CHAPTER 8: The Hidden Clause
1178 Words
Leya leaned against the stone wall for a moment after Harrison departed, attempting to catch her breath. The air now felt colder with him gone, his scent-scented, clean-pervading still clinging around the greenhouse.
She forced the notebook into her palm, her mind spinning at what he'd stated. He doubted that she did believe him—he was good with that. She never thought that he would, though. But how that he spoke, in which he seemingly could not accomplish that which was happening, shook her to the core of herself more than she ever would concede. Harrison was ever capable, ever hard and unstoppable. And this evening, she glimpsed something—a fear or uncertainty.
She wasn't going to sit around waiting for him or anyone else to make a move, She must attempt to get something out of Samuel regarding what he had been holding back and why it mattered to him.
Slipping unnoticed out of the greenhouse, Leya crept unseen back into the mansion. She did not go through the front door and glided unnoticed through the servants' door, thankful that the majority of the servants were asleep or at least otherwise engrossed.
She bullied herself down the corridor, crawling quietly again—the slouching shape of being watched, stiff breathing the length of her back. She shook and looked over her shoulder, but there was no one in the corridor.
She pushed into a little more, into Samuel's old study—the one Harrison had taken over. The massive desk yawned ahead of her, black glow where shiny used to be. She hesitated, remembering this wasn't such a great idea, but desperation triumphed over wisdom.
Ripping drawers open, she searched through paper—contracts, deeds on houses, garbage paper. She needed more. Fuming in frustration, she tore the bottom drawer wide open and discovered. Nothing.
No, she breathed, leaning. Samuel had been wise—he would never leave his secrets to the winds. Her gaze drifted to the painting above the desk—a stern Samuel Blackwood, eyes burning even in oil.
She didn't even think, following the line of her fingers down the curve of the frame. It moved beneath her hand—just an inch. Racing in her chest, she pulled it out, and the painting opened like a door to reveal an itty wall safe within.
Leya's stomach curled up. Of course there was a safe—she had some idea in the world what the combination could be. She chewed on her bottom lip, thinking about the journal. Numbers. Dates.
Grunt, grunt, she pulled on the lock and tried the most blatant attempt—their year birthday, Zip. Construction year. No. Finally, she remembered the one year Samuel ever uttered when he did speak of times being happy—the year his first attempt had opened.
The lock snapped.
Relief flooded over her as the safe door groaned open. There, she discovered stacks of papers stacked to the ceiling and a box, hand-sized, velvet-covered. She picked up the papers first and riffled through them. Account books, some of the companies she didn't even know. Striked-through names on transactions—payment into accounts not on any roll.
And then she saw something else—a marriage contract. Her name and Harrison's, and Samuel's. But below it, another—her mother's.
There was disturbance running in her blood. Why would her mother settle for anything for her? Leya shook her hands while she went on reading. The agreement did not bind her just to Harrison—it bound her to a joining of estates, marrying Samuel's wealth with her people's name.
Her heart constricted. Samuel hadn't merely rescued them from bankruptcy—he'd bought them. Her mother would have been aware of the sale and signed for them when Samuel died.
Why hadn't she informed Leya?
There was a knock that broke daydreaming—all pounding on the study door. She stood rigid, papers clasped against her chest.
The door groaned open and Eleanor entered, candlelight dancing in her hand. Her hair was slick and wet-looking, spun silver, and her eyes tightened the moment she spotted Leya with her back to the safe.
"Oh," Eleanor smiled. "Burglarizing your husband's office? How trite."
Leya held tight, struggling to maintain her hold on the papers. "I couldn't sleep."
Eleanor glided across the room on quiet feet, her gaze blazing with venom. "You know, dear, curiosity is a bad habit—especially for someone who doesn't belong."
Leya nudged the reply to mind aside. "You sound as though you possess some information I don't."
The old woman smiled contemptuously. "That's because I do. You're not here to pry, little girl. You're here to primp yourself up into a presentable young woman and keep your mouth shut. I would very much dislike it if Harrison caught you nosing among his father's belongings. It would not be good for you."
"Maybe it is not Harrison that I fear," Leya hissed balefully, shivering with horror.
Eleanor's smile congealed, a glint of something foul in her eyes. She moved forward, candlelight casting evil shadows on her face. "If you want to live, you will forget whatever it is you think you have learned tonight. Samuel's affairs are not your affairs."
Leya stood rigid, gagging in horror. "Why did my mother sign the contract? Why was I wedded to this clan?
Eleanor's eyes grew hard and cold, and she moved in close, a breathless thing, whispering. "Because your mother knew what it took to betray Samuel. She did what she did—rescue you and your brothers from destruction. But that's not to say that you're ours. You're still a pawn in a game infinitely larger."
Leya's fingers closed over the papers. "You're as much a pawn as I am, Eleanor. Thinking you have power because you're acting the part doesn't make it so."
Eleanor's lip curled back into place, but she spoke no word. She wheeled on her heel, her eyes at Leya a scowl of contempt. "Enjoy your little revolution while you can. Harrison won't allow you to keep it long."
With that, she spun on her heel and exited the room, her scent hanging in the air like vile vapors.
Leya swallowed, glancing over her shoulder at the papers. Whatever Samuel was doing, it wasn't greed. Something else was happening—something furtive or a legacy in the wedlock contract.
And Harrison had been in on it, too.
She couldn't help but she couldn't help but catch how he'd looked at her tonight—as though he'd been caught, as though he were as frustrated as she was.
With documents safely stored within the safe, she jammed the marriage contract, concealed it down the waistband of her skirt, and covered the portrait.
As she left the study, the need gnawed at her bones. The house seemed colder than usual, each shadow extending a black hand to touch her.
She had to know. And Harrison wasn't going to tell her anything, so—
She'd get it out of him.
- Writer
