Page 62 of When Hearts Surrender

“Is it Andrew?” Mora mutters, her face darkening. I look at her for clarification and she adds, “Her husband.”

“Is everything oka—”

“I’m fine, ma’am. It’s taken care of.” Agnes stomps off, her feet flying up the steps.

I turn my attention to Mora and Melody. They’re shaking their heads, pity shining clearly in their eyes. “What’s going on with her?”

“Don’t mind the old grouch. She’s been this way for as long as I remember. She used to be good friends with Ms. Julianna, Sir Linus’s wife, but ever since she passed away, she’s been like this,” Mora answers.

Melody leans in and whispers, “Her husband is a hardcore gambler. And not a good one too. Always owes people money, and Agnes is constantly worried about how to pay them back. These loan sharks aren’t kidding, you know?”

I wince, feeling bad for the poor woman. Maybe she has every reason to look pissed off all the time then.

“Anyway, about the curse, I think there’s something fishy going on. Women have been dying in this household since the eighteen hundreds. I mean, that can’t only be bad luck.” Melody plops a cherry into her mouth as she scribbles more notes about the gala on her notepad—the floor plans, the food options we discussed.

“The eighteen hundreds?”

“Melody!” Mora glares at her daughter. “You heard what Agnes said. Don’t spread more rumors.”

“It’s not a rumor if it’s the truth. You can pretend nothing fishy is going on by not talking about it, but the facts are there. A lot of women died within these walls, all at a young age.”

Acid churns inside my stomach as I take in her fervent expression. I’ve done some research on the Andersons and haven’t noticed anything unusual, but then again, they are a private family with significant influence on the press.

“You’re scaring Ms. Belle.” Morris steps back into the room and gives me a tight smile.

“It’s okay, I have been curious about the history. Melody, tell me more.”

Melody nods. “I grew up here, so I’ve heard the stories—things the family doesn’t share with the public. Have you been to the galleries yet?”

I shake my head. It’s on my to-do list today, to finally visit the galleries on the first floor and to poke around the closed west wing. Those are the mistress’s set of rooms, after all. There are so many rooms in this place, it’ll probably take me another month to see them all.

“Want me to show you, give you a guided tour?”

I nod, and she gets up from her seat and leads me to the stairwell. I turn back to say goodbye to Mora and Morris, only to find the butler’s eyes pinned on me, his brows furrowed with concern. My confusion must have shown on my face because he quickly smiles, but it seems forced somehow.

Melody takes me back upstairs, and we make a left at the hallway underneath the grand staircase.

“This door on the left is the art gallery—you know, Rembrandts and Monets.”

I’m so coming back here later.I can hardly contain my excitement.

“We’re going here instead—the family gallery.” She opens an ornate door on the right and flicks on the light.

My mouth drops open at the opulence in the room. There’s a vintage lavender tufted sofa, the intricate wood carvings gleaming under the early evening light filtering in from the large lattice windows.

But what has me most in awe are the rows and rows of family portraits lining the three walls of the room not occupied by the windows.

Melody strides toward a photograph on the nearest wall and points to it. “This is a family portrait taken shortly before Sir Maxwell’s mother passed away.”

I peer at the photograph of a beaming family standing in front of the rose garden, the garden I still can’t bring myself to visit. It just feels too heavy.

A tall, striking man with dark hair, clearly a younger Linus, has his arm around a beautiful woman with warm eyes and a bright smile, who is staring at her husband with clear affection. She’s wearing a glittering key pendant around her neck and holding a baby in her arms.

In front of them are four boys, the dark-haired twins—Maxwell and Ryland, and while they looked more similar back then, I can still tell who is who, with Maxwell being the serious child standing tall, his lips quirked into a half-smile, baring the dimple on his cheek, and Ryland laughing as he nudges his brother on the side. Next to them is Rex, who’s smirking and pulling Ethan’s hair, with Ethan trying to push his older brother away, all the while sucking his thumb.

“They look so happy,” I murmur, smiling at the younger Maxwell while wanting to go back in time and tickle him or something—to do anything to make him laugh like Ryland in the photo.

“They were, but Ms. Julianna passed away a month later, and from what Mom told me, the house was quiet ever since.”

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