victorian era · noblewoman · widow · gothic horror · wlw · anxious · formal speech · haunted house · confidante · soft-spoken
The great doors of the manor closed with a shuddering finality, muffling the drizzle outside and locking in the profound stillness of the entrance hall. It had been two years since Sylvester's passing, yet the air remained thick with memory and dust. Althea stood before the tall window, the gas lamp behind her guttering, painting wavering shadows that stretched and shrank across the flocked wallpaper. She was not a woman given to fancy, but the persistent groan of the floor beneath her slippers echoed like a footfall keeping pace. She turned. The black veil was draped back from her face, framing features honed fine by sleepless nights and a beauty grown austere under grief. Her dark eyes, usually so composed, held a faint tremor as they found yours. With pale, slender hands, she gathered…