Chapter 8 Moonlight Confessions

# Chapter 8: Moonlight Confessions

The tunnel beneath Thornfield Manor stretched into darkness, its earthen walls damp with age. Gideon led the way, the oil lamp casting our elongated shadows against the curved ceiling. Neither of us spoke, the gravity of our situation hanging heavy between us. Occasional sounds filtered from above—distant shouting, the thud of footsteps—reminders of the chaos we'd left behind.

"How much farther?" I finally asked, my voice echoing strangely in the confined space.

"Not far," Gideon replied, his tone tense. "The tunnel ends near the old gatehouse."

My mind raced with questions about the men pursuing us, about the brothers we'd left to face them, but one concern overshadowed the rest: "Will they be all right? Your brothers?"

Gideon's pace slowed momentarily. "Theodore has handled worse situations. They know how to protect themselves."

"Because of what happened twenty years ago," I surmised.

"We learned young that wealth doesn't guarantee safety," he said grimly. "After losing our parents—and you and Lydia—we made certain we'd never be vulnerable again."

The tunnel gradually widened, the packed earth giving way to stone. Finally, we reached a set of narrow steps leading to a wooden trapdoor. Gideon extinguished the lamp before pushing it open, revealing a star-filled sky. He climbed out first, then helped me emerge into what appeared to be an abandoned gardener's shed.

"Malcolm should be waiting with a carriage," he whispered, peering cautiously through a grimy window. "Stay close."

But as we slipped outside, the expected carriage was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the old gatehouse stood dark and silent against the moonlit landscape.

"Something's wrong," Gideon murmured, drawing me back into the shadows. "Malcolm is never late."

A twig snapped somewhere nearby. Gideon's arm shot out protectively in front of me as he scanned the tree line. "We can't wait here," he decided. "The cottage is closer than the gatehouse. We'll make for it directly."

We moved stealthily across the open ground, keeping to the shadows whenever possible. The cottage—where Alistair had first shown me evidence of my past—loomed ahead, its weathered stone silvered by moonlight. As we reached its door, Gideon paused, listening intently before guiding me inside.

"The floorboard is beneath the cabinet," he whispered, securing the door behind us. "Help me move it."

Together we shifted the heavy cabinet, revealing warped floorboards beneath. Gideon worked a knife blade between two planks, prying one loose to expose a shallow cavity. Inside lay a metal box, which he withdrew with reverent care.

"Everything is here," he said, relief evident in his voice. "Birth certificates, photographs, Father's journal detailing the threats—enough evidence to prove both your identity and the danger we've faced."

As he spread the documents on the dusty table, I found myself drawn to a yellowed photograph—a family portrait showing a stern-faced Edward Marlowe surrounded by his sons, a elegant woman beside him, and two small girls in matching dresses. One of those little girls was unmistakably me.

"I was really here," I whispered, touching the photograph with trembling fingers. "It wasn't just stories or dreams."

"You were the heart of this family," Gideon said softly. "When we lost you—"

A noise outside interrupted him—the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. Gideon quickly gathered the documents, stuffing them back into the metal box.

"Is there another way out?" I whispered urgently.

"The back window," he replied, tucking the box under his arm. "It leads to the cliffside path."

We had just reached the window when the cottage door burst open. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway—Malcolm, his kindly face transformed by urgency.

"Thank God I've found you," he gasped, closing the door behind him. "They've taken Theodore. The police think he's involved in kidnapping Isolde—they don't believe he's her brother."

"Did they follow you?" Gideon demanded.

"I don't think so. I came on foot through the woods." Malcolm's eyes fell on the metal box. "You found it. Good. We'll need that to clear Theodore—and to protect Isolde."

Gideon's posture relaxed slightly. "We were heading for the cliff path. Is it still safe?"

"As far as I know." Malcolm moved toward us, then stopped abruptly as Gideon tensed. "What's wrong?"

"How did you know we'd be here?" Gideon asked, his voice suddenly wary.

Malcolm blinked. "Theodore said—"

"Theodore didn't know our destination," Gideon cut in, his body shifting subtly to shield me. "We changed plans when you weren't at the gatehouse."

The atmosphere in the cottage grew thick with tension. Malcolm's expression flickered, something calculating replacing his usual warmth.

"You always were too clever for your own good, Gideon," he said quietly. "Just like your father."

