Page 27

With each step toward the entrance of her childhood home, Blanche felt the weight of the evening’s revelations pressing heavier upon her shoulders.

Her heart, still raw with betrayal, beat with a thud that echoed in her chest like a distant drum.

The familiar scent that greeted her—polished wood, old books, and faint traces of lavender wax—should have been comforting, but tonight it only deepened the ache within her.

The front door swung open with practiced ease, revealing the dim, hushed grandeur of the foyer beyond.

Blanche paused, just for a moment, gathering herself before stepping across the threshold.

Her footsteps clicked against the marble floor, each one a solemn declaration of resolve.

The echoes whispered back at her, as if the house itself sensed the storm gathering in her chest.

She had come to unearth truths long buried, to tear back the veil of silence that had smothered her father’s memory. The pain would not be easy—of that she was certain—but if there was to be healing, it must begin here, now.

As she entered the hallway, a voice called her back to the present.

"Blanche!"

Leopold, her younger brother, stood waiting for her, his boyish face lit with the kind of joy that made her heart clench. His innocent excitement, so unspoiled by the weight of adult deceptions, offered a momentary balm to her frayed nerves.

"You are here!" he exclaimed, then glanced behind her, expectant. "Is your husband not with you? I was hoping I could show him something."

Blanche opened her mouth to respond, to gently delay him, but she was too slow.

Before she could utter a word, Leopold had dashed outside, his voice already calling out for Philip. Blanche stood motionless, lips parted in protest that never formed, watching the last sliver of her carefully drawn boundary slip away.

So much for sparing Philip from the storm.

Moments later, Leopold returned, beaming, with a reluctant-looking Philip trailing behind him.

"I was not sure what to do," Philip admitted softly, offering her an apologetic glance.

"I know," she replied, her voice gentler than she felt. "It seems he was determined."

Leopold turned to Philip, eyes shining. "Would you kindly come to the library with me? I found an old volume on Roman campaigns, it’s marvellously illustrated. I think you will love it."

Blanche met Philip’s eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. He gave the barest nod—an acknowledgement of her unspoken plea for privacy. She knew he would keep Leopold happily occupied, far away from the confrontation that loomed.

A faint smile tugged at her lips as she watched the pair disappear down the corridor. Despite everything, she was grateful for this budding bond between her husband and brother. It offered a small, steady light in the midst of all this darkness.

And now, with them safely out of earshot, it was time.

Time to face the truth.

Time to hear what her mother had to say—for better or worse.

Did her mother truly understand what she had done? It felt like madness to be placed in such a position at all. But however deeply Blanche's heart might ache, she would not allow that pain to show on her face. Not this time.

She moved through the halls like a ghost made of steel—quiet, but unyielding.

It did not take long to find her. Of course not.

Blanche should have expected it: Isabella was precisely where she always was when trouble stirred—lounging in the drawing room as if the world existed to orbit her.

Draped in a gown of rich ivory silk, layered in lace and heavy jewels, she reclined with a glass of something expensive, unbothered and exquisite as a portrait.

Blanche stood there a moment, watching her.

She had spent the evening in quiet agony, her father’s memory desecrated, and here was her mother, adorned in regal splendour and sipping wine with the air of someone entirely untouched by consequence.

The rage came swiftly.

Her entrance shattered the drawing room’s tranquil veneer.

“Mother,” Blanche said, her voice low, tight. “We must talk.”

Isabella glanced up with an arched brow and the faintest smile of indulgence. “Talk? About what, dearest?”

“The true fate of my missing antiquities.”

A flicker of irritation passed over Isabella’s features. She rolled her eyes with theatrical flair. “Oh, Blanche. Must we go through this again? I’ve already told you—they are being searched for. The house is large. These things take time.”

“No,” Blanche snapped, her arms crossing. “No more of that. I know the truth. You can stop pretending.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Isabella said, lifting her glass delicately.

Blanche took a step closer. “I saw them,” she said quietly, dangerously. “At Mr. Munroe’s auction. Father’s relics—the bronze blade, the amphora. The ones I told you were missing.”

There it was.

The moment of collapse.

