The Chronicles of Van Deloney-Chapter 18: THE ENIGMA OF THE ORIGINS

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MEANWHILE, within the outskirts of the idyllic village of Hestonia, Charlotte stood amidst a vast field of bud flowers, particularly Calendulas in their budding phase, as the wind rustled through the area, stirring up a gentle breeze that was accompanied by a pristine blue sky. It has been a day since she and her entourage had arrived in the village in order to gather Calendula, including relevant intel, for a purpose that she wished to learn and keep it to herself. Charlotte's focus remained firmly on the task at hand, as she proceeded with the gathering, undeterred by the picturesque surrounding scenery.

"The Countess Dorothea being an enigma to everyone?" Charlotte muttered to herself while taking in the sights of her surroundings, with her interest suddenly piqued when a bud bloomed before her very own eyes. The phenomenon of a flower bud blooming on its own as such a thing was not common and could possibly hold a deeper meaning. Charlotte's attention was drawn to it, and the significance of the event became apparent as she continued to look further.

Charlotte, taken by the beauty of the bloom, smiled as she knelt down in the field of flowers and brought her face closer to the bloom. "What a lovely flower... I haven't sketched a flower in quite some time," she pondered aloud as she retrieved her sketchbook and a pencil from her luggage. Her actions reflected the fact that she was an avid artist and enjoyed capturing the natural beauty of the world around her through her artistic creations.

While being engrossed in her sketching session, she was suddenly interrupted by Maisie, who appeared and embraced her favorite toy. The young girl's question piqued her attention, and she set down her pencil to engage in a conversation with Maisie. "Miss Charlotte, what are you doing?" Maisie inquired. Charlotte offered a warm smile as she responded, "I am drawing this beautiful flower," as she continued to doodle on the page of her pad, paying attention to the details and intricacies of the unique bloom.

Charlotte was immersed in her artistic endeavor, creating beautiful sketches on her pad. Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her. It was Stupert who had just finished chopping logs that time. Maisie, on the other hand, approached her father, who gently lifted her up and admired the blooming Calendula. Then, he turned to look at her with a smile and said, "It seems the time has finally come."

"Is it beautiful, Maisie?" the father uttered, to which his daughter nodded in agreement. Charlotte fixed her eyes on the endless expanse of Calendulas, with some of the petals blowing away with the wind, waltzing under the sun rays as if it's springtime. But it is not, with the season's change not yet in sight.

Charlotte hesitated for a moment, her fingers idly tracing the worn edges of her sketchbook as she mulled over the words that had been spoken earlier. Something about them unsettled her, left a lingering sense of unease that she could not quite place. At last, unable to resist the pull of curiosity, she turned to the man before her.

"Mr. Huckfinne," she began, her voice steady but inquisitive, "when you spoke earlier, you warned me to be careful around the Countess. Pray, what did you mean by that?"

Stupert Huckfinne, a man of labor-hardened hands and weathered countenance, ceased his work, setting aside his axe with a dull thud against the tree stump. He exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his calloused hand before reaching for a leather-bound flask. Taking a slow draught of water, he regarded her with an expression that was neither cautionary nor entirely dismissive, but rather weighed with the burden of unspoken things.

"That woman?" he muttered, almost to himself. "She came to this place nearly thirty years ago, but no soul in these parts had ever laid eyes upon her before. Not from the House of Grimoards, nor from any noble family we knew. That alone is reason enough to tread carefully."

Charlotte tilted her head, watching him as he spoke. "But she does not seem dangerous," she countered after a moment's pause. "She was calm, almost... placid. And blind."

Stupert let out a low hum, as though considering how much he ought to say. At length, he shrugged. "Aye, she may appear harmless enough. But appearances deceive, young lady. Her arrival was steeped in mystery, and we folk do not take lightly to such things. You see, the previous Count and Countess had long set their hopes upon their son as heir to their house. Yet, out of nowhere, word reached us of his untimely passing. Soon after, the Dowager Countess—his grieving mother—took in a stranger, a woman said to have some obscure tie to their bloodline."

Charlotte's brows knitted together. "Took in?" she echoed, intrigue flickering in her eyes. "You mean to say she was from a far ties with the family"

"So it seems," Stupert replied, tapping his fingers idly against the axe handle. "And that is not all. The whispers say that when she arrived... she was with child."

