The rusted plow blade snagged on something buried in the earth, jerking Eliza forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the weathered wooden handles before she could fall face-first into the freshly turned soil. Wiping the sweat from her brow with a dirty sleeve, she peered down at the furrow.
A glint of gold caught her eye.
Eliza crouched down, her calloused fingers brushing away clumps of dark earth to reveal an ornate locket. Its delicate filigree was tarnished with age, but still beautiful. She pried it open, revealing a faded daguerreotype of a striking young woman with eyes that seemed hauntingly familiar.
A chill ran down Eliza’s spine despite the summer heat. She’d worked these fields for years, but never found anything like this. As she turned the locket over in her palm, questions bubbled up unbidden. Who did it belong to? How long had it been buried here? And why did the woman’s eyes remind her so much of her own reflection?
The distant tolling of the village church bells snapped Eliza from her reverie. Hastily, she slipped the locket into her apron pocket and grasped the plow handles once more. There was still work to be done before sundown, and Mrs. Hartley would be expecting her home for supper.
As Eliza guided the plow down another row, her mind wandered. She’d lived with Mrs. Hartley for as long as she could remember, ever since she was a babe left on the midwife’s doorstep. The old woman had raised her as her own, teaching her herb lore and midwifery alongside reading and figures. But there had always been an ache, a hollow place inside her that longed to know where she truly came from.
The locket weighed heavy in her pocket, a tangible reminder of that lifelong question.
When the sun finally dipped below the treeline, Eliza unhitched the plow horse and led him back to the barn. As she groomed the gentle giant, her fingers kept straying to the pocket where the locket lay hidden. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear the barn door creak open behind her.
“You’re out rather late, Miss Thorne.”
Eliza whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat. Thomas Blackwood stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the dying light. She’d seen him from afar, of course—everyone in the village knew of the reclusive master of Blackwood Manor—but she’d never been this close to him before.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she stammered, dropping into a hasty curtsy. “I didn’t realize—that is, I was just finishing up for the day.”
He stepped further into the barn, and Eliza found herself backing up until she bumped into the stall door. There was something unsettling about his gaze, too piercing, too knowing.
“No need for formality,” he said, his voice low and smooth as honey. “I was merely taking an evening constitutional and heard you in here. I thought I’d ensure all was well.”
Eliza nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Up close, she could see that Thomas Blackwood was a handsome man, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of storm clouds. But there was a hardness to his features, a hint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
His gaze swept over her, lingering for a moment on the pocket where the locket was hidden. Eliza’s hand instinctively moved to cover it.
“Well then,” he said, a strange smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll leave you to your work. Good evening, Miss Thorne.”
He turned and strode out of the barn, his footsteps fading into the twilight. Eliza let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She finished tending to the horse in a daze, her mind reeling from the encounter.
By the time she made it back to Mrs. Hartley’s cottage, full dark had fallen. She slipped inside, hanging her apron on its peg by the door.
“There you are, child,” Mrs. Hartley called from her rocking chair by the fire. “I was beginning to worry. Come, sit and have some stew while it’s still warm.”
Eliza ladled herself a bowl and settled into her usual spot at Mrs. Hartley’s feet. The old woman’s gnarled hands worked steadily at her knitting as Eliza ate, filling the comfortable silence with the click of needles.
“How were the fields today?” Mrs. Hartley asked, her eyes never leaving her work.
Eliza swallowed a mouthful of stew. “Fine,” she said. “Though I… found something strange while plowing.”
Mrs. Hartley’s needles stilled. “Oh?”
Eliza reached into her pocket and withdrew the locket, holding it out. “This was buried in Farmer Greene’s south field. I’ve never seen anything like it there before.”
The color drained from Mrs. Hartley’s face as her rheumy eyes fixed on the locket. Her hand trembled as she reached out to take it.
“Where did you say you found this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The south field,” Eliza repeated. “Mrs. Hartley, what’s wrong? Do you know something about it?”