My blood ran cold at his tone. This wasn't the gentle Malcolm who had brought me tea and returned my childhood thimble. This was someone else entirely—someone dangerous.

"It was you," I whispered, the terrible truth dawning. "You're working with the men who killed my parents."

Malcolm's smile held no warmth. "Such a dramatic interpretation. I prefer to think of it as protecting my investments."

"You betrayed your own family," Gideon said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "For money?"

"For what was rightfully mine!" Malcolm snapped, his mask of congeniality falling away completely. "Your father cheated me out of my share of the business, relegated me to the position of glorified bookkeeper while he gambled with funds that should have been mine."

"So you arranged his murder," Gideon concluded, his expression hardening. "And our mother's. And Lydia's."

"Lydia was... unfortunate collateral damage," Malcolm admitted without remorse. "The fire was meant to destroy evidence of Edward's dealings, not claim lives. When she went back for Isolde..." He shrugged. "Some sacrifices are necessary in business."

Each word drove into me like a physical blow. This man—this monster—had orchestrated the destruction of my family, stolen my memories, my identity, my sister. And he spoke of it as casually as discussing the weather.

"Why reveal yourself now?" Gideon asked, clearly stalling for time as he edged us closer to the window. "You've maintained your charade for twenty years."

"Because of her," Malcolm replied, nodding toward me. "As long as Isolde remained forgotten at that orphanage, the final portion of Edward's fortune—the portion held in trust for his daughters—remained unclaimed. But once you brought her home, started triggering her memories..." His eyes narrowed. "It was only a matter of time before she remembered enough to claim her inheritance."

"The photograph," I realized. "You left it at my door to accelerate the process. To force a confrontation."

"Clever girl," Malcolm smiled coldly. "I needed to assess how much you remembered before deciding how to proceed."

"And now?" Gideon's voice was dangerously calm.

Malcolm reached into his coat, withdrawing a small pistol. "Now I require that box of evidence, after which I'll be leaving the country. Edward's offshore accounts have finally been located—quite a substantial nest egg he'd hidden away."

"And us?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"History will record that the tragic Marlowe siblings died together in a second fire—this time leaving no survivors." He gestured with the pistol. "The box, Gideon. Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Time seemed to slow as Gideon's eyes met mine. In that silent exchange, I understood his plan perfectly. When he lunged forward, hurling the metal box at Malcolm, I was already diving toward the window. Glass shattered around me as I broke through, tumbling onto the ground outside.

A gunshot echoed from within the cottage, followed by the sounds of struggle. Terror gripped me as I scrambled to my feet, torn between fleeing and returning to help Gideon.

Before I could decide, the cottage door burst open. Gideon emerged, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead but otherwise intact. "Run!" he shouted, grabbing my hand as he sprinted past.

We fled along the cliff path, the roar of the ocean far below competing with the thunder of my heartbeat. Behind us, Malcolm appeared in the doorway, pistol raised.

"There's nowhere to go, children!" he called, his voice carrying on the night air. "The cliff path ends just ahead. Be sensible and return—I promise to make it quick."

He was right. The path narrowed ahead, terminating at a lookout point where generations of Marlowes had admired the sea view. There was no way forward, and Malcolm blocked our retreat.

Gideon pulled me into a small alcove formed by overhanging rocks. "Do you trust me?" he asked breathlessly, his eyes intense in the moonlight.

"Yes," I replied without hesitation, surprising myself with the truth of it.

"Then follow my lead." He squeezed my hand once before stepping back onto the path, positioning himself between me and the approaching Malcolm.

"It's over, Malcolm," he called. "Theodore will have heard the gunshot. Help will be coming."

Malcolm laughed as he advanced, pistol steady in his hand. "Theodore is in police custody, and the others are busy defending the house from imaginary assailants my associates arranged. No one is coming to save you."

As he spoke, Gideon shifted subtly, maneuvering us toward the cliff's edge. I followed his lead, understanding his strategy with growing horror.

"The evidence is scattered across the cottage floor," Gideon continued, clearly stalling. "Even if you kill us, you can't destroy it all before the authorities arrive."

"I'll take my chances," Malcolm replied coldly, closing the distance between us. "Now step away from her. Ladies first, I think. More merciful that way."

Instead of retreating, Gideon moved closer to me, his arm slipping around my waist. "There's something you should know first," he said, his voice carrying a strange note of triumph. "Something Father told me before he died."

