The word "fine" hung in the damp air of the drawing-room, heavy and final. Sandra watched as the crushing weight on her parents' shoulders visibly lifted, replaced by a frantic, almost giddy relief. The transformation was sickening.
"Thank you, Sandra!" her mother gasped, clutching her hands, the earlier guilt buried under waves of desperate gratitude. "You've saved us! Saved the family name!"
Her father clapped her awkwardly on the arm, his smile tight. "Good girl. Knew you'd see sense. Practical. Always were the practical one." He turned immediately towards the door, already shouting for their single remaining servant. "Jenkins! Fetch my coat! I must send word to Barton House immediately! Confirm the arrangements! Evelyn, find that contract!"
Sandra stood frozen in the center of the room, feeling like a ghost already. The frantic energy swirling around her parents was a whirlwind she stood outside of. Their relief was palpable, a stark contrast to the icy numbness spreading through her own veins. She had just agreed to marry a man rumored to be a murderer. The reality slammed into her anew.
*Gone. All three wives. Gone.* The whispers echoed in her mind. *Isabella. Eleanor. Clara.*
"Mother," Sandra's voice cut through the sudden flurry, quiet but sharp enough to make Evelyn pause mid-step. "The wives. Paul Barton's wives. Tell me what you know. Truly know."
Evelyn Middleton's face tightened. She glanced towards the door where Arthur had disappeared, then back at Sandra. Her expression was a mixture of impatience and discomfort. "Sandra, really, now is not the time for morbid curiosity. We must prepare—"
"Now is the *only* time," Sandra insisted, her voice gaining strength. "You are sending me into that man's house. You owe me this much. Tell me."
Evelyn sighed, smoothing her skirt. "Very well. What is there to tell? Isabella Dubois was the first. French, I believe, or part-French. Married Paul Barton five years ago. Lived at Blackwood for… oh, eighteen months? Then, she was gone. A sudden illness, the Bartons announced. No body returned to her family. Very private funeral."
"No body?" Sandra pressed. "How is that possible?"
"It just *was*," Evelyn snapped, her discomfort growing. "The Bartons are powerful. They do things their own way. Then came Eleanor Vance, two years later. A quiet girl from a minor noble family, down on their luck. Much like us," she added bitterly. "She lasted barely a year. Vanished. The official story was she ran away, overwhelmed by the pressure. Again, no trace."
"And Clara?" Sandra's throat felt dry. "The third?"
"Clara Finch. Only six months ago. Lively girl, they said. Full of spirit." Evelyn's gaze flickered away. "She… died in a riding accident on the castle grounds. Very tragic. Her body *was* recovered, but the burial was swift, private. Barton family only." She forced a brittle smile. "See? Accidents. Illness. A runaway. Tragic, yes, but hardly proof of… of what the rabble whispers."
"Three young women," Sandra stated flatly. "All dead or vanished within a few years of marrying Paul Barton. All failing to produce an heir. And no one questions it? No investigations?"
"Question the Bartons?" Evelyn laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Don't be naive, Sandra. Their word is law in this city. Their wealth silences questions. Their power crushes dissent." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Listen to me. Your task is simple. Go to Blackwood. Be discreet. Be dutiful. Give him an heir. Secure our family's future. Forget the gossip. Focus on survival. Your survival, and ours."
The dismissal was clear. Her mother saw the wives only as unfortunate footnotes, obstacles overcome in the relentless pursuit of Barton wealth and security. Their fates were inconvenient, perhaps, but ultimately irrelevant to the transaction at hand. Sandra felt a fresh wave of isolation.
As her mother hurried off to find the contract, Sandra remained rooted. The numbness began to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp fear and a burning need to know *something*, *anything* concrete. Waiting passively for her fate at Blackwood Castle felt like walking blindfolded towards a cliff.
Driven by a desperate urge for knowledge, Sandra slipped out of the drawing-room and headed towards her father's neglected study. Dust motes danced in the weak grey light filtering through the rain-streaked windows. The air smelled of old paper and neglect. Arthur Middleton hadn't conducted real business here in months.
Ignoring the ledgers spilling open on the desk, revealing columns of red ink, Sandra went straight to the bookshelves. She pulled down bound volumes of the city's society papers – *The Clarion*, *The Society Chronicle*. Her fingers trembled as she flipped through the brittle pages, scanning headlines and gossip columns from the past five years.
