Chapter 7 Ashes of the Past

# Chapter 7: Ashes of the Past

I spent the day after the fire in a daze, confined to my room at Theodore's insistence while workers assessed the damage to the east wing. Lydia's diary lay open beside me, her familiar-yet-foreign handwriting chronicling a childhood I couldn't remember. Every so often, a fragment would surface—the smell of lavender sachets, a lullaby hummed in the dark, the texture of a velvet curtain against my palm—but these fleeting sensations only deepened my confusion.

Was I truly Isolde Marlowe? Or had I simply been thrust into a role these men desperately needed me to fill?

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. "Isolde?" Malcolm's gentle voice called. "May I come in?"

I opened the door to find him carrying a tea tray, his kind face creased with concern. Unlike the others, Malcolm's presence brought comfort rather than confusion.

"I thought you might need something to eat," he said, setting the tray on a small table by the window. "And perhaps some company, if you'd like."

As he poured the tea, his hands trembled slightly. "I've wanted to speak with you properly since the moment you arrived," he admitted. "But Theodore insisted we wait, let you adjust gradually."

"Did you know?" I asked. "About Gideon's plan to bring me back as his wife rather than his sister?"

Malcolm sighed deeply. "I knew, but I didn't approve. Some of us thought it would only cause more pain in the end." He hesitated, then reached into his pocket. "I've been keeping this for you. I always hoped someday I could return it."

He placed a small object in my palm—a child's silver thimble, engraved with tiny roses. The moment I touched it, a memory surfaced with startling clarity: Malcolm showing me how to stitch a handkerchief, his patient voice guiding my clumsy fingers, this very thimble glinting in the sunlight.

"You taught me to sew," I whispered, the memory solidifying.

Malcolm's eyes filled with tears. "Every Sunday afternoon. You were determined to make a handkerchief for each brother's birthday. You had just finished Gideon's when—" He stopped, overcome with emotion.

"The fire," I finished for him.

He nodded, wiping his eyes. "Seeing you again, after all these years... it's like a miracle, Isolde. Like having a piece of our hearts returned to us."

As Malcolm shared gentle stories of my childhood, more fragments began to surface—playing hide-and-seek in the garden, Malcolm's shoulder rides, his voice reading stories by firelight. These weren't invented scenes but real memories, rising from whatever depths had swallowed them.

"Why can I remember some things but not others?" I wondered aloud.

"The doctor who treated you after the fire said trauma affects memory strangely," Malcolm explained. "Some memories may return in time; others might remain lost forever."

After he left, I stood at my window watching twilight descend over the grounds. The damaged east wing stood as a stark reminder of the past's destructive power. Somewhere in this house was the music box Theodore claimed had been destroyed—the final piece of the puzzle.

A movement at the edge of the woods caught my eye—a figure emerging from the trees, walking purposefully toward the house. Even at a distance, I recognized Gideon's tall form and decisive stride. He'd been absent since our confrontation in the gazebo, ostensibly overseeing repairs but clearly avoiding me.

Making a sudden decision, I left my room and descended the stairs, determined to intercept him before he could retreat to his study. I needed answers only he could provide.

I caught him in the entrance hall, removing his coat. He stiffened when he saw me, wariness and something more complicated crossing his features.

"Isolde," he acknowledged, his voice carefully neutral.

"We need to talk," I said firmly. "Properly, without interruptions or half-truths."

After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "The library. Ten minutes."

When I entered the library later, Gideon stood by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand. The flames cast shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched there.

"Malcolm has been sharing stories," I began, taking a seat opposite him. "I'm starting to remember bits and pieces."

"That's... good," he replied cautiously.

"Not enough, though." I leaned forward. "I need you to fill in the gaps, Gideon. Everything—from the beginning."

He took a long drink before speaking. "What do you want to know?"

"Start with the night of the fire. The real story this time."

Gideon's expression darkened. Setting down his glass, he began pacing the room. "Our father was involved in questionable business dealings—investments that crossed powerful people. When those investments failed, he couldn't repay his debts."

"What kind of people?"

"The kind who don't accept excuses," he replied grimly. "They came that night demanding payment. When Father couldn't produce the money, they decided to take something else instead."

A chill ran through me. "What?"

"Revenge." His voice hardened. "They murdered our parents, then set fire to the east wing where the family quarters were located."

"And Lydia? You said she died trying to save me?"

Pain flashed across his face. "She got you to the attic room, told you to hide in the wardrobe. Then she went to alert the others. When she realized the fire had spread too quickly, cutting off the main staircase..." His voice faltered. "Witnesses saw her running back into the burning wing, calling your name."

The image struck me with visceral force—Lydia, my sister, rushing into flames to save me. "Did she reach me?"

"No. The roof collapsed before she could." His eyes met mine, haunted. "By the time Theodore found you, you were unconscious from smoke inhalation. The doctors weren't sure you would survive."

"But I did," I whispered.

"You did. But the Isolde we knew—the bright, fearless girl who remembered her family—she was gone. In her place was a child who recognized no one, who screamed when we tried to hold her."

His words painted a devastating picture. "So you sent me away."

"It was the hardest decision we ever made," he said, his voice breaking. "But you needed specialized care, and we feared the men responsible would return if they learned Edward Marlowe's youngest daughter had survived."

