Late Summer, in the Vanderbilt Manor
The day was warm. Drowsy golden light poured through the tall windows of the drawing room, catching the edges of music books and curling paper. Felicia was upstairs with the children, brushing tangles from Clara’s hair with a lullaby in her throat, while Elias insisted his toy lion was to sleep beneath the covers with him, not above.
Essie, alone downstairs, had lingered in the music room after helping sort the new pages August had sent—his handwriting still familiar, his melodies full of wistful yearning. She’d practiced one softly on the piano, not well, but enough to imagine Felicia’s fingers in place of hers. Her smile had been quiet. Private.
She didn’t hear Julian’s footsteps at first.
He didn’t make them known.
He entered like a shadow stretching beneath the door.
“Miss Spaulding,” he said smoothly.
Essie stood, slow but not nervous. She gave him a short nod. “Mr. Vanderbilt.”
They hadn’t spoken directly in some time, not since the Easter gathering where their exchange had been brief, polite. His eyes now… were not polite.
“I find it curious,” he began, crossing the room slowly, “how often you’re in this part of the house.”
Essie tilted her head, hiding the thrum that began in her chest. “Mrs. Vanderbilt allows it.”
“Does she?” he asked, pausing by the piano, fingers grazing the edge. “Or do you simply go where you please?”
Essie didn’t answer that.
Julian gave a soft chuckle—though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve always had a talent for making yourself indispensable. A child’s companion. A servant. A… comfort.”
The shift in tone was unmistakable. His gaze wandered, calculating.
Essie straightened. “If you’ve something to say, say it, sir.”
Julian stepped forward—closer than was proper. “Very well,” he said. “I don’t care for games, Miss Spaulding. I know what you are to my wife.”
A silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
Essie didn’t flinch. “Then I imagine you know she’s happier than she’s been in years.”
His jaw ticked.
For a moment, Essie thought he might retreat. That he’d scoff, or throw her out, or deliver some cold threat behind his gentleman’s smile. But he didn’t.
Instead, he reached past her to close the door.
Later That Night
Felicia couldn’t find Essie.
She wasn’t in the west corridor. Not in the music room. Not in the garden, where she often escaped to cool her thoughts after dusk. The staff said they’d seen her earlier, but not since dinner.
The lanterns had begun to burn low when Felicia finally found her—on the floor of the small servants' laundry, curled tightly in a corner like she’d been dropped there by something cruel. Her arms wrapped around her legs. Her eyes were open, but unseeing.
“Essie—” Felicia dropped to her knees beside her. “Essie, what happened?”
Essie flinched at the sound of her name. Then she turned her face, slowly, as though movement itself was painful.
She didn’t cry. Not yet.
But when Felicia reached for her, she leaned in with such trembling desperation that it was clear—something had shattered.
And Felicia, holding her, already knew.
Even before Essie whispered the words.
Even before her voice cracked.