The old woman’s fingers traced the intricate design on the locket’s surface. “I haven’t seen this in nearly twenty years,” she murmured. “Not since the night—” She broke off, shaking her head. “No, it’s best not to speak of such things.”
Eliza leaned forward, her heart pounding. “Please, Mrs. Hartley. If you know something about where I came from, I deserve to know.”
Mrs. Hartley met her gaze, conflict clear in her rheumy eyes. After a long moment, she sighed. “You’re right, child. You do deserve to know. But the truth… it may not bring you the peace you seek.”
She settled back in her chair, the locket cradled in her lap. “It was a night much like this one, nearly twenty years ago. A storm was brewing, and I’d just settled in for the evening when I heard a pounding at my door…”
As Mrs. Hartley’s tale unfolded, Eliza listened with rapt attention. The old midwife spoke of a terrified young woman, heavy with child, seeking shelter from both the storm and something far more sinister. She’d given birth that very night, pressing the locket into Mrs. Hartley’s hands before fleeing into the darkness, leaving her newborn daughter behind.
“That babe was you, Eliza,” Mrs. Hartley finished, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve raised you as my own all these years, but I’ve always known the day might come when your past would catch up to us.”
Eliza sat in stunned silence, her mind reeling. After so many years of wondering, to finally have a piece of her history in her hands… it was overwhelming. But it also left her with even more questions.
“Who was she?” Eliza asked. “My mother? And why was she so afraid?”
Mrs. Hartley shook her head. “I never learned her name. She was clearly gentry, though—her clothes were fine, despite being soaked through. As for what she feared…” The old woman’s gaze grew distant. “She kept muttering about a curse, and a man who would stop at nothing to claim what was his.”
A chill ran down Eliza’s spine. “What man?”
Before Mrs. Hartley could answer, a fit of coughing overtook her. She doubled over, her thin frame wracked with spasms. Eliza leapt to her feet, steadying the old woman and pressing a handkerchief to her mouth.
When the fit finally passed, Mrs. Hartley sagged back in her chair, exhausted. A faint streak of red stained the handkerchief.
“Mrs. Hartley!” Eliza cried, her heart clenching with fear. “You’re ill—why didn’t you say anything?”
The old woman waved off her concern. “It’s nothing, child. Just a trifling cold.”
But Eliza could see the truth written in the lines of Mrs. Hartley’s face, in the labored rise and fall of her chest. This was no mere cold.
“I’m fetching the doctor,” Eliza said firmly, rising to her feet.
Mrs. Hartley caught her wrist. “No need to trouble Dr. Simmons at this hour. I’ll be fine with a good night’s rest.” She pressed the locket back into Eliza’s hand. “This belongs to you now, child. Keep it safe, and keep it hidden. There are those who would do anything to possess it.”
Eliza wanted to protest, to insist on summoning help, but the steel in Mrs. Hartley’s gaze brooked no argument. With a heavy heart, she helped the old woman to bed before retiring to her own small room in the attic.
Sleep eluded her that night. Eliza tossed and turned, her mind awhirl with all she’d learned. She clutched the locket to her chest, staring at the faded portrait within until she’d memorized every line of the mysterious woman’s face.
Her mother. After all these years, she finally had a face to put to the nebulous figure that had haunted her dreams.
As the first pale light of dawn crept through her window, Eliza made a decision. She would uncover the truth of her past, no matter the cost. The locket was the key—she was sure of it. But where to begin?
The answer came to her unbidden: Thomas Blackwood. The way he’d looked at her in the barn, that knowing glint in his eye… he must know something. His family had lived in the area for generations. If anyone could shed light on the mystery of her birth, it would be him.
Decision made, Eliza dressed quickly and crept downstairs. She left a note for Mrs. Hartley, not wanting to wake the ailing woman, and slipped out into the misty morning.
