. Locals rumored the land was haunted by the ghosts of those buried here, who were exhumed and moved to other places of eternal rest before the great Anderson family rebuilt on top of it.
It was bad luck , they said.
She never believed the superstitions. But now, as the sorrow in her chest threatened to cleave her in half as she reached her destination, a place that once brought her joy but now only held a lifetime of regrets, she couldn’t help but wonder if the superstitions were true.
She walked toward the edge of the rooftop and glanced around, secretly wishing he were here. That he would stop her.
But there was nothing other than the eerie silence and the occasional cry of the black crows hovering nearby, her companions paying solemn tribute to her before she took to the skies—her final flight .
She brushed past the skeletons of wilted flowers, long laid to rest after a dreary autumn, and past the dark vines twined around a veranda, the lush green appearing black in the gloominess of early dawn. Gripping the railing at the edge of the rooftop, she slowly climbed over the ledge to the tiny sliver of stone separating this life and the next.
“Do you love me, Silas?” she whispered.
“Always, now and forever, this lifetime and all the lifetimes thereafter,” he murmured, his intense gray eyes filled with warmth as he pulled her close and sealed his lips with hers.
It didn’t matter they were forbidden. It didn’t matter she was putting everything at risk by being with him, a man far above her station. A man who could ruin her.
They were tempting fate, but it felt like destiny.
A sob wrenched from her throat. Lies. They were all lies.
Clutching her last missive to him to her chest, she teetered on the edge and stared at the rose garden far below. Her eyes skated over the murder of crows standing silently by, over the new hedges the groundskeeper put in several months ago, which had now grown at least a foot taller.
Her favorite place.
A place where she would meet with him after the house went to bed, where they would stare into the dark nights, admiring the millions of stars glittering amid the inky backdrop.
He would take her hand then, far away from the prying eyes of his wife, a woman he told her he despised but was forced to marry because his family believed a duke needed legitimate heirs to be from a lady of good bloodline.
Not a lowly servant of the household.
Someone like her.
It was the way things were done—they were both trapped in their stations, unable to escape.
But nonetheless, her life irrevocably changed the first time their eyes met in the estate’s library. She was picking a book for her new employer, his wife, to read the next day, only to find him there, flipping through a thick volume by the roaring fire.
He never minded her status. He was curious what she had chosen. The curiosity burgeoned into a discussion on philosophy, which became nightly meetings where he’d tease her as she read her romantic novels after her chores were done. He’d flash her smiles she’d never seen him wear before, his hand grazing hers when they passed each other in the halls.
“I never knew love until I met you,” he whispered in her ear months later.
He’d take her in his arms and press his lips to hers as they danced under the sliver of ghostly moonlight in the rose garden. The night chill pierced her flimsy work garments of gray wool, but every inch of her was on fire, her heart alight for the man in front of her, who, in those stolen moments, appeared to be giving her the world.
They moved to the haunting rhythms of nature, the foreboding night wind howling and the falling leaves rustling from the trees nearby, as if begging them to stop before it was too late.
But naively, they ignored the ominous signs. He’d murmur instead, “Emma, my love, my all.”
Her heart fluttered a dying beat at the memories—the warmth in his charcoal gaze, the gentleness of his fingers trailing over her cheek, the slight quirk of his lips, dimples showing.
“Silas.”
She closed her eyes and remembered how she melted into his embrace. His lips took hers and plundered everything away from her—her heart, her soul, her mind. They would spend endless hours in the gardens, forgoing sleep, coming together as man and woman, not as a duke and his servant, obliterating a thousand lines they were forbidden to cross.
He used to say he was a duke, and he could do anything.
One day, they would be free to be together.
But that was a lie too .
And now, she paid the ultimate price.
She tore her eyes away from the garden. The morning light had barely penetrated the swollen, smothering clouds. A storm was coming fast, based on the severe winds and the darkened skies. She should alert the rest of the staff so they could begin preparations, as the manor was still in an active state of construction.
The streetlamps were unlit, but there was an eerie calm, as if she had already crossed the threshold to another world.
This wouldn’t be her job anymore.
She wouldn’t be here to see the storm.
The vaporous mist hid the terrifying heights from the rooftop to the grounds four stories down. It surrounded the abbey like a thick blanket, enticing her to take the leap into her eternal slumber.
“Silas,” she choked out, her fingers tightening on the letter he’d no doubt find on her later.
His name was carried away by a chilly breeze.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and her other hand cradled the small bump on her lower belly, the one she couldn’t hide anymore, the bump signaling her adultery, her shame for the world to see.
Perhaps, if she’d never fallen in love with him or if he’d done what he had promised and taken her away from there much sooner, his wife wouldn’t have shoved her against the vanity table three nights ago in a fit of anger before dismissing her. She wouldn’t be bleeding now, knowing the baby had departed the world before her.
Perhaps it was best for everything to end this way. After all, what a scandal this would be for the unblemished Anderson family.
She wetted her lips as she smoothed her hand over her belly, her heart pulverized.
Would it have been a son or a daughter? Would he have had his dark, mesmerizing eyes or her brown hair if he were to have survived? Would she have had dimples just like her father, or would she have had full lips like her?
