Through Empty Rooms

Madelyn could not bear to remain in the bedroom.

The moment Thomas Whitfield's measured footsteps faded down the corridor, she found herself moving — propelled by an energy that felt disconnected from her exhausted body, driven by something beyond rational thought. The idea of standing still whilst others searched, of waiting passively whilst the household mobilised around her, was intolerable.

Her bare feet made no sound against the polished wood floors as she swept from the bedroom into the corridor, her emerald silk dressing gown billowing behind her. She clutched at its edges as though the garment might shield her from everything pressing down upon her — the letter hidden in her pocket, the weight of what she knew, the impossible position in which William's disappearance had placed her.

"William!" she called, her voice breaking on his name.

The sound emerged hoarse, damaged by the scream that still seemed to echo in her throat, and the empty corridor swallowed it without response. She called again, knowing even as she did so that there would be no answer. If William were anywhere in this house, he would have heard that terrible cry. He would have come to her.

Unless he could not come. Unless the dangerous men he had warned her about had already found him.

The gilded mirrors that lined the hallway reflected fragments of her hurried passage. She caught glimpses of herself in the succession of looking glasses — wild-haired, dishevelled, eyes wide with something that went beyond ordinary grief. She looked like a woman who had seen too much, who carried knowledge too heavy for any soul to bear.

Five days ago, she had demanded answers. And William, broken and desperate, had given them to her.

She wished to God he hadn't.

The things he had told her in his study — confessions that had poured from him like poison from a wound — had shattered everything she thought she knew about her husband, her marriage, her life. She had taken William Jr. and fled to her sister's house in Hobart Town, unable to remain under the same roof as the man William had revealed himself to be. For three days she had wrestled with impossible choices, and in the end she had returned. Not because she forgave him. She could never forgive him. But because their son needed his home, his future, and because she had nowhere else to go.

Now William was gone, and she was left holding secrets she could never speak aloud.

Trust no one, not even those who seem most loyal.

The warning pressed against her consciousness as she moved through the house. William had named names during that terrible confession — powerful men, men whose reach extended throughout the colony. If she revealed what she knew, if she spoke to the wrong person, she and William Jr. would simply disappear. Another tragic accident. Another unexplained loss.

The heavy drapes cast long shadows as she passed, and she found herself flinching from darkness that seemed suddenly animate. The house that had been her home for three years now felt hostile, its familiar corridors transformed into something treacherous.

She pushed open the door to the drawing room with such force that it rebounded against the wall. The room lay in perfect order — chairs arranged, hearth swept clean, the elegant escritoire near the window standing exactly as it always stood. A half-finished letter in William's hand lay upon the writing surface, abandoned mid-sentence.

When had he written it? Yesterday? Had he sat here composing mundane correspondence whilst already knowing that his past was catching up with him?

Madelyn turned away, unable to look at the familiar handwriting without seeing the man who had knelt before her in his study, confessing things that had made her physically ill.

She gripped the ornate banister of the main staircase, her knuckles whitening against the polished mahogany. The grandeur surrounding her — the elaborate plasterwork, the crystal chandelier, the oil paintings in their gilded frames — all of it now seemed tainted by knowledge she could not unlearn. Every fine thing in this house had been purchased with money whose origins she had never questioned. She had been so proud of what they had built together. So blind.

"Thomas!" she called, though she knew he had gone to organise the search.

Her voice echoed off the high ceilings, returning as something hollow. Distant footsteps and muffled voices drifted from other parts of the house — staff members searching, calling to one another. But those sounds seemed to belong to another world, separated from Madelyn by the chasm of what she carried.

She could tell no one. Even if she wished to explain, even if she could find words for what William had revealed, who would believe her? And those who would believe — those who already knew because they were part of it — they would ensure she never spoke again.

She found herself at the door to William's study before conscious thought had directed her there.

Her hand hesitated on the handle. This room. She could still see him kneeling on the Persian carpet, reaching for her skirts, begging for forgiveness she could not give. Could still smell the brandy, hear the way his voice had cracked as he spoke of things that should never have been spoken of at all.

The handle turned beneath her trembling fingers.

The study smelled exactly as it had that terrible day — tobacco and leather and the faint sweetness of spirits. Grey light fell in pale stripes across the mahogany desk and the towering bookshelves. Everything appeared undisturbed, as though William might return at any moment.

But the drawer — the third drawer on the right — stood slightly ajar.

Madelyn approached with hesitant steps. She knew what had been kept there: the pocket watch that had belonged to a past he never spoke of, the silver case containing his certificate of freedom. The possessions he valued most. Her fingers pulled the drawer fully open.

Empty.

He had taken them — or someone had taken them. Whether William had fled or been claimed by the dangers he feared, those precious items were gone.

The leather of his chair was cold beneath her palm. She remembered him sitting there, tumbler clutched in a trembling hand, destroying her world with every word he spoke. I did it for us, he had pleaded. For our family.

As though that could justify any of it.

Madelyn stumbled backwards into the hallway, her breathing coming quick and shallow. She descended toward the kitchen level, moving so quickly she nearly collided with Sarah Collins on the narrow service stairs.

The young maid's face went pale. "Mrs Jeffries, I—I haven't seen him. I've looked everywhere I can think, ma'am, but there's no sign—"

"Check the cellar," Madelyn ordered, her voice sharper than she intended. "Search everywhere. Leave nothing unchecked."

Sarah bobbed her head and fled, leaving Madelyn to press forward. She burst into the morning room, where the china tea set laid out for breakfast sat untouched — cups waiting to be filled, silver spoons gleaming against pristine white cloth. The careful preparations of staff who had not yet understood that nothing would ever be the same.

