Page 11 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

“Ebonrose Hall was completed in 1523,” Ariella explains, her voice hushed with reverence as they stop in front of a large portrait of a man in a brocade doublet.

“Built by Lord Edmund Nightbloom, Dorian’s ancestor.

He chose this land for its vantage point—up on the hill as it is—and named it for the midnight irises that used to grow here, though none have bloomed in many years. ”

“Irises… when the name is Ebonrose?” Selene questions.

Ariella smirks. “There’s two stories about that,” she explains. “One is that Lord Edmund was no gardener, and a proud man to boot, and refused to change the name when someone corrected him.”

“And the second one?”

“That it was his young daughter that came up with the name, and he went along with it for her sake.”

Selene smiles. “I prefer that story.”

“As do I.”

“Lord Gideon was fond of flowers, was he not?”

“Indeed he was!” says Ariella, looking pleasantly surprised that Selene can recall such a fact. “And children, too. I could imagine him renaming a house because his children wished it so. He would have liked a dozen of them, I feel. Alas, it was not to be.”

They walk further, Ariella gesturing towards the windows draped in heavy curtains, many of which are drawn, casting shadows along the walls and concealing what might have once been grand views of the grounds.

The furniture they pass is largely covered in thick white sheets, their forms ghostly in the dim light.

Ariella pauses at a large set of double doors.

“This would have been the ballroom in its time. Quite a sight, I hear, during Lord Edmund’s reign and later in the days of Lord Ambrose, Dorian’s grandfather.

They say the hall was filled with candlelight, the floors polished to a mirror shine.

” She smiles wistfully. “If you can believe it, this room was where Lord Gideon met his lady—Evelyn Wildrose, Dorian’s mother. ”

There’s no mirror shine now, just an empty, dusty space, cold and cobwebbed. Even Selene struggles to see past it.

They proceed through a series of rooms, most shut up with their fine furnishings hidden from sight.

Still, Selene catches glimpses of their former glory—faded tapestries, ornate carvings on fireplace mantels, and the occasional chandelier, its crystals dulled by years of disuse.

There is a sense of elegance in the architecture, despite the wear of time.

In one room, a grand library, dust motes float lazily in the morning light, casting a hazy glow over rows of leather-bound volumes. It’s better kept than the rest of the rooms, and Selene gets the sense it’s used often, even if the cleaning suggests otherwise.

“The library,” Ariella says, her tone soft with the same reverence Selene feels.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, not entirely sure whether she is speaking of the room or the feeling it evokes.

She drifts through the space, inhaling the scent of parchment and warm wood.

She admires the colours, the panelling, the busts and portraits…

and lingers on the one over the hearth. It’s Lord Gideon, together with what must be his wife, and a young Dorian.

“She’s very beautiful,” Selene remarks, staring at Lady Evelyn. She looks like a rose given human shape. Her eyes are warm and brown, her countenance rosy, her hair deep chestnut, almost red.

She died in childbirth, Selene recalls, and the child too. The house would be very different now if either of them had lived.

“Inside and out, my lady,” Ariella remarks. She must have known her well, though she doesn’t look a great deal older than Dorian—twelve years, maybe. Fifteen, at most. She can’t be more than thirty-five.

“How long have you been here, Ariella?” Selene asks.

“Oh, I was born here,” she explains, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you like to know a family scandal?”

It is entirely improper, but Selene definitely wants to know. She has never been one to turn down gossip. “Go on.”

“Follow me.”

Ariella leads her to another wall, and to the portrait of Dorian’s grandfather.

“It’s a secret everyone knows,” Ariella tells her, “hardly seems fair to exclude you. See, before his marriage to Dorian’s grandmother—Lady Cecily—Lord Ambrose fell in love with a penniless village girl called Anna.

But his parents forbade the match and forced him to marry Lady Cecily.

It was only after the wedding that he discovered he had fathered a child with Anna.

Lady Cecily was very understanding of the situation and would have insisted upon him supporting the woman and her child, had Lord Ambrose not done the right thing himself.

He moved Anna and her child into a house on the grounds.

Whether or not the affair continued whilst Lady Cecily was alive, we aren’t sure, but by all reports it was a happy arrangement.

He remained a devoted husband, and a devoted father, until Lady Cecily died not long after the birth of Lord Gideon.

His own parents were dead by then, and he was the lord of the manor.

He moved Anna and her child into the house to act as housekeeper, and their daughter, Elizabeth, grew up alongside her half-brother. ”

It seems like a decent family scandal, but it feels like ancient history. Selene waits for the story to reach its modern relevance.

“Elizabeth,” Ariella continues, “is my mother.”

Selene does a quick calculation in her mind. “You’re Dorian’s… half-cousin?”

Ariella beams. “I am. We usually didn’t bother with the ‘half’ part, though. We grew up together like our parents did.”

More like his sister than his cousin, then. No wonder they don’t usually bother with titles. It isn’t unusual for the occasional servant to be the bastard child of a lord or some member of his family, but it is rarely ever acknowledged.

Selene wonders how she would feel, knowing she had that sort of connection to any of the members of her household staff, and how they would feel towards her. Ariella’s life could have been very different if her grandparents had been allowed to marry.

Has she ever been jealous of Dorian?

Probably not, Selene reasons, as it looks like Ariella has always been treated as a member of the family. But she imagines her own servants would have felt very differently about scrubbing her floors while she sat around in silks.

“What of Soren and Rookwood?” Selene asks. “Are they also relatives?”

Ariella shakes her head. “Soren’s story is his own, and I won’t gossip about it, but he’s been here since he was a child.

Rookwood would be happy enough to let you know that he’s been here since he was a teen.

He grew up in a local orphanage, abandoned there as a newborn and missing part of his right leg.

He found getting work tricky as he grew, but Lord Gideon heard he was good in the kitchen and hired him on the spot. He’s never looked back.”

Selene nods along. “And what of your mother?”

“Oh, she’s still around. She had me quite late in life, with a soldier who went off to war and died when I was young.

She takes to widowhood very well. She’s fond of her solitude.

She retired almost ten years ago and lives in a small house between here and the village.

She comes for dinner every week and lets us know everything we’re doing wrong. ”

Despite herself, Selene laughs. “I look forward to meeting her.”

They continue with the rest of the tour, moving through the east wing.

The furniture is covered in sheets, and the once-vibrant tapestries now hang in muted colours, their beauty dulled by time.

In one of the parlours, the sunlight catches the edges of a tarnished chandelier, and in another room, cracked porcelain figurines sit atop dusty mantels.

However, as they make their way to the back of the house, the atmosphere shifts.

The garden stretches out before them, and Selene stops to take in the sight.

The flower beds are tangled with overgrown vines, but even through the wildness, the potential is clear.

Buds of roses, irises, and lilies stand poised on the cusp of blooming.

She wonders if Dorian would allow her to take charge of it, to transform the neglected beauty into something vibrant again.

The thought makes her heart quicken with possibility.

She hopes Dorian will see the potential in the garden as she does.

After all, it mirrors the house in many ways—old, worn, but full of untapped potential, waiting for someone to bring it to life.