Chapter 4 Beyond the Wall

# Chapter 4: Beyond the Wall

Two days after Gideon's departure, I found myself wandering the east wing of Thornfield Manor, the photograph from St. Catherine's tucked safely in my pocket. I had examined it countless times, searching my fragmented childhood memories for any recollection of this girl—this Lydia—who shared my face. But the years before St. Catherine's remained a blur, as they always had.

The house felt different without Gideon. Though our interactions had been limited and often tense, his absence created a void I hadn't expected to feel. I found myself wondering what he was doing in London, whether he thought of me at all, and why the memory of his lips against my hand still made my pulse quicken.

"Looking for something specific, Mrs. Marlowe?" Alistair's cheerful voice startled me from my thoughts. Unlike his more serious brothers, Alistair possessed an easy charm that made him approachable.

"Just exploring," I replied. "And please, call me Isolde."

"Isolde it is." His smile was warm but not overly familiar like Ezekiel's. "Feeling cooped up, are you? I was about to go for a ride around the property. Would you care to join me?"

The offer of fresh air was too tempting to refuse. An hour later, we trotted along a wooded path, the spring breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers. Alistair proved to be excellent company, pointing out landmarks and sharing amusing tales of growing up at Thornfield.

"Gideon once climbed that oak to rescue my kite," he said, indicating a massive tree. "He was always the protector, even then."

"He's difficult to understand," I admitted. "Sometimes I feel he brought me here for a purpose he won't reveal."

Alistair's expression grew thoughtful. "My brother is a complicated man. After our father died, he took on responsibilities beyond his years."

"Including finding a wife?" I asked pointedly.

Alistair hesitated. "Gideon does nothing without reason, but that doesn't mean his feelings aren't genuine."

"Feelings?" I nearly laughed. "He barely acknowledges me."

"Some men guard their hearts more carefully than others," he replied. "Especially those who've known loss."

We rode in silence for a moment before I gathered the courage to ask, "Who is Lydia?"

Alistair's horse stopped so abruptly I feared he might be thrown. His face paled. "Where did you hear that name?"

"It's everywhere in this house," I said. "In whispers, in half-finished sentences. In the way everyone looks at me."

He sighed deeply. "It's not my place to—"

"Please," I interrupted. "I need to understand."

After a moment's deliberation, he nudged his horse forward again. "There's something I want to show you. It might answer some questions—though I suspect it will raise many more."

He led me toward the northern edge of the property, where the manicured grounds gave way to wilder terrain. As we crested a small hill, a structure came into view—a stone cottage, partially concealed by overgrown ivy.

"What is this place?" I asked as we dismounted.

"Once upon a time, it was the children's summer house," Alistair replied, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Our mother believed in the restorative power of nature."

The door creaked open at his touch. Inside, dust motes danced in the sunbeams that filtered through grimy windows. The furniture was covered with sheets, ghostly shapes in the dim light. But it was the far wall that drew my attention—a mural painted with childish figures, a family of stick people standing before a house.

"We all contributed," Alistair explained, following my gaze. "Father had it preserved under glass after..."

He trailed off, but I was already moving closer, examining the painting. Eight small figures and two larger ones—the Marlowe brothers and their parents, I presumed. But there was something else—at the edge, partially hidden by a cabinet, were two additional figures, smaller than the rest, holding hands.

"Who are they?" I asked, though I already suspected.

Alistair's face was a mask of conflicted emotions. "We should go. Theodore wouldn't approve of me bringing you here."

"Why not? What am I not supposed to see?"

As if in answer, a floorboard creaked behind us. We turned to find Theodore in the doorway, his expression thunderous.

"What do you think you're doing, Alistair?" he demanded.

"She has a right to know something, Theodore," Alistair replied, standing his ground.

"That's not your decision to make," Theodore snapped. His eyes met mine, softening slightly. "Mrs. Marlowe—Isolde—please return to the house. This area is structurally unsound. It's not safe."

"It seems there are many areas of Thornfield that are suddenly 'not safe' whenever I start asking questions," I observed coolly.

Theodore's jaw tightened. "My brother left me responsible for your welfare."

"And does that include keeping me ignorant?"

"It includes respecting family matters that are not mine—or Alistair's—to disclose," he replied firmly. "Now, please."

Reluctantly, I allowed myself to be escorted back to the house, Alistair trailing behind us in tense silence. As we reached the stables, Theodore gripped his brother's arm.