Would he forgive her, her Silas?
Her heart clenched in throbbing pain as she breathed in more of the cloying stench in the air.
Perhaps he wouldn’t. Or perhaps he wouldn’t care. After all, he silently stood by as the duchess berated her for her loose morals, for daring to disgrace her, making her the laughingstock of society since the rumors of his affair leaked. She remembered how his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes not looking at hers even though she pleaded with all of her heart for him to acknowledge her in the daylight—just once, a reassuring glance, a gentle nod, anything to let her know things would turn out all right.
But he didn’t, even though he knew he was the reason for her current state, even though he promised her he would take care of her and their unborn child.
They were lies. A thousand breathtaking lies from a beautiful man.
In the distance, thunder rumbled, the violent sound angry and foreboding.
She hoped Silas would find her when the rain descended.
Her thoughts trailed to last night, before she’d gone to her room to pack her bags, when she’d first felt the painful cramps in her belly.
The elite gathered in the sitting room, eager to have an audience with the duke and the duchess, not caring the title held no merit in America. After all, royalty was royalty, and Silas, a staunch supporter of the Union, had important things to say about the war brimming around the corner.
She stood in the shadows of the second-floor landing, her heart clenched when the duke met his duchess at the bottom of the stairs. He stood tall and proud, his dark navy waistcoat, the one she once told him was her favorite, molded to his figure like a glove.
Lord Silas Anderson, Duke of Westfield in the British aristocracy, head of one of the most illustrious families in America, was a sight to behold, a man who stole her heart even though he couldn’t protect it.
His glittering eyes had cut away from his duchess and snared on hers, as though he could see her hiding in the shadows .
But of course he could. He had always seen her, even when she was invisible most of her life.
His throat rippled, the previous placid expression on his face quickly slipping away as he dropped the hand he offered to his wife, who looked up at him in confusion, before following his gaze to her.
Her features hardened. “You pathetic whore . I don’t want to see you here a minute longer. Go to the whorehouse where you belong.”
She flinched and shrunk back, her mistress’s words echoing in her mind.
Silas stood at the bottom, unmoving, staring at her. His slate-gray eyes flashed with the same passion she had seen when he met her in the gardens at night, or in the study, or the conservatory. His hands formed into tight fists as they stared silently at each other, a great divide between them.
“You coming, Silas?” the duchess asked from somewhere out of her sight line. “Our guests are waiting.”
He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers as he replied in that low, gravelly voice of his, “Yes, my duchess.”
A reminder. For himself or for her, she’d never know.
He stepped toward his wife before pausing and turning around. Her heart skipped a beat as he took a few steps up the stairs toward her.
But he stopped, his fingers gripping the ornate wooden railing, pausing at the carving of a lion, part of the Anderson family insignia. His fingers grazed the family heirloom ring he always wore—an intricate band with a beautiful black gemstone. He heaved out a deep breath, and she could feel his gaze cascading over her features, landing at her swollen womb carrying their child. Her abdomen cramped—she wanted to tell him she was bleeding, not only from her womb but also in her heart. But he never gave her a chance to tell him.
He paused at the foot of the staircase, the muscles in his shoulders bunched tightly.
“I’m sorry, Emma. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Silas, are you coming?” the duchess called from a few steps away.
He sighed and took out a few banknotes from his pocket and set them on the ground. “I’m sorry.”
Anger burned through her veins at the memory, how he carelessly stood by as her future was burned to ashes in front of him. His promises, words of love and eternal devotion were all lies, poison disguised as beautiful prose and haunting promises.
This was the end of the road for her, for society would never give a woman like her another chance. Her future as a fallen woman saddled with the debts of her father would be unthinkable. No one would employ her after she was cast out by the influential Andersons. She had little education growing up, no connections, nothing to her name. Soon, the debtors would arrive and she would have absolutely no value except for what was between her thighs.
“Go to the whorehouse where you belong.” The duchess’s words carved themselves inside her chest.
There was no other choice.
The frigid morning air penetrated her thin dress and straight into her heart, temporarily stemming the agony leaching out from the tattered organ. Despite everything, she couldn’t stop loving him, even as she hated him at the same time.
“Silas.” She gripped her necklace, her most treasured possession from him—a pearl and gemstone locket with beautifully carved flowers and his eternal devotion carved inside—and whispered once more, “Perhaps, in another life…”
She looked toward the heavens, hoping she’d experience the happiness she lost in this lifetime there.
With her arms spread, she stepped off the ledge, her dark brown tresses billowing like a halo around her head, an angel falling down from the skies just as the first raindrops descended.
Silas
Half an hour later, a thick branch broken off by the storm shattered the windows of the sitting room causing glass shards to scatter across the carpet. A scream tore through Wraithmoor Abbey, echoing in the cavernous foyer, before a groundskeeper dashed in and alerted the duke of the body found in the rose garden.
Silas dashed toward the doors, his thoughts in disarray, the mysterious pain he felt in his chest deepening into scything agony.
Icy dread slithered up his spine, curling around his rib cage. Whipping winds and pelting rain thrashed his face as he threw open the doors and stormed outside, not bothering to wait for the butler or the footmen to follow him.