Charlotte stilled, her pencil halting mid-stroke upon the page. She turned toward him fully now, her curiosity no longer a passive thing but sharpened with suspicion. "The Countess bore a child?"

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"That is what the old stories say," Stupert confirmed. "But if she did, the child was never seen."

A cool breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the distant murmur of the river. Charlotte exhaled, her mind spinning through the fragmented pieces of the tale.

"But I have never seen nor heard of any child within the House of Grimoards," she murmured. "If she had a son or daughter, where are they now?"

Stupert met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Lost, perhaps. Or never meant to be known," he said. "The tale varies depending on who speaks it, but most say she miscarried."

A hush settled between them.

Then, as though deciding that too much had already been spoken, Stupert bent once more to his work, lifting his axe with a practiced ease. The rhythmic thud of blade against wood resumed, punctuating the silence with its steady, unrelenting beat.

Charlotte, however, remained unmoving, the weight of the revelation pressing upon her mind like ink bleeding across the parchment of her unfinished sketch.

"But if I were you," Stupert continued, his voice low, deliberate, "I would keep a watchful eye upon her. Ever since she took her place as mistress of the house, a strange stillness has settled over this land—too quiet, too unnatural." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the distant outline of the Grimoard estate, its darkened silhouette standing solemnly against the waning light of the afternoon.

"There is an eerie quality to it," he went on, his fingers tightening around the handle of his axe. "The people say they seldom catch sight of her beyond the mansion's walls. And if ever she does leave, it is never on foot, never among the townsfolk. She remains cloaked within her carriage, the curtains drawn, her errands entrusted entirely to her servants." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "No Countess of old kept herself hidden."

A hush settled between them, broken only by the distant cry of a crow overhead. Charlotte listened intently, a quiet unease creeping into her thoughts. The weight of his words lingered in the cool evening air, a warning unspoken yet deeply felt.

"Anyway," Stupert muttered, shifting his weight as he readied another strike, "I have heard tell that she takes in vagrants—homeless folk, beggars with nowhere else to turn—and keeps them as her servants." He brought the axe down in one swift, practiced motion, the wood splitting cleanly beneath the force. Straightening, he exhaled, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

"That," he admitted, his tone begrudging, "is perhaps the only kindness I have seen from her." He studied the freshly hewn logs for a moment, as though contemplating his own words. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he added, "But even so, one cannot help but wonder—why such charity, and for what purpose?"

Charlotte said nothing, only watched as he raised the axe once more, the rhythmic echo of his labor filling the quiet stretch of land between them. The thought lingered in her mind, unsettling and unresolved. A noblewoman of mystery, hidden away behind the walls of the great house, with servants gathered from the shadows of the streets. It was a curious thing indeed.

"Pardon my intrusion," came a voice, smooth and composed, cutting gently through the afternoon stillness. "But I believe it would be prudent to conclude our conversation, for the hour of luncheon is upon us, My Lady."

Vladimir stood a few paces away, his posture impeccably straight, the gloved fingers of one hand slipping his pocket watch back into the folds of his waistcoat. The faint glint of polished silver caught the light before disappearing from sight. With a practiced motion, he offered Charlotte a crisp, deferential bow.

"As expected, Argentum has no doubt prepared the meal by now," he added, his tone even, his words carrying the ease of certainty.

Charlotte, who had been lost in contemplation, stirred at last from her musings. With a measured sigh, she reached for her sketchbook and pencil, gathering them from where they lay upon the soft bed of grass. Rising gracefully to her feet, she dusted the hem of her gown before turning to acknowledge him with a nod.

Stupert, who had been absorbed in his labor, cast a brief glance toward them but did not yet set aside his work. "I shall join you in a moment," he remarked, his voice steady as he raised his axe once more. The final logs were nearly split, and he was intent on finishing his task before departing.

The faintest whisper of a breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the mingled scents of freshly hewn wood and the distant aroma of warm bread from the estate's kitchens. Charlotte lingered for a breath longer, her gaze flickering once more to the woodsman before she turned toward Vladimir, silently acquiescing to the summons.

