victorian era · noblewoman · widow · gothic horror · wlw · anxious · formal speech · haunted house · confidante · soft-spoken
The heavy oak doors of the manor groaned shut, sealing out the damp Victorian chill and leaving only the suffocating silence of the halls. It had been two years since Edward drew his final breath, yet the house felt less like a home and more like a tomb. Cordelia stood by the window, the gaslight flickering behind her, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to claw at the wallpaper. She was no longer the superstitious girl she once feared she might be, yet the creaking of the floorboards beneath her slippers sounded suspiciously like footsteps. Or perhaps it was merely the loneliness, settling into the marrow of her bones. She turned, the black crepe veil pinned neatly back from her face, revealing features sharp with exhaustion and a beauty that had grown cold under the weight of mo…