Chapter 7 - The Maid Who Lied Like a QueenAgnes opened the cabin door with blood on her lips and a baby doll wrapped in Clara’s torn shawl.
Daniel stood outside.
Behind him were two estate men, a groom, and Lady Vivian seated stiffly on horseback like a queen arriving at an execution.
Daniel’s eyes dropped to the bundle.
For the first time since the cliff, real emotion crossed his face.
Hunger.
“That’s her?” he whispered.
Agnes held the bundle tighter. “She was born too soon.”
Vivian leaned forward. “Give the child here.”
Agnes stepped back. “You’ll bury her beside her mother?”
Daniel flinched.
Vivian did not.
“Of course.”
Agnes let out a dry laugh. “You never could sound kind, my lady. Even with practice.”
Daniel pushed past her into the cabin.
He searched the cot. The trunk. The floorboards.
The cellar hatch was covered again by the rug.
Beneath it, Clara lay in the dirt with one hand over Rose’s mouth and tears streaming silently down her face. Thomas crouched beside her, pistol ready.
Rose squirmed, but did not cry.
Above, Daniel lifted the shawl.
The doll’s painted face stared up at him.
For one second, no one breathed.
Then Agnes struck him across the face with the iron poker.
Daniel stumbled backward with a shout.
“Now!” Thomas hissed.
He shoved open a narrow side tunnel Clara had not noticed. Cold air rushed in. It led beneath the cabin wall and out toward the trees.
Clara crawled with Rose clutched against her chest.
Behind her, Daniel roared, “Where is she?”
Gunshot.
Wood splintered.
Agnes screamed—not in fear, but in rage.
Thomas pushed Clara forward through roots and mud until they emerged behind a fallen pine.
“Run,” he said.
“I can’t leave her!”
“She bought you minutes. Do not waste them.”
Clara ran.
Her body screamed with every step. Blood and river water soaked her dress. Rose pressed against her heart, silent now, as if even the newborn understood they were being hunted.
Behind them, the cabin caught fire.
Smoke curled through the trees.
Clara turned once.
Through the flames, she saw Agnes standing in the doorway with the poker in one hand, blocking Daniel like a soldier blocking an army.
Then smoke swallowed her.
Clara kept running.
By sunrise, they reached Saint Bartholomew’s Chapel, a stone building hidden among pines.
Father Matthew opened the door before Thomas could knock.
He took one look at Clara, the baby, and the blood.
Then he crossed himself.
“Elias warned me this day might come.”
Clara nearly collapsed into his arms.
Inside, the chapel smelled of wax, dust, and rain-soaked wool. Father Matthew led them to a small room behind the altar, where a widow named Mrs. Bell cleaned Clara, wrapped Rose properly, and burned the bloodied dress in the stove.
Clara slept for two hours.
When she woke, Thomas was standing at the window.
His face told her before his mouth did.
“Agnes?” Clara whispered.
He turned.
“They found the cabin burned.”
“No.”
“No body yet.”
Clara clung to those words.
No body.
No proof.
No goodbye.
Thomas approached and placed a newspaper on the bed.
It was still damp from delivery.
The headline read:
TRAGIC DEATH OF PREGNANT HEIRESS CLARA WYCLIFFE
Below it was Daniel’s portrait.
Grieving husband.
Faithful son.
New widower.
Clara stared until the letters blurred.
Then she looked down at her sleeping daughter.
Her grief went quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“They buried me too soon,” Clara said.
Thomas nodded. “Then we let them.”
May you like
Clara lifted her eyes.
“And when I come back,” she whispered, “I won’t come back as his wife.”
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