"Not another word," he warned in a low voice. "Gideon will deal with this when he returns."

The rest of the day passed in uncomfortable silence. At dinner, Theodore was politely distant, while Alistair avoided my gaze entirely. Ezekiel attempted to lighten the mood with flirtatious comments, but even he seemed affected by the underlying tension.

Late that night, unable to sleep, I found myself drawn back to the attic. The forbidden room called to me, its secrets like a siren song I couldn't resist. This time, I brought a hairpin to try on the music box lock.

As I ascended the narrow stairs, I was startled by a noise from below—footsteps, moving quickly. Someone else was awake and moving through the house. I pressed myself against the wall, heart pounding, as the steps grew closer.

"You shouldn't be here." The voice made me jump. Alistair stood at the bottom of the attic stairs, his expression grave.

"Neither should you," I countered.

He climbed to join me, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "Theodore has eyes everywhere. If he catches us—"

"Then be quick," I interrupted. "Tell me what you couldn't earlier. Who was Lydia? Why does everyone think I look like her?"

Alistair's internal struggle was evident on his face. Finally, he sighed. "The cottage we visited today—it was her favorite place."

"Who was she to the Marlowes?" I pressed.

"She was—"

A crash from below interrupted him. We both froze, listening to the sounds of a struggle—something shattering, a man's shout, then silence.

"Stay here," Alistair whispered, descending the stairs.

I waited only moments before following, my curiosity stronger than my fear. The sounds had come from the library. As I approached, I heard voices—Alistair's and another's, lower and unfamiliar.

The door stood ajar. Inside, Alistair was helping Theodore to his feet. Blood trickled from a cut on the elder brother's forehead, and the window behind the desk stood open, curtains billowing in the night breeze.

"What happened?" I gasped.

Both men turned, startled by my presence.

"An intruder," Theodore said grimly, pressing a handkerchief to his wound. "I caught him searching the desk."

"Did you see who it was?" I asked.

"No," Theodore replied. "But this is the second break-in this month."

"Second?" Alistair looked surprised. "You didn't mention—"

"I didn't want to worry anyone," Theodore cut him off. "Especially with Gideon away."

As the brothers discussed securing the house, my eyes fell on a small object glinting on the carpet—a cufflink with an unusual insignia. I discreetly picked it up, slipping it into my pocket for later examination.

"You should return to your room, Isolde," Theodore said. "We'll handle this."

"I'm not helpless," I protested.

"No, but you are in danger," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "More than you realize."

As Alistair escorted me back to my room, his earlier reluctance seemed to have evaporated. "Theodore's right about one thing—you need to be careful," he murmured. "There are people who don't want certain truths uncovered."

"What truths?"

He hesitated at my door. "The cottage we visited—look in the cabinet against the far wall. There's a loose floorboard beneath it. What you seek may be there."

Before I could question him further, he pressed something into my hand—a small key. "For your protection," he whispered. "Use it wisely."

Once alone, I examined his gift—an ornate iron key that seemed too old-fashioned for any modern lock. Its purpose remained a mystery, but I tucked it safely into my jewelry box alongside the cufflink from the library.

Sleep eluded me that night. Every creak of the old house set my nerves on edge. Who was the intruder? What were they looking for? And how was it connected to the secrets surrounding this family—and to me?

As dawn broke, I made my decision. I would return to the cottage alone and find whatever lay beneath that floorboard. If Gideon wouldn't provide answers, I would find them myself.

I was halfway through dressing when an urgent knock came at my door. Theodore stood outside, his wound bandaged but his expression grim.

"There's been an incident," he said without preamble. "Alistair has been attacked."

My blood ran cold. "Is he—?"

"Alive, but injured. The doctor is with him now." Theodore's piercing gaze studied me. "He was found on the path to the north cottage, Mrs. Marlowe. Would you know anything about why he might have been heading there before dawn?"

The accusation in his tone was unmistakable. Whatever answers lay hidden at the cottage, someone was willing to spill blood to keep them buried—and now Theodore suspected I was somehow responsible.

As the gravity of the situation washed over me, I realized the game I'd unwittingly entered was far more dangerous than I'd imagined. And Gideon, the one person who might make sense of it all, was miles away in London—or so I hoped. For the first time since arriving at Thornfield Manor, I found myself desperately wishing for my husband's return.