Chapter 3 - The Poison in the Walls
The punishment came within twenty minutes of the corridor confrontation.
Celeste had retreated to her private morning room, trembling with rage, demanding Laura’s immediate termination and expulsion from the grounds.
Yet, mysteriously, Bess did not hand Laura her walking papers.
Instead, Bess came down to the basement washroom with tears of sheer exhaustion in her eyes and a new set of keys.
“I don't know what devil is protecting you, Beckett, but the master told Miss Vane you were under contract through the agency,” Bess said, shaking her head.
“He told her if she fires you, she has to explain the contract breach to the city agency board.”
“So she isn't firing you.”
“She is going to break you instead.”
Laura wrung out a heavy cotton mop in the zinc bucket, her expression unreadable.
“How does she intend to do that, Bess?”
“She assigned you to the North Wing,” Bess said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper.
“The closed suites.”
“The ones that belonged to Mr. Hardwick’s late sister, Clara.”
“No one has set foot in those rooms for eighteen months.”
“Miss Vane ordered that you strip every curtain, polish every parquetry board, and clean every brass chandelier by hand before midnight.”
“And if you break so much as a teacup, she will have you arrested for grand larceny.”
Laura took the brass key without a word of protest.
The North Wing of the Hardwick mansion was a mausoleum of cold air and dust covers.
Garrett Hardwick’s younger sister Clara had died under mysterious circumstances two winters ago.
The public papers had claimed an accidental overdose of prescription sleep medication, but the city’s underground rumor mill whispered of something darker.
Clara had been the sole heir to her mother’s thirty percent stake in the Hardwick commercial docklands.
Upon Clara's death, that stake had passed directly to Garrett, who had promptly assigned management rights to Celeste’s father’s logistics firm.
Laura unlocked the double oak doors of the North Wing, the hinges groaning against the heavy, undisturbed silence.
The rooms were freezing; the radiators had been shut off months ago.
White linen sheets covered the velvet settees, the grand piano, and the towering armoires like tombstones.
Laura did not immediately fetch the polish or the ladder.
Instead, she slipped a pair of thin surgical gloves from her pocket and walked directly to Clara’s private writing desk.
The desk had been searched before, clearly.
The drawers showed faint pry marks along the brass locks, but whoever had searched it was looking for ledgers, cash, or jewelry.
Laura had spent eight years working logistics security for federal recovery units before disappearing into domestic service under a clean identity.
She knew where scared women hid things they were truly afraid of losing.
She knelt down beside the heavy mahogany pedestal desk and reached up into the hollow kneehole space.
Her fingers brushed against the raw, unpolished underside of the desktop until she felt it: a flat seam sealed with industrial packing tape.
She peeled back the tape with steady, silent precision.
A small, leather-bound daily planner fell into her open palm.
Laura carried the book to the window where the gray October light filtered through heavy velvet drapes.
The handwriting inside was frantic, sprawling, and marked by dates leading directly up to the night Clara had died.
“October 14th: Celeste brought the tea again today. It tastes of bitter almonds and metal. She smiled when she handed me the cup.”
“October 22nd: Garrett does not see it. He thinks Celeste is securing our family alliances. She is feeding him false reports from the docks.”
“November 3rd: The doctor Celeste recommended changed my heart prescription. My chest burns after every dose. If I tell Garrett, he will think I am losing my mind like Mother did.”
Laura closed the journal and tucked it deep inside the inner lining of her corset.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
Laura did not flinch; she turned her head calmly, her hands resting naturally in her apron pockets.
Percy stood in the entryway, holding a heavy iron coal bucket and a bundle of dry kindling.
“I thought you might freeze to death in here,” Percy muttered, looking nervously over his shoulder into the gloomy corridor.
“Thank you, Percy,” Laura said softly.
The young man stepped inside, setting the bucket down beside the empty hearth.
“You shouldn’t have touched Miss Vane’s pride, Laura,” he said, his voice raw with worry.
“She isn't just cruel because she likes it.”
“She’s cruel because she knows the master won’t stop her.”
“Why won’t he stop her?” Laura asked, watching him carefully.
“Because her family holds the shipping licenses,” Percy said.
“If Celeste walks away from this engagement, her father revokes the customs clearance for the entire harbor fleet.”
“Mr. Hardwick’s whole syndicate goes bankrupt overnight.”
“He’s a prisoner in his own house, Laura.”
Laura walked to the window and looked down at the courtyard, where Garrett Hardwick was stepping out of a black town car, his coat collar turned up against the cold wind.
May you like
“No man with that much blood on his hands is a prisoner, Percy,” Laura murmured.
“He’s just waiting to see who strikes first.”