"So St. Catherine's..."

"Was meant to be temporary. But as weeks turned to months and your condition showed no improvement, it seemed kinder to let you build a new life." He stopped pacing, facing me directly. "I checked on you every month. Funded your education through anonymous donations. Made sure you were safe."

"For twenty years?" I asked incredulously.

"For twenty years," he confirmed. "Until I couldn't bear your absence any longer."

The implication hung heavy between us. "As your sister," I said carefully, "or as something else?"

Gideon's expression was tormented. "I was sixteen when you left, Isolde. Old enough to feel your loss like a physical wound, young enough to idealize the memory of you. Over time, that idealization transformed into something... different."

"You fell in love with a ghost," I said softly.

"I fell in love with the idea of who you might have become," he corrected. "When I found you again at St. Catherine's, I told myself it was brotherly concern that made my heart race. But I knew it was a lie."

"So you concocted this marriage scheme."

He had the grace to look ashamed. "It seemed the perfect solution. I could bring you home, protect you from our enemies, give you the life and family that had been stolen from you—all without risking your fragile mental state by revealing the truth too soon."

"Did it never occur to you how wrong it was?" I demanded. "To marry your own sister, even in name only?"

"Every day," he admitted, anguish plain in his voice. "But the alternative—leaving you in that orphanage, never knowing your true identity—seemed worse."

A terrible thought struck me. "The others—do they share your... feelings?"

"God, no," he said quickly. "They've been your brothers in every sense. It's only I who—" He stopped, unable to finish.

We sat in heavy silence, the implications of his confession settling between us. Finally, I asked the question that had been haunting me since reading Lydia's diary.

"Who set the fire last night? Was it the same people from twenty years ago?"

Gideon's expression grew grave. "Theodore believes so. The timing—just after your identity was beginning to emerge—suggests someone is watching the house."

Fear crawled up my spine. "Why now? After all this time?"

"Because of this." He withdrew a newspaper from his desk drawer and handed it to me. The headline made my blood run cold:

*MARLOWE INHERITANCE CASE REOPENED: MISSING HEIRESS COULD CLAIM MILLIONS*

"Our father's estate has been in legal limbo since his death," Gideon explained. "Most of the fortune is held in trust for his heirs—all his heirs. With your return and formal identification..."

"I become a threat to someone," I finished. "Someone who thought they'd eliminated all claims to the Marlowe fortune twenty years ago."

"Precisely." He reclaimed the newspaper, his expression darkening. "Which is why Theodore has been so insistent on secrecy. Once your identity becomes public knowledge—"

A commotion in the hallway interrupted him. The library door burst open, revealing Theodore with two uniformed policemen.

"Mr. Marlowe," one officer stated formally, "we have a warrant to search these premises."

"On what grounds?" Gideon demanded, rising to his feet.

"Allegations of fraud and possible kidnapping," the officer replied, eyeing me. "We've received reports that a woman matching the description of a missing orphanage worker is being held here against her will."

"That's absurd," Gideon scoffed. "My wife is here of her own free will."

"Your wife?" The second officer consulted his notebook. "According to our information, the woman in question may actually be your sister, Isolde Marlowe, previously thought deceased."

Theodore stepped forward. "These accusations are baseless. If you'll allow me to explain—"

"We'll need to speak with the lady privately," the first officer insisted, looking at me.

Before I could respond, a gunshot echoed from outside, followed by shouts of alarm. We all rushed to the window to see Alistair staggering across the lawn, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers.

"Ambush," he gasped as Gideon ran to meet him. "Men in the woods—they were watching the house—"

More shots rang out. The officers drew their weapons, all suspicion forgotten in the face of immediate danger.

"Get everyone to safety," Theodore commanded, taking charge. "Secure all entrances."

As chaos erupted around us, Gideon pulled me close, his eyes intense. "The cottage," he whispered urgently. "The loose floorboard Alistair mentioned—there's evidence there that proves everything. Your birth certificate, photographs, documentation of the threats against our family."

"I can't leave you all here," I protested.

"You must." His hands framed my face, his touch desperate. "If anything happens to you—"

Another volley of shots interrupted him. Theodore appeared at our side, grimly determined.

"The passage behind the library bookcase," he instructed. "Take her through the tunnel to the gatehouse. Malcolm is waiting with a carriage."

Gideon nodded, already moving toward the hidden entrance I'd discovered during my explorations. As he pulled the concealed lever, he turned back to his eldest brother.

"Keep them safe," he said simply.

Theodore's hand clasped Gideon's shoulder. "Keep her safe. She's all that matters now."

The hidden door swung open, revealing a narrow passageway lit by a single oil lamp. Gideon took the lamp in one hand and my arm with the other, guiding me into the darkness. As the door closed behind us, muffling the sounds of conflict, I realized we were fleeing the very people who had come to "rescue" me—and running straight toward the truth that had been buried for twenty years.

Whether that truth would unite or destroy what remained of the Marlowe family remained to be seen. But one thing was certain: the girl who had arrived at Thornfield Manor as Isolde Winters, unwitting bride, was gone forever. In her place stood Isolde Marlowe, determined to reclaim her past—regardless of the cost.