f*******n LOVE

THE QUESTIONING

The next morning… Victoria was descending the grand staircase.

She wore a soft blue dress but her hair was slightly tousled from sleep, a few strands escaping their ribbon like rebellious thoughts. She carried herself with lightness this morning, the joy that hadn't been there before.

The breakfast table was already set, the dishes were filled with eggs Benedict and toasted scones beside steaming tea cups filled to the brim.

At the head of it all sat Mrs. Blackwood. Her dark eyes sharp beneath perfectly arched brows; hands folded neatly over lace gloves resting on polished wood grain beneath them…

Miss Clara stood nearby at attention near one corner wall where servants usually waited during meals…

And Mr Hemlock? He lingered silently by one doorway further down the corridor, the same place he always did when not actively needed elsewhere… But today his presence felt heavier somehow… watchful even without staring directly at anyone present here just yet...

Victoria didn't notice anything amiss right away. She greeted everyone pleasantly, "Good morning." Then took her seat across from her mother without hesitation.

No guilt flickered across her face when sitting down either... Because why would there be? What had happened yesterday wasn't wrong in her mind anyway. It was fun.

Victoria reached for the silver teapot, pouring a small amount into her cup with careful hands. The steam curled up, warm and sweet scented (jasmine), probably. She added a dollop of honey from the crystal dish beside it.

Her mother watched her silently. She was observing her. Victoria didn’t look up right away. She stirred her tea slowly, absently gazing out through the garden windows where birds flitted among rose bushes... where yesterday she'd stepped beyond all this and found wildflowers instead of perfectly pruned ones…

She took a sip. It was too hot. She winced slightly but swallowed anyway before setting it down again quietly on its saucer without making noise louder than necessary.

Then she picked up toast slice next, buttered lightly... And bit into it calmly as if nothing unusual were happening at all today. Like Victoria wasn't hiding something huge behind those calm little eyes...

Mrs Blackwood finally spoke: “Good morning,” she said first, her tone neutral “you slept well?”

Victoria nodded, her mouth still slightly full of toast. She chewed too quickly and swallowed before answering. “Yes, Mother,” she said softly. Her voice was clear and polite as always.

She reached for another piece of toast, buttering it again with careful swipes from the knife on the plate. No crumbs spilled onto the lace tablecloth beneath them… she’d been taught to eat properly since infancy.

The silence stretched a beat too long after her reply. Her mother wasn’t looking at Miss Clara or Hemlock anymore.

She was only watching Victoria now, studying her every tiny movement, how eagerly she ate (she hadn't eaten like this in weeks), how relaxed her shoulders were (no stiffness from lessons or chores weighing on them), even how naturally happy seemed without trying…

Something was different about her daughter today. A few more moments passed quietly while servants silently refilled teacups here and there around the table...

Then suddenly, Mrs Blackwood simply asked, “Victoria… What did you do yesterday afternoon?”

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water. Victoria’s fingers stilled around her toast. She paused. A microsecond too long before she lifted her eyes from her plate to meet her mother’s gaze.

Her eyes, so much like Mrs Blackwood’s but softer, younger flickered with something quick and quiet: panic.

But only for a heartbeat. Then it vanished behind that practiced calm face of hers, the one she wore during recitations or when being introduced to guests who didn’t care about children anyway...

She swallowed hard again not because she had food in her mouth this time but because suddenly her throat felt dry as dust…

She then answered. “In the garden.” In a flat, simple and neutral tone she could manage as an eight year old child trying desperately not to lie badly. But also... She was not telling the truth either.

Mrs. Blackwood didn’t react immediately. She was just… still. Her dark eyes (colder) held her daughter’s gaze for a long, quiet moment.She took another slow sip of tea and set her cup back down without making a louder noise than necessary…

Then she turned to Miss Clara. Just once. A single glance.

Miss Clara stood perfectly straight by the wall but under that look her breath hitched ever so slightly before she lowered her lashes respectfully and looked away again...

No judgment in expression…Only confirmation. She wasn't there yesterday afternoon either. Hemlock remained motionless near the doorway, his face completely blank now as if carved from stone itself…

And then Mrs Blackwood spoke again. “In which part of the garden?”

Victoria’s breath slightly hitched. The garden was huge. It stretched for acres behind the manor, with formal rose terraces, a maze of hedges, a greenhouse full of orchids, and then beyond that there's the wild part: the overgrown flower meadows where bees hummed in summer and where birds nested undisturbed...

But her mother had asked specifically. Which part? Victoria hesitated again too long this time. Her fingers curled lightly around her napkin instead of reaching for more food… Her mind raced:

"If I say by the roses…" Mom will notice because Miss Clara walks there every afternoon with fresh blooms... "If I say near the fountain..". They clean it daily…

"Maze?" Too obvious since servants prune those paths weekly...