She found Isabella Dubois first. An engagement announcement: *"M. Paul Barton, sole heir to the Barton fortune, to wed Mademoiselle Isabella Dubois, daughter of the esteemed, if recently diminished, Dubois family of Lyon."* A grainy sketch showed a young woman with dark eyes and a tentative smile. A later, much smaller notice: *"Deeply regretted, the Barton family announces the passing of Mrs. Isabella Barton after a brief illness. Private services observed."* No details. No mention of Lyon. Nothing.
Eleanor Vance's announcement was similar, emphasizing her "old blood" lineage. Her disappearance warranted a slightly larger, more speculative piece: *"Mystery at Blackwood: New Mrs. Barton, Eleanor Vance, Reported Missing. Family sources suggest she may have fled the pressures of her new position."* The article hinted delicately at rumors of discord but offered no proof. Then, silence.
Clara Finch's entry was the most jarring. Her engagement portrait showed a vibrant young woman with laughing eyes. The headline screamed just months later: *"Tragedy at Blackwood: Mrs. Clara Barton Killed in Riding Accident."* The article was brief, citing a spooked horse and a fatal fall on the castle's private grounds. It mentioned the Barton family's profound grief and the private nature of the funeral.
Sandra slumped into her father's dusty chair, the heavy volume open on her lap. The official stories were flimsy, tissue-thin excuses. Illness with no body. A runaway bride leaving no trace or message. A fatal accident witnessed only by Barton staff. And the common thread, screamed not by the papers but by the city's collective whisper: *No heir.*
She traced Clara Finch's printed portrait. Lively. Full of spirit. Like Celia. A shiver ran down Sandra's spine. Had Clara also been afraid? Had she tried to run? Was that the "accident"?
A soft knock startled her. Mrs. Beecham, their elderly, long-suffering housekeeper, peered in. Her face was grim. "Miss Sandra? Your mother said you might be in here. There's… a delivery. From Barton House."
Sandra closed the heavy society journal with a thud, the faces of Isabella, Eleanor, and Clara seeming to watch her from the closed cover. "A delivery?"
"Yes, miss." Mrs. Beecham's voice was low, laced with a sympathy Sandra hadn't expected. "It's… your wedding dress."
Sandra followed the housekeeper down the dim hall to the front foyer. A large, plain wooden crate stood just inside the door, dripping rainwater onto the worn marble floor. Two stern-faced men in dark Barton livery stood beside it, impassive.
"For Miss Middleton," one stated flatly. "By order of Mr. Paul Barton." He handed Mrs. Beecham a sealed envelope.
"Thank you," Sandra murmured, her eyes fixed on the crate. It looked like a coffin.
The men gave curt nods and departed, leaving the oppressive silence of the house and the ominous crate. Mrs. Beecham handed her the envelope. The paper was thick, expensive. The seal was an intricate 'B' pressed into dark red wax.
With trembling fingers, Sandra broke the seal. Inside was a single sheet of the same heavy paper. The handwriting was strong, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth:
> *Miss Middleton,*
>
> *Preparations are concluded. Your presence is required at Blackwood Castle tomorrow at 4:00 PM. The dress enclosed is suitable. A carriage will be sent.*
>
> *P. Barton*
No greeting. No pleasantries. Just a cold command. An appointment with a monster.
Mrs. Beecham watched her, worry etching deep lines on her face. "Miss Sandra…" she began hesitantly, then lowered her voice further. "Blackwood… it's an old place. Full of shadows. They say…" She glanced nervously towards the door the Barton men had exited. "They say the young master… he's not what he seems. Be careful, child. Keep your eyes open. And…" she added, her voice barely a whisper, "some doors at Blackwood are best left unopened."
Sandra stared at the housekeeper, the warning sending fresh chills through her. She looked from Mrs. Beecham's fearful eyes back to the crate containing her wedding dress – her shroud, her costume for entering the beast's lair. The faces of the vanished wives swam before her: Isabella, Eleanor, Clara.
Tomorrow at four. The command echoed in the silent foyer. The research hadn't banished the fear; it had given it shape, names, and faces. She was walking into a gilded cage with a bloody history. Her only armor was the grim resolve hardening within her. She would go. She would survive. She would keep her eyes open. And she would find out what truly happened behind the towering walls of Blackwood Castle. The echo of the vanished would be her guide.