Chapter 3: Fragile Courage.

I had been living at Rathcliffe Manor for one week.

Seven days of careful steps and measured words. Seven days of Emma quietly offering advice in shadowed corridors on how Lord Rathcliffe preferred his tea, how he disliked the curtains drawn before dusk, how he noticed everything.

Especially mistakes.

And he always found one.

Every afternoon, without fail, I was summoned to his study. Beneath the heavy scent of leather and cigar smoke, he would list my shortcomings in a voice so calm it felt deliberate.

“You are too informal with the children.”

“Too hesitant with the staff.”

“You need to act like a lady. Take accountability.”

The worst part was not his criticism.

It was the composure. He never raised his voice. Never spoke with venom. He delivered each correction with the patience of a man disciplining a child as though I were something to be refined, reshaped, improved.

This morning, however, was different.

Sunlight spilled across the dining room, soft and golden, making the heavy curtains of Rathcliffe Manor seem less oppressive than usual. For the first time since my arrival, Lord Rathcliffe was away on business, and the absence of his watchful presence gave the house a strange, fragile lightness.

I poured myself a cup of tea and took a seat at the breakfast table, my thoughts unusually calm. Emma had already arranged the morning tray with freshly baked goods and fruit.

She glanced at me with a faint smile understanding the quiet relief I felt. “Shall I help you with anything?” she asked softly, as though unsure what to do with the peace.

“No, thank you.” I took a small sip of my tea. The warmth eased something tight inside me. “It feels… quieter this morning.”

Emma’s lips curved knowingly. “Enjoy it while it lasts.” I nodded. There was comfort in her steadiness. In a house built on rules, she felt like the only constant kindness.

“Where are the children?” I asked.

“Katherine and David had an early breakfast, ma’am.”

Even they had sensed the opportunity. A rare deviation from the rigid schedule.

After breakfast, I wandered the corridors, trying to familiarize myself with the manor’s endless halls.

Laughter echoed faintly in the distance. It was light, unrestrained and refreshing.

I followed the sound until I found them in a sunlit room I had not noticed before.

David looked up first. “Belle,” he grinned.

“What mischief are you two up to so early?” I asked.

“This is our playroom,” Katherine explained. “It’s the only room in the house we’re allowed to play in.”

Her words unsettled me. My sisters and I had been allowed to play anywhere. Creativity had been encouraged, not confined. Here, everything felt measured. Controlled. Even joy had boundaries.

I stepped further inside, my gaze drifting across scattered toy soldiers on the carpet until it landed on something that made me stop entirely.

A piano.

It stood near the window, polished wood gleaming faintly beneath a thin veil of dust.

I approached it slowly, as though it might disappear if I moved too quickly. My fingers brushed over the surface.

“Oh,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

Katherine’s voice softened. “It was my mother’s. No one has played it since… since she died.” She hesitated. “I want to. I’m just afraid I won’t be good.”

My heart tightened.

“Shall we try?” I asked gently.

She nodded.

Her small fingers hovered uncertainly over the keys, and I guided her hands into a simple melody. My mother had taught me how to play piano. She used to be a pianoforte instructor. It was one of my fondest memories I had of her. It saddened me Katherine was missing out on those memories.

The first notes were uneven, timid but they were alive. David crept closer, wide-eyed and curious, and soon the three of us were bent over the piano together, coaxing hesitant music from it.

The room filled with laughter and wrong notes and fragile courage.

For the first time since my arrival, Rathcliffe Manor felt warm.

I was mid-song when I heard hurried footsteps in the doorway.

The music faltered.

“Who is playing?”

William’s voice.

He stepped inside and froze. His eyes widened as they landed on the piano, then on us. Shock crossed his face, raw and unguarded, as though he had walked into a memory he had not prepared himself to face.

For a brief second, I saw grief.

Then it hardened.

“I was just showing them...” I began gently.

His expression darkened. He strode forward, jaw tight, then stopped abruptly.

“You think you can do as you please?” His voice was strained with anger. “Who told you you could touch it?”

“Brother, we are sorry,” Katherine whispered.

His face shifted instantly as he turned to look at her. “No, Katy,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m not angry at you.”

“But you’re shouting.” Her lip trembled as she reached for David. Frightened, the two of them hurried from the room.

The door shut behind them.

Silence fell.

“William,” I said carefully, “it was an honest mistake. I did not mean to anger you.” He turned on me, his expression a storm of resentment and grief.

“Do not think that because you married my father, you have the right to touch my mother’s things.”

“I understand you’re upset...”

“My brother and sister may be fooled by you,” he cut in sharply, “but I am not a child. I see you for what you are. I know why you’re here.” His lip curled faintly.

Before he could say another word. The door opened behind him. Emma stood there, having clearly heard the raised voices.

William glanced at her, then back at me, his stare cutting, lingering before he walked out.

The echo of the door closing seemed to hang in the air long after he was gone.

I did not ask Emma why he reacted so violently.

Unknowingly I had crossed a line.

And just like that the natural order of misery was restored.

Every word he spoke had settled somewhere deep inside me. I should have cried. I should have defended myself. I should have been angry.

But what use would it be?

He saw me as he chose to see me.

And perhaps, in some ways, the situation was hard for him to understand because in truth I couldn't understand it myself.

I was nineteen.

William looked only a few years older than me.

He would never respect me.

I moved to leave. "Belle," Emma placed a hand on my shoulder.

I gave her a weak smile. "Well it's quiet alright." But it was anything but alright. Through all this darkness I missed my family. Though we had struggled financially atleast our house was filled with happiness.

I returned to my room and closed the door hoping, foolishly, that it might shut the world out with it.