And if she says “the back fields”? That’s practically desert land. No one goes there unless ordered to inspect fences or check sheep grazing nearby…

It was either an impossible place or one too specific to fake convincingly without proof.

Victoria’s lips parted slightly but no words came out. She looked down at her lap, where her small hands now twisted the edge of her napkin into a tight fold. The silence stretched again, thinner this time… brittle.

Her mother didn’t press. Not yet. Mrs. Blackwood simply watched as she lifted another sip of tea to hide the sharpness in her expression behind porcelain and steam…

Then she turned toward Miss Clara once more. “Was Victoria in the garden yesterday?”

The question carried weight… The kind only spoken when an answer mattered more than comfort or loyalty between staff and master... Miss Clara didn't hesitate long enough for guilt... but not so fast as to seem rehearsed either.

She bowed slightly before answering. “No, ma’am.”

The word hung in the air. No, ma’am. Simple, Direct. And Honest because Miss Clara had never lied to Mrs. Blackwood before and wouldn’t start now, not over something like this.

Victoria’s head snapped up instantly, her eyes wide with quiet horror at what just happened. Her mother knew. There was no escape route left.

Mrs Blackwood set her teacup down slowly on its saucer. Then she folded both hands together neatly on the tabletop… posture perfect as ever… And when she spoke again? Her voice hadn't risen but it had gone colder. "Victoria."

Just saying her name like that? That tone? It sent chills through the entire room despite the warmth of the morning sun pouring through the windows...

Every servant present tensed subtly even Hemlock straightened slightly where he stood by the doorway.

Victoria’s breath caught. Her mother had never said her name like that before, the kind of voice used when a rule had been broken and there was no arguing about it.

The toast on Victoria’s plate suddenly looked unimportant. The tea is too hot to drink now anyway. Even the sunlight through the windows seemed too bright like everything around her was too loud or sharp while she sat frozen at this grand table.

Mrs. Blackwood didn’t shout. She didn’t stand up dramatically and command everyone out immediately either though anyone watching could tell she wanted to. Instead, she simply gestured once with just a small lift of two fingers toward the door. “Everyone. Out.”

It wasn't raised above whisper level. But it carried absolute authority behind each syllable spoken softly like velvet wrapped around steel.

Miss Clara bowed again silently, Hemlock turned without delay, and every other servant present moved quickly from the room without making eye contact with Young Miss as they exited quietly through various doors…

Victoria couldn't lie again. Not now. Not with her mother staring at her like that calm, unyielding, seeing through everything and the room was so quiet it felt like even the grandfather clock in the hall had stopped ticking.

Her lips parted. No words came out at first. Then she swallowed hard and finally whispered. “Outside.” It was barely audible. Just a breath of sound really… not even a proper answer by itself…

But Mrs Blackwood heard it clearly enough. Her brows lifted slightly not in surprise exactly (she'd already known Victoria wasn’t telling the truth earlier), but because of how small and fragile this admission sounded coming from a daughter who usually spoke with polite confidence.

She didn’t react immediately to “outside” either. Instead, she waited for more.

Victoria's hands were slightly shaking now, but enough that her mother would notice if she looked closely. She kept her eyes down, staring at the edge of the table where sunlight reflected off polished wood. Another long silence stretched and with every passing second, it grew harder to breathe.

It wasn’t a full answer. Not even close. But what was there beyond “outside”? East Lane? The stream? Lias?

Her chest tightened. She didn't want to say his name but saying nothing was worse because then all Mrs Blackwood could assume was something bad... something dangerous...

And Victoria knew whatever came next depended entirely on how honest she chose to be in these next few seconds.

Mrs Blackwood finally leaned forward slightly like someone about to start questioning a witness in a courtroom who refuses to give details willingly.

Mrs. Blackwood’s voice, when it came again, was softer than before but not kinder. Softer like a storm that hasn’t broken yet. “Victoria.”

She said her name once more. Just once. Something far more terrifying for an eight-year-old girl who had never been in serious trouble before

Her mother didn't raise her hand or frown deeply, she simply waited, her dark eyes steady on Victoria's face for an answer that actually answered anything useful at all. And slowly, painfully. Victoria realized there was no way out of this without telling everything.

She took another shaky breath, then whispered. “I went... to play.”

A fraction of Mrs. Blackwood’s expression shifted "Play?" Victoria, her daughter, heir to the Blackwood estate, child of one of the most respected families in the region, had gone out to play?

With who? Where? How long had this been happening? Her mind raced through possibilities. The garden was secure, walled off and patrolled by staff during daytime hours. So if Victoria wasn’t there yesterday. She must’ve left estate grounds entirely.

And not just once but likely more than that if she’d said “I went” as naturally as she did...

The implications hit Mrs. Blackwood like cold water down her spine.

She leaned back slightly in her chair now and did not break eye contact for even a second.