Part One – Leave the past in the past
Chapter 1
Baltimore, Maryland - November 1873
The frigid wind whistled through the weathered windowpanes of the Laurent manor, sending a shiver down Gabrielle's spine and scattering a cascade of bills across the marble floor. Frustration etched lines on her brow as she lunged for a receipt threatening to escape under the heavy mahogany desk. This was the fifth time that hour her younger sister, Violette, had flung open the heavy oak door, letting in more of the howling winter storm.
Since their court-appointed guardian had been dismissed for embezzling a significant portion of their inheritance, the weight of managing the Laurent estate had settled squarely on Gabrielle's nineteen-year-old shoulders. Bills piled high like a miniature snowdrift on her desk, a testament to years of neglect and mismanagement. An accountant had been secured, but first Gabrielle had to decipher the cryptic scribbles of her stepfather.
Her rhythmic tapping on the desk ceased abruptly as Violette flopped dramatically onto the velvet settee, letting out a theatrical sigh that echoed through the parlor. Gabrielle knew the yearning in her sister's eyes: a yearning for escape, for the bustling life of the town beyond the snow-covered fields.
"Perhaps a book?" Gabrielle offered, gathering the scattered papers and tucking them into the worn leather ledger.
"When will this snow ever stop?" Violette rolled her eyes, a movement as familiar as the creak of the old floorboards.
"Winter has barely started." Gabrielle snickered.
"This boredom is suffocating!" Violette exclaimed, her voice laced with teenage angst.
"There's needlework, the piano..." Gabrielle offered, her brow furrowing slightly as a dull throb pulsed in her temples. "You haven't touched the piano for a fortnight."
A pout formed on Violette's lips, a pout that despite its childishness, tugged at Gabrielle's heartstrings. "I just want some fresh air," Violette mumbled, slumping closer to Gabrielle, seeking solace in the warmth of her sister's presence.
Just then, the heavy oak door creaked open once more, revealing Natalia, the Laurents' housekeeper. Her face, creased with age and etched with concern, held a silent question.
"Yes, Natalia?" Gabrielle inquired, her voice laced with a weary gratitude.
"Miss Gabrielle," Natalia began, her voice a low murmur, "I have gathered all of Mr. Turner's belongings in the hallway, as you requested."
"Thank you, Natalia," she replied.
Violette perked up at the mention of her father. "What are you doing with all of Father's things?"
"I thought we could go through them," she said softly. "Perhaps choose some keepsakes, a reminder of him."
"Truth is, I didn't know him well." Violette's gaze clouded with sadness.
"Neither did I." Gabrielle wasn't close to her stepfather, but he was the only father she knew.
A flicker of understanding sparked in Violette's eyes. "Father's pipe," she announced, reaching into a dusty cardboard box at the top of the pile.
Gabrielle's breath hitched as her gaze landed on a solitary brown leather book nestled amongst the clutter. Why wasn't this with the rest of the books in the library? Curiosity piqued, she reached out and gingerly picked it up. The worn leather felt cool and smooth in her hands, the inscription on the cover barely discernible – "M. Turner."
Violette, drawn by Gabrielle's sudden stillness, approached and peered into the box. "This still smells like him," she whispered, picking up a heavy cloak and burying her face in its folds, inhaling the lingering scent
Mitchell Turner, her father, a man shrouded in liquor and solidarity, might have left behind a record of his life, a glimpse into the man she barely knew. Violette's fingers trembled as she flipped through the aged pages, the scent of leather and something faintly floral filling her senses.
She flipped through the pages rapidly, her heart pounding with a mixture of hope and trepidation. "This looks like my father's journal," she announced, her voice hushed with awe.