Jane knew she shouldn’t be here, but didn’t care. No one would know; the house was abed, as she should be, considering it had just rung three. Only, attempting sleep was useless tonight. Impossible with memories and guilt swirling within her; as always this time of year. Fitting, that the weather was so similar to what it had been twenty years ago, only magnified, by time, and…
Regret. Anger. Sadness.
Strangely, the viciousness of the storm banging on the window she sat at in the gallery soothed her. The gallery full of expensive art, but only few portraits. The line of Willcombes who could afford portraits wasn’t long; Mr Willcombe had raised his family with a shrewd, and keen business sense. Besides, there was only one portrait which mattered to anyone, including Jane.
Mrs Willcombe’s. Beautiful, joyful, surrounded by those bright flowers she loved.
Jane had been at Aconite House for the morbid anniversary before, but never felt compelled to…sit vigil with the woman’s portrait. Usually, she marked the day in other ways, but tonight…
Had been horrible. Excruciating, and vile. Luckily, after that dinner display, they’d all slowly retired, until only Mr Willcombe remained, alone in his study, nursing whisky, until he finally went to bed around one. Jane had crossed him in the hall, and wanted to—
Do something impossible.
Jane had never disliked any of Mr Willcombe’s guests, nor Mr Willcombe himself, but this evening…
She couldn’t excuse Mr Willcombe, nor how he treated young Mr Willcombe, whose pain she knew well—that of losing a mother—but he had some excuse. He loved, and missed his wife. The others…
Watched the Roman Games, drunk on bloodsport.
Only Mr Pierce had been…compassionate. The way he’d—
Jane jumped as footsteps sounded—light and swift, yet stark even against the chaotic storm.
Straightening, she listened intently, her heart beating a tattoo, telling her it wasn’t a lost guest, or wandering servant. Pulling her dressing gown tight, she rose, carefully crossing to the door, lightning flashing shadow plays onto the floorboards.
A stair creaked, and Jane tried to place it in her mind even as she shivered, not from cold, but dread. Her throat was tight, and she was ashamed to notice she was shaking as she stepped into the corridor.
You’re made of sterner stuff…
The landing above has a creaking step.
Quickly, and silently, she went up the stairs, so she could see the floors above. Not truly knowing what she would do when she discovered whomever it was—surely not an intruder, for she’d helped Fendrick close the house—only that something tugged her onwards, telling her she needed to know.
Another flash of lightning, and boom of thunder which shook the house, and Jane.
The wisp of…fabric.
Swallowing hard, Jane turned, looking up to the landing above.
Thunder, lightning, and—
‘No…’ she gasped, spying the figure, illuminated for the briefest moment by the storm, but unmistakable. A figure often seen in her dreams, now made flesh. ‘Mrs Willcombe…’
The spectre, in its flimsy white chemise, eyed her with disdain and hatred, and Jane’s heart broke, as tears pricked her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jane murmured on a sob. ‘So sorry…’
The figure’s eyes narrowed, then it swept away into the darkness.
Jane knew she should pursue it, say all she’d held in her heart for twenty years, but she couldn’t move. Still she was rooted there hours later, frozen, and covered in tears, when the scratching in the servants’ corridors began. A wraith herself, she dragged herself upstairs to dress, knowing what she must do.
Say the words in her heart, only this time to living beings.
I’m sorry.
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