Her mother’s face, so carefully schooled in elegance, faltered. A visible flinch. A moment of sheer, blinking panic. She recovered quickly, but it was too late. The mask had slipped.

“Mr. Munroe’s… auction,” Isabella echoed, her voice barely audible.

Blanche didn’t look away. “The very items you told me had simply been misplaced. Why would you lie to me?”

Isabella’s eyes narrowed, and something steely flashed behind them. A pause—long, brittle—then at last, she exhaled sharply, as if shedding the weight of a burden she had long tired of carrying.

“Fine,” she said flatly. “I sold them. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Even though Blanche had expected it, the admission felt like a blade between her ribs.

“But why?” Her voice cracked. “You knew how much they meant to me. They were all I had left of him.”

“Because I had no choice!” Isabella snapped, rising now, the wine glass set aside.

Her jewels glinted in the firelight, gaudy and misplaced.

“We were drowning, Blanche. On the verge of ruin. Your father left me with debts—debts I worked tirelessly to conceal. I had to sell something, and those dusty relics… they were the easiest to part with.”

“They were not yours to sell,” Blanche breathed. Her eyes shimmered, but her voice was cold. “They were Father’s. They were mine.”

“They were part of this family’s estate!” Isabella barked. “And I did what I had to do to preserve what was left of our name. You think you’re the only one who’s lost something?”

Blanche took a trembling breath, steadying herself. “You should have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood. You never do.

Always buried in your books, your histories, clinging to the past like it’s some holy scripture.

” Isabella’s voice twisted, bitter. “And you refused to do the one thing that could’ve helped—secure a match.

A proper match. Instead, you chased scholars and shadows, and now look where we are. ”

“You sold pieces of him,” Blanche whispered. “And lied. And watched me search for them with a smile on your face.”

Isabella’s expression hardened. “You think I enjoyed it? You think it was easy? You’ve no idea what it’s like to hold everything together while you indulge your whims like a little girl playing at being clever.”

Blanche’s heart pounded with fury.

“I am not a little girl,” she said, every syllable laced with fire. “And if holding everything together means betraying the memory of the only man who ever saw value in who I was, then I want no part of it.”

They stood there, breathless, the silence crackling between them.

And then, in the hush, something darker flickered in Blanche’s thoughts.

If her mother had been capable of this—of deceit, of theft—what else had she done? What other desperate acts had she committed beneath that veil of respectability?

The realisation hit Blanche like a cold wind.

She looked at her mother—truly looked—and for the first time, she did not see the woman who had raised her, who had styled her hair for her first ball, or whispered sharp-edged encouragements in drawing rooms. She saw a stranger cloaked in silks and secrets, a woman with eyes too proud to weep and a heart too cold to break.

Isabella, ever imperious, met her daughter’s gaze with a tilt of the chin and a voice sharpened by scorn.

“The only reason Leopold was granted holiday from his precious boarding school,” she said, her tone clipped and bitter, “is because the fees are long overdue. If you must direct your outrage somewhere, Blanche, consider that. Consider what I’ve done to protect him. To protect all of us.”

The words landed like a slap.

Blanche's breath caught as her mind reeled. Her sweet, innocent brother—dragged into the mire of unpaid debts and desperate schemes. The image of him, bounding out to greet Philip with joy in his eyes, twisted in her chest. He had no idea. He never had.

She steadied herself, though her voice came quieter than before. “And what else have you done, Mother?”

Isabella hesitated for the barest of seconds, then spoke—flatly, almost coldly. “I did it. I arranged everything. The scandal. The blue parlour. Philip. All of it.”

Blanche went still. Her heart skipped a beat.

"You did what?"

“I orchestrated the moment you were found with him,” Isabella said, a brittle edge creeping into her voice. “I left nothing to chance. I even tipped off the gossip sheets myself. It was the only way. Without your marriage to him, Blanche, we would have been ruined.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Blanche's vision blurred for a moment, as if the world had tipped sideways. Her limbs felt heavy, her breath shallow. She had suspected many things of her mother—manipulation, certainly. High-handedness. Emotional coldness. But this… this was unforgivable.

“You used me,” Blanche whispered, the words catching in her throat. “You sacrificed me to save yourself.”