The walk to Blackwood Manor took the better part of an hour. As Eliza approached the imposing gates, her courage nearly failed her. The grand house loomed before her, all weathered stone and twisting ivy. It looked more like a fortress than a home.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the gate and made her way up the overgrown drive. Before she could even raise her hand to knock, the heavy oak door swung open.
Thomas Blackwood stood in the doorway, looking unsurprised to see her. “Miss Thorne,” he said, his voice as smooth and dark as coffee. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Eliza’s heart leapt into her throat. “You have?”
He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. “Please, come in. We have much to discuss.”
Every instinct screamed at Eliza to turn and run, but she steeled herself and crossed the threshold. The foyer was dim, lit only by guttering candles that cast strange shadows on the walls. Thomas led her through a maze of corridors to a study lined with leather-bound books.
“I imagine you have questions,” he said, settling into a high-backed chair. “About your mother. About the locket.”
Eliza’s hand flew to her pocket where the locket lay hidden. “How did you—”
“I’ve known who you are since the moment you were born, Eliza,” Thomas interrupted. “I’ve watched over you all these years, waiting for the day you would discover the truth of your heritage.”
“My heritage?” Eliza echoed, her mind reeling. “What do you mean? Who was my mother?”
Thomas’s storm-grey eyes bored into her. “Your mother was my sister, Evangeline. And you, my dear, are the last living heir to the Blackwood legacy.”
The room seemed to tilt around Eliza. She gripped the back of a nearby chair to steady herself. “That’s… that’s impossible. Mrs. Hartley said my mother was running from someone, that there was a curse—”
“Ah, yes. The curse.” Thomas’s lip curled in a sneer. “A fanciful tale concocted by a frightened girl. Your mother always did have an overactive imagination.”
He rose, crossing to a cabinet and withdrawing a crystal decanter. As he poured himself a measure of amber liquid, he continued. “The truth, Eliza, is far simpler. Your mother was young and foolish. She fell in with… unsavory company. When she found herself with child, she fled rather than face the consequences of her actions.”
Eliza’s mind whirled, trying to reconcile this new information with what Mrs. Hartley had told her. “But why would she abandon me? Why not come back once the danger had passed?”
Thomas took a long sip of his drink before answering. “Evangeline was many things, but maternal was not one of them. She saw you as a complication, an impediment to the life she wanted to lead. So she left you with the midwife and disappeared.”
His words struck Eliza like a physical blow. All her life, she’d imagined her mother as some tragic figure, forced to give her up by dire circumstances. To learn that she’d been discarded so callously… it was almost too much to bear.
“You’re lying,” she whispered, though a part of her feared it might be true.
Thomas’s expression softened. He set down his glass and approached her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I know this must be difficult to hear. But you deserve the truth, Eliza. You deserve to know your real family.”
She jerked away from his touch. “Mrs. Hartley is my family. She raised me, cared for me—”
“Out of obligation,” Thomas cut in. “Because that’s what good Christian women do. But blood, Eliza… blood is thicker than water. You belong here, with me. Your true family.”
Eliza’s head spun. It was too much, too fast. She needed time to think, to process everything she’d learned. “I… I have to go,” she stammered, backing towards the door. “Mrs. Hartley is ill, I shouldn’t have left her alone.”
Thomas’s face darkened. “You can’t run from this, Eliza. Sooner or later, you’ll have to accept who you truly are.”
She fled the study, her footsteps echoing through the cavernous halls of Blackwood Manor. Only when she was back on the road, the imposing gates shrinking behind her, did Eliza allow herself to breathe.
What was she to believe? Mrs. Hartley’s tale of curses and danger, or Thomas Blackwood’s cold recitation of abandonment? Neither sat right with her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the truth lay somewhere in between.
Lost in thought, Eliza didn’t notice the gathering storm clouds until the first fat drops of rain began to fall. She quickened her pace, eager to get back to the safety and comfort of Mrs. Hartley’s cottage.