As Charlotte entered into the dwelling of the Huckfinne household, the air between the two men grew noticeably heavier. Vladimir lingered outside, his sharp gaze fixed upon the woodsman, his expression unreadable yet unmistakably intent. He stepped forward with measured purpose, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, his posture betraying no frivolity.

"Stupert, is it?" he inquired, his voice composed but firm. "I have a number of questions for you."

Stupert, who had just set aside his axe, regarded him with an air of mild curiosity. He was not a man easily rattled, nor one to entertain the idle musings of nobles. Yet something in Vladimir's tone made him pause, his brow furrowing slightly as he folded his arms across his broad chest.

"What is it?" he asked at last.

Vladimir did not waver. His piercing gaze bore into the older man's with unwavering intensity. "The bunny," he said, his voice a touch lower now, deliberate. "Where did it come from?"

Stupert blinked, then let out a slow breath through his nose. "That?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "And why does that concern you? Could it be familiar to you?"

Vladimir's expression did not shift, but there was a faint flicker of something behind his eyes—something cold, something knowing. He did not hesitate in his reply.

"Quite," he murmured. "In fact, I would say I know very well where it came from."

A tense silence settled between them, the distant rustling of the wind through the trees the only sound to intrude upon it. Stupert did not move, nor did he look away. Whatever Vladimir had meant by those words, one thing was clear—this was no idle inquiry.

Stupert exhaled a long, weary breath, his fingers tightening slightly over the handle of his axe before he finally set it aside. His gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, his eyes clouded with the weight of memories long buried yet never forgotten.

"My daughter..." he began, his voice measured, as if each word carried a burden of its own. "She was with her mother during the chaos that consumed our old hometown. I was separated from them both that night, and for a time, I believed I had lost them to the flames that devoured our village." He paused, his jaw tightening before he continued.

"But Annika, her mother, made a choice—a mother's sacrifice." His voice grew quieter, tinged with something raw, something grief-stricken yet long resigned. "She stayed behind... so that Maisie would have enough time to escape."

Vladimir remained silent, his gaze unwavering, absorbing each word with an intensity that suggested he was piecing together something far greater than Stupert could yet comprehend.

"Maisie told me later," Stupert went on, "that she and Annika were saved—if only briefly—by a hooded woman, a stranger who intervened when those men came for them." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But Annika had already been wounded—shot before she could flee. She knew then that she would not make it. She made our daughter promise to run, to find me, to survive."

For a moment, he fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the cool afternoon air. Then, with a faint, mirthless chuckle, he added, "When I found Maisie, she was clutching a little bunny—small, tattered, yet held with a grip so tight, you would think it was life itself. She told me a woman had given it to her... and that Annika had said her soul would live inside that bunny, so that Maisie would never be alone."

A bitter smile flickered across his lips, though it did not reach his eyes. "Of course, I knew such a thing was impossible," he muttered. "Annika had already ascended... her soul long since bound for heaven. And yet—"

He stopped short, his gaze meeting Vladimir's, something unspoken passing between them. A question neither of them dared yet voice.

Stupert fell silent for a moment, his weathered hands resting upon the haft of his axe as if seeking some form of anchorage in the storm of his recollections. His gaze, however, never wavered from Vladimir, who stood with an unreadable expression, his posture rigid, his fingers tapping idly against the fabric of his coat as though contemplating a thought too delicate to voice.

It was Vladimir who broke the silence first.

"And yet," he echoed, his voice measured, deliberate, "the child still believed. Did she not?"

Stupert gave a slow nod, exhaling as if weary from the mere remembrance. "Aye, that she did," he admitted. "Maisie was but a girl then, barely old enough to understand what had truly happened. But she clung to that toy as though her mother still whispered to her through it. I tried to tell her—tried to make her see sense—but she would not be swayed. 'She is with me, Papa,' she would say, cradling that rabbit in her little arms. 'She is watching.'"

A hush settled between them, the weight of their conversation pressing like an unseen force upon the fading afternoon. The distant tolling of the chapel bell had long since faded, leaving only the whisper of the wind through the trees and the rhythmic crackling of chopped wood beneath Stupert's feet.

Vladimir stood unmoving, his gaze drifting—not unfocused, but inward, lost in thoughts neither man could see. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, yet no words came at first. A rare hesitance crossed his features, a fleeting shadow of something uncharacteristically uncertain.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"That woman... I think I know her."