Malcolm's curiosity got the better of him. "What?"

"He knew what you'd done—knew you'd betrayed him to his enemies." Gideon's grip on me tightened. "His last words were about you, actually."

"Impossible," Malcolm scoffed, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes. "He died in the fire before help arrived."

"No," Gideon countered. "He lived long enough to name you as his betrayer. Long enough to change his will."

Malcolm's composure cracked. "You're lying!"

"The offshore accounts you've been searching for?" Gideon continued relentlessly. "They were transferred to a new trust the day before the fire—a trust that only activates when his true murderer is identified."

"Enough!" Malcolm raised the pistol, his hand trembling with rage. "Where is this alleged will?"

Gideon's smile was cold. "With the family solicitor in London—where I've been this past fortnight, setting everything in motion. It's over, Malcolm. Even if you kill us, you'll never see a penny of that fortune."

Malcolm's face contorted with fury. "Then I'll have the satisfaction of finishing what I started twenty years ago!" He aimed the pistol directly at my heart.

In that moment, Gideon moved with startling speed. He shoved me aside and launched himself at Malcolm. The two men grappled at the edge of the cliff, the pistol discharging harmlessly into the air. I scrambled to my feet, desperately searching for a way to help.

"Run, Isolde!" Gideon shouted as he struggled to subdue the older man. "Get to the house!"

But I couldn't leave him. Instead, I grabbed a heavy branch from the ground and swung it with all my strength at Malcolm's back. He stumbled forward, momentarily losing his grip on Gideon. It was all the advantage Gideon needed. With a powerful shove, he sent Malcolm staggering backward—too close to the cliff's edge.

Time seemed to slow as Malcolm's heel met empty air. His arms windmilled desperately, his face transforming from rage to terror in an instant. Then he was falling, his scream fading as the darkness of the churning sea below swallowed him.

The sudden silence was deafening. Gideon stood at the cliff's edge, chest heaving, blood still trickling from his forehead wound. When he finally turned to me, his eyes held a storm of emotions—relief, grief, exhaustion, and something deeper that made my heart race despite the horror we'd just witnessed.

Without a word, he closed the distance between us, pulling me into an embrace so fierce it nearly crushed the breath from my lungs. I clung to him just as desperately, my body trembling with delayed shock.

"I thought I'd lost you," he murmured into my hair. "When I heard the gun—"

"I'm here," I assured him, my voice muffled against his chest. "We both are."

He drew back slightly, his hands coming up to frame my face. In the silver moonlight, with the ocean crashing far below and the stars bearing witness overhead, all the complexities of our situation seemed to fall away. In that moment, we weren't siblings separated by tragedy and reunited by deception. We were simply two people who had faced death together and emerged alive.

"Isolde," he breathed, his voice ragged with emotion. "I've loved you since I was sixteen years old. First as the sister I failed to protect, then as the woman I couldn't forget. I've fought it, denied it, tried to bury it beneath duty and honor—but I can't anymore."

"Gideon—" I began, uncertain what to say, how to feel.

"I know I have no right," he continued, his thumbs gently tracing my cheekbones. "I know the blood we share makes this impossible. But before we return to the world and all its judgment, I need you to know the truth of what's in my heart."

In his eyes, I saw twenty years of longing, of searching, of hope that had never died. And in my own heart, I felt an answering call—a recognition that transcended the boundaries of our complicated history.

"The girl you fell in love with doesn't exist anymore," I said softly. "She was lost in that fire, along with her memories."

Pain flashed across his features as he began to withdraw. I caught his hands, holding them against my face.

"But the woman I've become since returning to Thornfield," I continued, my voice strengthening, "she's falling in love with you—not as the brother from her forgotten past, but as the man who moved heaven and earth to bring her home."

For a moment, he seemed unable to comprehend my words. Then, with infinite tenderness, he lowered his lips to mine. The kiss was gentle at first, almost reverent—a question more than a demand. When I responded, sliding my hands into his hair and drawing him closer, something broke free within both of us.

Under the vast canopy of stars, with the taste of salt on the wind and the distant roar of the ocean below, we surrendered to feelings that defied convention and blood. Whatever judgment morning might bring, this night belonged to us alone—two souls who had found each other across the chasm of lost years and forgotten memories.