But as she rounded the final bend in the road, her heart seized in her chest. Dr. Simmons’ carriage was parked outside the cottage, and a small crowd had gathered near the door.
Eliza broke into a run, her sodden skirts tangling around her legs. She pushed through the throng of concerned neighbors, bursting into the cottage’s dim interior.
“Mrs. Hartley!” she cried, rushing to the old woman’s bedside. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left—”
But Mrs. Hartley’s rheumy eyes were closed, her wizened face peaceful in repose. Dr. Simmons stood nearby, shaking his head sadly.
“I’m sorry, Eliza,” he said gently. “She passed just a few minutes ago. There was nothing to be done.”
Eliza collapsed to her knees, grief washing over her in a tidal wave. She clutched Mrs. Hartley’s still-warm hand, pressing it to her cheek as sobs wracked her body.
How could she be gone? The woman who had raised her, loved her, been the only mother she’d ever known…
In that moment, Eliza felt truly alone for the first time in her life.
The next few days passed in a blur of tears and condolences. The entire village turned out for Mrs. Hartley’s funeral, a testament to how beloved the old midwife had been. Eliza stood dry-eyed by the graveside, feeling hollow and numb.
As the last of the mourners drifted away, she felt a presence at her elbow. Thomas Blackwood stood there, resplendent in black silk and silver brocade.
“My deepest condolences,” he murmured. “Mrs. Hartley was a pillar of the community. She will be sorely missed.”
Eliza said nothing, her fingers worrying the locket hidden in her pocket.
“I know this must be a difficult time for you,” Thomas continued. “Please know that you have a home at Blackwood Manor, should you wish it. You needn’t be alone.”
She turned to face him, studying the planes of his face. He did look like her, she realized with a start. The same high cheekbones, the same storm-grey eyes. Was he truly her uncle? The only family she had left in the world?
But then she thought of Mrs. Hartley’s warnings, of the fear in her eyes when she spoke of curses and danger. Of the mother who had fled into the night, leaving her newborn child behind.
“Thank you for your kind offer,” Eliza said at last. “But I think… I think I need some time. To grieve, to sort through Mrs. Hartley’s affairs.”
A flash of something—disappointment? Anger?—crossed Thomas’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Take all the time you need. But remember, Eliza… you can’t run from who you are forever.”
With that, he turned and strode away, leaving Eliza alone by the fresh-turned earth of Mrs. Hartley’s grave.
She sank to her knees, pressing her palm to the damp soil. “What do I do?” she whispered. “How can I know what’s true?”
But the only answer was the soft susurration of wind through the grass, carrying with it the faintest whisper of her name.
Eliza…
She looked up, startled, but there was no one there. Just the endless expanse of sky above and the rolling fields beyond the churchyard wall.
The whispering fields, Mrs. Hartley had called them. Said they held secrets, if only one knew how to listen.
Eliza closed her eyes, letting the soft sounds wash over her. And there, just at the edge of hearing, she could have sworn she heard a woman’s voice.
Find the truth…
Her eyes snapped open. The voice was gone, but a sense of purpose filled her. She would uncover the truth of her past, no matter where it led her. For Mrs. Hartley’s sake, and for her own.
Rising to her feet, Eliza squared her shoulders and set off down the path. She had work to do.
The cottage felt empty without Mrs. Hartley’s presence, the silence oppressive after so many years of shared laughter and gentle bickering. Eliza moved through the rooms like a ghost, gathering the old woman’s meager possessions.
Most would be donated to the church, but Eliza set aside a few treasured items for herself—Mrs. Hartley’s favorite shawl, her well-worn Bible, the wooden box where she’d kept her most precious herbs and tinctures.
It was as she was going through Mrs. Hartley’s desk that Eliza found it—a letter, yellowed with age, tucked away in a hidden compartment. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the delicate paper.
