Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(104)
Elijah couldn’t have been happier for his daughter, whom he watched with a keen eye. The parties at Thorn Grove ceased entirely, replaced by time spent together in the garden. Never would Signa have guessed that father and daughter were so similar if she hadn’t seen the proof of it each morning at breakfast, both of them wearing slippers to the table and making grand declarations for why whichever flavor scone they were eating at the time was the best. One morning, Blythe had demanded that Warwick gather the cook, who laughed with rosy cheeks as she listened to Elijah and Blythe prattle on about how they simply must have lemon or rose or chocolate scones for their next tea.
So spirited were they now that it took Signa some getting used to. It was as though someone had taken a broom to Thorn Grove and was sweeping away the cobwebs and the darkness—pulling back the curtains and letting the light filter in.
There was not a day when they didn’t think of Lillian, just as there was not a day when Signa didn’t think of Percy and his fate. She kept the burden of that knowledge to herself, unwilling to shatter Blythe’s and Elijah’s hearts again when they were only just rebuilding. Both Percy and Lillian were gone from Thorn Grove and would never be back.
Life at Thorn Grove was changing for the better, but there was still one thing left that Signa had to take care of.
Marjorie had returned one afternoon. They’d searched for her to no avail, but at the news of her son’s disappearance, she’d come seeking answers. She and Elijah locked themselves away in his office, and though Signa had tried her best to eavesdrop, she was shooed away by Warwick. She waited impatiently after that, pacing the halls as Marjorie disappeared into her former bedroom. Signa lingered near it, bouncing on the balls of her feet until the door cracked open and Marjorie stood with a travel chest in her arms.
Marjorie took one look at her, and her lips tightened. “Hello, Miss Farrow.”
“Good morning, Miss Hargreaves.” Everything Signa had planned to say tumbled from her head all at once. She was left standing in an awkward silence, her hands clasped with worry in front of her. “I was hoping that I might have a word?”
Marjorie was no longer the primand-proper governess Signa once knew. She instead was a woman with dark circles beneath her eyes who likely would have given anything to escape this conversation. Signa didn’t blame her, but she was relieved when Marjorie sighed, set down her chest, and invited Signa inside. Her room was bare. She motioned for Signa to sit in a straight-backed chair with a yellow-floral stencil, then took a seat opposite her.
“I’m glad to see you’re safe,” said Signa, pulling the reluctant words from herself. “We looked for you for quite some time.”
“I’m aware.” Marjorie’s voice was cool, but Signa was relieved to find that it had no hardness. There wasn’t much affection, either, but Signa supposed she could live with that. “I came only to get news of Percy, and to gather my belongings. If you’ve got something to say, best do it quickly.”
Signa drew in a deep breath to gather her words. “I owe you an apology. I wanted to keep Blythe safe, but I didn’t have the evidence I needed before accusing you. I’m sorry.”
Marjorie accepted her apology with a nod, though nothing about her expression softened. “It’s quite all right. I admire your affection for the Hawthornes, and we both know it was not a baseless accusation.”
Signa chewed on her bottom lip. Marjorie was right—though the woman was innocent, there’d been the belladonna stain upon her fingertips.
“I found the berries right before you accused me,” Marjorie said.
Signa sensed that the final puzzle piece dangled before her. She hadn’t told anyone the truth about Percy. Instead, she told anyone who asked that she’d never found him in the garden that night, and never saw who set the garden on fire. She said Percy had fled, fearful that someone was trying to kill him and spurred on by his anger at his father’s plan to sell Grey’s. With the help of Death spending his nights at Thorn Grove, subliminally whispering the story into every sleeping ear, all in the manor came to terms with the new reality. A large portion of the staff had been culled in the hope that the reduction would remove whoever was poisoning the food, and although Signa did feel guilty about the departures, Death was keeping his eye on the staff to ensure that all landed at suitable positions.
When Blythe began to heal, Signa let Elijah believe that he’d gotten rid of the perpetrator once and for all. He’d alerted the authorities, who’d begun an investigation, but without any proof or confessions, the case had been slowly fizzling. Though he was dissatisfied with having no definite conclusion, Elijah made it clear that he cared more about spending time with Blythe than pressing the issue.
“So you knew the belladonna berries belonged to Percy?” Signa asked Marjorie, having no desire to dance around the question.
Marjorie’s red hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, and freckles dusted the skin beneath her tired eyes. She looked so much like her son in that moment that Signa’s stomach twisted.
“I never said where I found them.”
“You didn’t have to.” Signa turned away, unable to stare at their resemblance for a moment longer. “I know it was him. I’m the only one who does, and I have every intention of keeping it that way. The Hawthornes don’t need another heartbreak.”