A figure laid motionless in the distance.
It can’t be. Please.
His feet hurtled desperately toward the woman sprawled on the ground in the rose garden. His clothes quickly became sodden from the turbulent storm, but he couldn’t care less.
Silas’s heart dropped to the floor, unfathomable pain carving through him when he recognized the unmistakable deep chocolate of her hair, the lithe and graceful frame of her body clad in her uniform, the dark gray wool worn by all the staff.
No. Please, I beg you.
Clutching his chest, he charged toward her, hoping she was still alive yet knowing from the stillness of her figure that she wasn’t.
Choking back a sob, he knelt before her, his fingers shaking as he brushed a few wet strands from her face. Her body was twisted and broken, lying amongst her beloved roses. Her eyes were closed, but her face was unblemished, beautiful even in death, even when lying in the macabre river of red soaked to the soil below her.
“Emma, sweetheart,” he rasped. He cradled her broken frame in his arms, tears slipping down his face. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I told you in my letter I was going to find you… Why didn’t you wait? ”
He buried his face in the crook of her neck and sobbed, “I’m so sorry, my love. It’s all my fault. I’m so, so sorry.”
Crushing regret twisted around his lungs, robbing his breath. He was trying to do the right thing by his family—his legitimate family in the eyes of the law. He was going to find her when things were in order, when he settled his affairs with his younger brother to take over his duties and ended things with his wife, a cruel woman his father forced him to marry at a young age.
He was going to. He was going to do so many things…
And now there’d be no opportunities to do any of them, for what he’d done to her, to their child, was irreparable.
As he held her cold body in his crushing embrace, willing the lightning to strike him so he could go with her to the great beyond, his thoughts were filled with memories of her—them painting together under the moonlight in the rose garden.
She whispered, her hand clutching a paintbrush, “‘Hope is the dream of a waking man,’ and I’m living my dream every day with you.”
His voice was rough. “Aristotle said that.”
“And he would be right. I’m the happiest person with you.”
How wrong she was. If he had known the ending of their love story, he would never fall in love with the woman who could see through the glamour of his wealth and estate and could see the lonely man living inside him.
Then she would be alive.
“My love, didn’t you say hope is the dream of a waking man? Why did you give up on hope…on us?” His cries were loud in the garden as he held her tightly, her blood soaking through his clothes. His mind held tightly onto denial, even though he knew it was too late…much too late. “Don’t leave me. Please…don’t leave me.”
He should’ve known from the desperation in her voice as she pounded the door of his study last night, the hopelessness in her beautiful eyes when he told her there was nothing more he could do for her, that he wouldn’t leave his wife for her. They were all lies he spewed from his mouth because he knew his wife was listening in the next room.
And now, she and their unborn child were gone—her melodious laughter, her gentle touch, her warm heart, all vaporized into the rain, swallowed by the hallowed ground.
Something sharp scraped his forearm, and he looked up, finding a crow pecking at a crumbled cream envelope clutched in the hand of his beloved.
He pried the envelope from her icy fingers as the storm raged around them, his breath choking in his throat at the elegant swirl of his name on the front, the smudges from the rain blurring the words.
My Beloved Silas
With shaking fingers, he took out her letter, miraculously kept dry in her tight grip. Her last words to him.
My Beloved Silas,
If you read this, then I and our unborn child have already departed this world. I have risked everything and given you my all—my love, my dignity, my reputation. Being the foolish woman I am, if I could rewind time, I’m not sure I would’ve had the strength to stay away from you.
I want to tell you I understand the pressures of being an Anderson, of upholding your righteous family name to keep it untarnished from scandal. I want to tell you I forgive you and love you all the same so you can close your eyes at night in peace.
But I can never forgive you for depriving our child of a chance at life. As I bleed and feel his life snuffing out, I finally know what true agony is, and I wonder, had you been a man of your word, if things would’ve turned out differently.
You are a coward, Silas, and I can’t help but hold both immense love and hatred toward you. Your love is poisonous, a taker of lives. As retribution for our child who was innocent in our affair, I leave you with this:
I wish for your family to learn not to give love so cruelly, so selfishly. To learn the meaning of true sacrifice. Should a firstborn son of the Anderson name fall in love and marry, the person of his affections shall fall to an untimely demise lest the lesson be learned.
Yours, faithful in death,
Emma
“My love. It’s all my fault. I-I failed you. I should’ve acted much sooner. I’m a c-coward.” She was bleeding and losing their child, and he never knew. She had no one to comfort her as she was cast out of this house. How devastated and hopeless she must’ve felt.
“I’m sorry, Emma.” He pressed a kiss on her cold forehead.
The butler and footmen pried his arms off his sweetheart, but he held on tightly, not willing to let go of his soulmate, the woman who’d always hold his heart, even in death.
He shouldn’t have loved her. He killed her.
“No! Let me go!” he screamed, his eyes wild with anguish.
Amid the struggle, the necklace around Emma’s neck broke off from its owner. The storm carried it away in blood-tainted waters, but Silas barely noticed as he was dragged back into the estate.
I’ll find you again, my love. Death cannot separate us.