My dearest friend, it began. If you are reading this, then I am gone, and the burden of truth falls to you. I had hoped to spare Eliza this knowledge, to let her live in blissful ignorance of the darkness that surrounds her birth. But I fear that is no longer possible.
The curse is real. The danger, more present than ever. Thomas Blackwood is not to be trusted—he will stop at nothing to claim what he believes is rightfully his.
Eliza, if you are reading this, know that your mother loved you more than life itself. She gave you up to keep you safe, hidden from those who would use you for their own nefarious purposes.
The locket is the key. Within it lies the truth of your heritage, and the power to break the curse once and for all. But be warned—this knowledge comes at a terrible price.
Trust no one. The whispering fields will guide you, if you know how to listen.
All my love, Adelaide Hartley
Eliza sat back, her mind reeling. So Mrs. Hartley had known the truth all along. Had kept it from her, even on her deathbed.
But why? What was this curse? And how could a simple locket hold the key to breaking it?
She withdrew the locket from her pocket, studying it with new eyes. The intricate filigree seemed to shift and change as she turned it, revealing hidden patterns she hadn’t noticed before.
There must be some kind of mechanism, she thought. Some way to open it beyond the simple clasp.
For hours, Eliza pored over the locket, searching for any hint of a secret compartment. But it stubbornly refused to yield its secrets.
Frustrated, she set it aside and turned her attention back to Mrs. Hartley’s letter. Trust no one, it said. The whispering fields will guide you.
Eliza’s gaze drifted to the window, where the first stars were beginning to appear in the twilight sky. The fields beyond beckoned, dark and mysterious.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Eliza grabbed a lantern and headed out into the gathering darkness. The night air was cool on her skin, carrying with it the scent of ripening wheat and distant rain.
She made her way to the south field where she’d found the locket, feeling somewhat foolish. What did she expect to find out here in the dark?
But as she stood there, surrounded by gently waving stalks of grain, she felt… something. A presence, just at the edge of perception.
“Hello?” she called softly. “Is anyone there?”
The wind picked up, rustling through the field. And there, carried on the breeze, she heard it again—her name, whispered as if from a great distance.
Eliza…
Heart pounding, she turned in a slow circle, searching for the source of the voice. “Who’s there? What do you want?”
Find the truth… break the curse…
“How?” Eliza cried, frustration and fear warring within her. “I don’t understand!”
But the voice was fading, growing fainter with each passing moment. As Eliza strained to hear, her foot caught on something hidden in the tall grass. She stumbled, the lantern flying from her grasp to shatter on the ground.
Darkness engulfed her. Eliza dropped to her knees, feeling blindly for whatever had tripped her. Her fingers brushed cool stone, and she gasped.
It was a grave marker, weathered and half-buried in the earth.
Evangeline Blackwood, it read. Beloved sister, taken too soon.
1835-1855
Eliza sat back on her heels, shock coursing through her. This was her mother’s grave. Hidden away in this forgotten corner of Farmer Greene’s field, far from the family plot where generations of Blackwoods lay.
Why would Thomas have buried his sister here, unmarked and unmourned?
Unless…
A chill ran down Eliza’s spine as the pieces began to fall into place. Mrs. Hartley’s warnings, the mysterious curse, Thomas’s insistence that Evangeline had abandoned her child…
It was all a lie.
The sound of approaching footsteps snapped Eliza from her reverie. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding as a familiar figure emerged from the darkness.
“I had so hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Thomas Blackwood said, his voice heavy with regret. “I’ve tried to protect you, Eliza. To keep you from the truth. But it seems the past will not stay buried.”
Eliza backed away, her hand clutching the locket like a talisman. “What did you do to her? To my mother?”
Thomas’s face twisted with a mixture of grief and rage. “I loved her,” he snarled. “More than a brother should. But she spurned me, chose another. So I took what was rightfully mine.”
Horror washed over Eliza as the full import of his words sank in. “You killed her,” she whispered. “Your own sister.”
