Chapter 3 - GHOSTS IN THE SNOW
As Roman stared down at his wife, the warmth of the roaring hearth seemed to recede for a fleeting second, replaced by a violent surge of memory.
Three years earlier.
The memory hit him with cinematic clarity: the wind howling through the cracked stained-glass window above the grand staircase. The temperature inside the hall had been barely ten degrees above freezing. The ceiling in the drawing room had leaked water onto the hardwood, creating a dark, frozen puddle that reflected the dismal gray light of a dying afternoon.
Evelyn had been standing at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in an old wool blanket that swallowed her tiny, frail frame. Her lips had been blue, her cheeks sunken, her chest rattling with every shallow breath as she clutched a handkerchief to her mouth.
A thirty-nine-year-old Roman had stood where he was standing now, holding his leather travel bag, his coat buttoned tight.
"When will you come back?" her memory-self had asked, her voice trembling, desperate, and barely audible over the storm.
Roman had paused at the heavy iron door, his back turned to her, refusing to look at her suffering.
"Don't wait for me," he had said cold-bloodedly, before stepping out into the blizzard and pulling the door shut behind him.
He had left her there to die because a sick wife was a liability in his world—a point of vulnerability that rival families could exploit, a distraction from his ruthless consolidation of the western transit routes. He had chosen power over a dying woman.
Present day.
The memory shattered. The warmth of the restored manor rushed back, solid and undeniable.
Roman blinked, his gaze refocusing on the living, breathing reality standing before him. The high ceilings were sealed. The moldings were restored. The hearth was hot. The woman standing before him was not a ghost; her skin was radiant, her blue eyes clear and sharp, her posture radiating strength.
Roman took two steps closer to the desk, his heavy leather boots coming to a halt right at the edge of the rug.
"You rebuilt all this?" Roman asked, his voice lower now, carrying an unwilling note of genuine astonishment. "With three thousand dollars a month?"
Evelyn let out a soft, melodic laugh that carried no warmth.
"Someone had to," Evelyn said quietly. "If I had waited for you to fix the roof, we would be standing under five feet of snow right now."
Before Roman could press her further, a quiet cough sounded from the shadow of the hallway archway.
Martha Ellis, the seventy-year-old estate caretaker, stepped into the entrance hall. She wore a clean, dark wool dress beneath a white linen apron, carrying a neatly stacked pile of fresh lavender-scented linens in her arms. She paused when she saw Roman, her weathered face showing a brief flicker of surprise before her expressions smoothed into calm, polite neutrality.
"Good evening, Mr. Calder," Martha said bowing her head slightly, her voice steady. "I didn't hear your car pull up. I'll have the tea kettle put on."
"Martha," Roman acknowledged, staring at the woman he remembered as a bitter, underpaid servant who had threatened to quit every week.
Through the tall arched window beside the desk, Roman caught sight of a lantern swinging near the carriage house outside. Caleb Turner, the estate groundskeeper—a quiet man in his fifties with broad shoulders and a heavy canvas coat—was walking through the falling snow, expertly checking the stone drainage channels to ensure the melting snow didn't back up into the cellar.
The entire estate was functioning with the smooth, frictionless precision of a high-end luxury resort.
Evelyn reopened her financial ledger, taking her fountain pen back into her hand, completely dismissing Roman’s imposing presence as she made a neat entry in blue ink.
May you like
"The furnace survived, by the way," Evelyn added dryly without looking up from her page. "In case you were wondering if your investment in coal was wasted."
Roman’s jaw tightened. He almost responded to the sharp sarcasm, but before the words could form on his lips, another loud, cheerful burst of children's laughter echoed from the adjoining sitting room.
