Chapter 10: Healing the East Wing
With Isabella gone, the heavy atmosphere of dread that had hung over Blackwood Manor for decades began to lift. The staff, once terrified of stepping out of line, moved through the corridors with a newfound lightness. Julian and Clara spent the afternoon moving Clara and little Lily into the east wing—the spacious, sunlit apartments that had once belonged to Julian’s mother.
The rooms were filled with antique furniture, heavy velvet drapes in shades of deep emerald, and tall bay windows overlooking the sprawling rose gardens. Clara stood by the window, watching Lily chase a stray butterfly across the manicured lawn below, a genuine smile gracing her face for the first time since she had arrived at the manor.
Julian walked into the room carrying a small wooden crate containing Clara’s few personal belongings from the cardboard box she had carried out of the foyer days earlier. He set it gently on the oak desk near the bed.
"How are you holding up?" Julian asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"It still feels like a dream," Clara admitted, turning away from the window and running her hand over the polished wood of the antique dresser. "Yesterday, I was scrubbing the ballroom floor and worrying about whether I could afford coal for the winter. Today, I have a suite of rooms and a board of directors bowing when I walk past."
"You don't have to carry the weight of the company all at once," Julian said softly, stepping further into the room. "Arthur Pendelton and I are restructuring the management team. You focus on Lily, and on yourself. You’ve spent your whole life surviving; it’s time you learned how to live."
"My mother taught me how to live," Clara corrected gently, looking up at him with those familiar amber eyes. "She taught me that kindness and resilience are worth more than any estate. I just want to make sure I don't lose myself in all of this. I don't want to become like Isabella."
"You could never be like Isabella," Julian said with absolute conviction. "You have your grandmother's soul. And my mother would have been prouder of you than words can say."
A soft knock interrupted their conversation, and Mrs. Higgins, the elderly head housekeeper who had served the family for forty years, poked her head into the room. She held a silver tray with a steaming pot of tea and two porcelain cups.
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"Pardon the intrusion, Mr. Vance, Miss Clara," Mrs. Higgins said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. "I just wanted to bring up some fresh tea. And... to say how glad I am that the truth finally came to light. I remember your mother, Clara. She was a good woman. We all missed her when she was sent away."
Clara walked over, taking the elderly woman's wrinkled hands in her own. "Thank you, Mrs. Higgins. That means more to me than you know."