“I gave her a chance,” Thomas said, advancing on her. “To be with me, to rule by my side. But she was weak, blinded by foolish notions of right and wrong.” His eyes gleamed with a feverish light. “But you, Eliza… you’re strong. You have her fire, her power. Together, we could be unstoppable.”
Eliza’s back hit the rough bark of an old oak tree. She was trapped, with nowhere left to run.
“Never,” she spat. “I’ll die before I join you.”
A cruel smile curved Thomas’s lips. “So be it.”
He lunged for her, hands outstretched. Eliza ducked, feeling his fingers brush her hair as she dove to the side. She scrambled to her feet, running blindly through the darkened field.
The whispering grew louder, a cacophony of voices carried on the wind. Find the truth… break the curse…
“How?” Eliza cried, tears streaming down her face. “Tell me how!”
As if in answer, the locket grew warm against her palm. She looked down to see it glowing with an otherworldly light, illuminating a previously hidden seam along its edge.
With trembling fingers, Eliza pried it open. Inside lay not a portrait, but a small key of tarnished silver.
“Give me the locket, Eliza,” Thomas called, his voice growing closer. “It’s the only way to end this.”
But Eliza knew now that he was lying. Whatever power the locket held, it wasn’t meant for him.
Taking a deep breath, she fitted the key into the lock and turned it.
The world exploded into light and sound. Eliza felt herself falling, tumbling through time and space. Visions flashed before her eyes—her mother, heavily pregnant and terrified, fleeing into the night. Mrs. Hartley, cradling a newborn babe. Thomas, standing over Evangeline’s broken body, mad triumph in his eyes.
And through it all, a woman’s voice—her mother’s voice—whispering words of love and protection.
When the maelstrom finally subsided, Eliza found herself back in the field. But everything had changed. The air hummed with energy, and she could see gossamer threads of light connecting everything around her.
Thomas stood frozen, his face a mask of fury and fear. “What have you done?” he hissed.
Eliza rose to her feet, feeling power thrumming through her veins. “I’ve broken the curse,” she said. “I’ve set things right.”
As she spoke, the threads of light began to tighten around Thomas. He struggled against their grip, but it was useless.
“No!” he howled. “It was supposed to be mine! The power, the legacy—all of it!”
But his words were lost to the wind as the light engulfed him. When it faded, Thomas Blackwood was gone, leaving nothing behind but a scorch mark on the earth.
Eliza sank to her knees, exhaustion washing over her. It was over. The truth was known, the curse broken.
As the first rays of dawn began to paint the sky, she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She looked up to see a shimmering figure standing before her—a woman with eyes so like her own.
“Mother?” Eliza whispered.
Evangeline smiled, her ethereal form flickering in the growing light. “My brave girl,” she said, her voice carried on the wind. “You’ve done what I could not. The curse is broken, the legacy reclaimed.”
Tears spilled down Eliza’s cheeks. “I don’t understand. What does it all mean?”
“It means you’re free,” Evangeline said. “Free to choose your own path, unburdened by the sins of the past.” She began to fade, her form growing translucent. “Live well, my daughter. And know that I have always loved you.”
With that, she was gone, leaving Eliza alone in the whispering fields. But she didn’t feel alone, not really. She could feel the presence of those who had come before her, their strength and love flowing through the earth beneath her feet.
Eliza stood, brushing the dirt from her skirts. The locket hung cool and quiescent around her neck, its power spent. But she knew now that the real power had been inside her all along.
As she made her way back to the cottage, Eliza’s heart felt lighter than it had in years. The truth of her past no longer weighed her down. Instead, it buoyed her up, giving her the strength to face whatever the future might hold.
The whispering fields fell silent as she passed, their secrets told at last. But Eliza knew they would always be there, ready to guide those who knew how to listen.
And she, Eliza Thorne, daughter of Evangeline, raised by Adelaide Hartley, would be there to help them find their way.