Empty. Every room was empty.

Her pace quickened until she was nearly running, bare feet slapping against polished floors. The doors she flung open revealed nothing but stillness: the music room with its silent piano; the library with its undisturbed shelves; the conservatory where potted ferns swayed in the draught. Each vacant space confirmed what she already knew, yet she could not stop searching.

By the time she reached the servants' quarters, her voice had failed entirely. The narrow corridors felt suffocating, low ceilings pressing down as she threw open doors to reveal sparse rooms she had never entered before.

"Where are you?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

Her legs gave way, and she sank to her knees on the cold stone floor. For a long moment she allowed herself to collapse — shoulders shaking, sobs she could not control tearing through her. The letter pressed against her thigh. The weight of everything William had told her pressed against her mind. And somewhere, the terrifying uncertainty of what had actually happened in the night pressed against her heart.

But she could not stay here. Could not surrender to grief when so much remained at stake.

William Jr. was in the nursery, innocent of everything. The household needed direction. And she — she needed to maintain the appearance of a wife who knew nothing beyond the obvious horror of her husband's disappearance. Whatever William had done, whatever he had become, protecting their son meant protecting his secrets. Even now. Even after everything.

Madelyn pushed herself upright with trembling arms. Whatever had happened — flight or capture, escape or something worse — she would have to face it standing.

The drawing room had been transformed into a stage for crisis.

The fire crackled with false cheerfulness, its warmth doing nothing to dispel the chill pervading the air. The household staff stood clustered near the centre of the room, their postures betraying anxiety no amount of training could conceal.

Madelyn watched them from her position near the mantelpiece, one hand resting on the cold marble. She had arranged her hair as best she could. The appearance of control, even if the reality eluded her entirely.

There are eyes and ears in places you would never suspect.

Which of these faces might be connected to the men William had warned her about? Thomas, with his four years of faithful service? Mrs Holloway, who had access to every corner of the manor? The maids, the footmen, the stable hands? William had spoken of networks and conspirators, of powerful men who protected their secrets at any cost. Any of these servants might be exactly what they appeared — or they might be something else entirely.

Thomas Whitfield stood slightly ahead of the others, his tall frame providing a focal point of authority. His pale grey eyes revealed nothing beyond professional concern, but Madelyn found herself watching him for any flicker of prior knowledge, any sign that he understood more than a loyal butler should.

At the edges of the group, the younger servants hovered with visible uncertainty. Jonathan Bates had been summoned from the stables, and something in his expression caught Madelyn's attention — a troubled unease that went beyond general anxiety. The young stable hand kept shifting his weight, his clear blue eyes refusing to settle on anything for more than a moment.

He knew something. Or suspected something. She could see it in every line of his body.

Near the back, Mabel Hawthorne stood with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her posture radiating the particular tension of someone desperate to remain unnoticed. Another one carrying hidden knowledge into this crisis.

Madelyn felt a grim recognition. She was not the only person in this room practising concealment.

She cleared her throat, and the assembled faces turned toward her.

"Thank you all for coming," she began, her voice steady but hoarse. "Mr Jeffries is missing. He was not in his bed this morning. His travelling clothes are gone, as are certain personal items. I have searched the house without finding any trace of him."

She paused, watching the ripple of shock pass through the staff. Widening eyes, exchanged glances, soft gasps quickly suppressed.

"I do not know what has happened." True enough. She did not know whether William had fled or been taken, whether he was alive or dead. "I do not know whether he left of his own accord or whether some circumstance compelled his departure."

The letter burned in her pocket. The secrets burned in her mind. But her face revealed nothing beyond the grief and confusion appropriate to a bewildered wife.

"We must search the grounds thoroughly — the stables, the gardens, the woods, the riverbank, every outbuilding. If Mr Jeffries is injured somewhere, if he needs help, we must find him."

Her gaze swept across the assembled faces. "Please. Find him."

Thomas stepped forward, his voice carrying quiet authority as he assigned search parties. Jonathan was dispatched to examine the stables. Sarah and Mary were sent to the gardens. Mrs Holloway was directed to organise searches of the cellars and outbuildings.

As the staff dispersed, Madelyn sank onto the chaise longue near the fire. Thomas lingered at the door.

"We will find answers, Mrs Jeffries," he said quietly. "Whatever has occurred, we will discover the truth."

The words might have been reassurance. They might have been something else entirely. Madelyn could not tell.

"Thank you, Thomas," she whispered.

The butler withdrew, and she was left alone with the crackling fire and the grey morning light. Outside, rain had begun to fall, misting the windows and blurring the grounds into watercolour impressions. Through the glass, she could see figures moving across the gardens — servants searching with determined purpose.

What would they find? Evidence of flight? Signs of struggle? Or nothing at all — just the endless, terrible uncertainty that might haunt her for the rest of her life?

Young William would be awake by now, calling for his breakfast. Soon she would need to go to him, to hold him close, to begin constructing whatever explanations a child could understand.

But for this moment, she allowed herself simply to sit, staring into flames that offered no answers, feeling the weight of secrets she could never share pressing down upon her like a stone upon her chest.

Whatever had happened to William, she would have to face it alone. The truth of what he had told her — the monstrous reality behind their carefully constructed life — could never be spoken. Not to the servants. Not to the authorities. Not to anyone.

Trust no one.

For William Jr.'s sake, she would endure. She would maintain the fiction, play the role, protect what remained of their shattered life.

Even if it meant carrying William's secrets to her grave.