Chapter 11

Violet sat at her desk, staring at the journal she had retrieved from the greenhouse. The worn brown leather cover bore the initials "E.H." embossed in gold, slightly faded with time. She traced the letters with her fingers, a chill creeping up her spine. Eleanor Halloway. The weight of the book felt heavier than it should, as though the secrets contained within it had been left to fester, waiting for someone to unearth them.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Someone had removed the stolen jewelry from its hiding place—someone in the family. That realization sent a cold wave of dread through her. Had she been seen? Did someone know that she had been in the greenhouse? Felix, Ophelia, Everette, and Clara all knew she had been there—could one of them have taken it? Was this journal also meant to stay hidden, buried alongside the truth?

She exhaled sharply and placed the journal down, rubbing her temples. Curiosity burned inside her, urging her to open it, but she hesitated. What if she discovered something she wasn't meant to know? And more importantly—what if someone found out she had it?

A sudden knock at the door made her jump. Heart racing, she quickly slid the journal beneath a stack of papers and stood, smoothing out her dress. Taking a steadying breath, she walked to the door and pulled it open.

Clara stood before her, hands clasped in front of her, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. There was hesitation in her expression, her large eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"Miss Rowe," Clara said quietly, "I—um—I just wanted to ask if you'll be in the library later."

Violet raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't planning to be, but I could be. Why do you ask?"

Clara hesitated, her fingers twitching against the fabric of her dress. "No reason, really. I just thought—" She stopped herself abruptly and looked away. "Never mind."

Violet studied her closely. There was something about the way Clara wouldn't meet her gaze, how her fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides. She was nervous. About what?

"Clara," Violet said gently, "is something the matter?"

Clara shook her head quickly, too quickly. "No, nothing at all." Then, as if realizing how suspicious her response sounded, she forced a small, hesitant smile. "I'll see you later, Miss Rowe."

And with that, she turned and hurried down the hall.

Violet watched her disappear around the corner, a nagging unease settling in her chest. Clara had come with a purpose—perhaps even with a warning—but had lost her nerve at the last second. Did she know about the journal? Had she seen her take it? Or was she afraid of something else entirely?

Locking the door behind her, Violet turned back to the desk. She hesitated only for a moment before retrieving the journal from beneath the papers. The leather was cool beneath her fingers, the book worn from years of handling. She opened the cover carefully, and the scent of aged paper drifted up to meet her.

The handwriting inside was delicate yet assured, slanting slightly to the right. The ink had faded in places, but the words were still readable. The first entry was dated nearly two decades ago:

The greenhouse if finally complete. How lovely to have a place that is the opposite of the dull Halloway Manor.

Augustus surprised me with some beautiful yellow orchids, the name of which has slipped my tongue. It is so unlike him to do these things. 

My time in the greenhouse was the most pleasant since moving to the Halloway Estate. Edward brought me my favorite tea to enjoy after lunch. How I love how the sunlight filters through the glass, painting golden patterns across the floor. The scent of fresh soil and blooming flowers cane be addicting and at the same time, comforting. The lifeless halls of the manor cannot compare to this. It is here, surrounded by life, that I can finally breathe.

Yes, I this place is most pleasant. I hope it always stays like this.

Violet traced the delicate writing with her fingers as she read. Mrs. Halloway sounded like a normal person, a woman with simple joys and desires. The way she described the greenhouse, it was clear it had been her sanctuary, a place of solace away from the manor's suffocating atmosphere. Violet found herself wondering what kind of woman Eleanor had truly been—was she kind? Lonely? Was she happy here? Or had she been just another soul swallowed by the gloom of the estate?

She glanced back at the journal, rereading the words about Augustus bringing her orchids. It was such a small gesture, yet Eleanor had found it meaningful. Was Augustus ever a loving husband, or had the weight of loss and time hardened him? He seems to be an ever strict man, and ever so strict with his children. It is so hard to picture him as a husband.

And what of the greenhouse now? The very place Eleanor found comfort had become abandoned like a forgotten relic of her time here. Had anyone else cared for it after she passed? Violet doubted it.