A Conversation with Annabelle Greystone

*As featured in The Hearth & Violet Quarterly, Autumn Issue, 1852*

*A Journal of Drawing Room Dispatches & Domestic Devotions*

Author’s Note by Miss Lavinia Forsythe

It is not often I find myself trembling before the ink has even touched the page. And yet, such was my state upon returning from Greystone Hall—a weather-worn manor nestled in the northern wilds of Scotland, where the mist does not visit but lingers, and the stones seem to breathe with memory.

I had been invited, if that is the right word, to speak with Miss Annabelle Greystone, heiress of the Greystone estate and central figure in a most peculiar tale—one of vanished kin, whispered treachery, and a house that seems to shift when no one is looking. She welcomed me with polite reserve, a cup of tea, and a single cat who stared far too knowingly at the shadows beneath the door.

What follows is an interview conducted by firelight, punctuated by creaks in the floorboards and the uncanny sense that we were not entirely alone. Yet through it all, Miss Greystone bore herself with grace, offering her thoughts plainly, and her silences more eloquently still.

Readers should not mistake her quiet for fragility. She is a woman weathering grief, isolation, and uncertainty with remarkable composure. Whether one believes in hauntings or not, there is no denying the weight of what she has endured—and what she may yet face.

I left Greystone with damp hems and a heart full of unanswered questions. But also, a deep admiration for the lady who remains within its walls, pressing wildflowers between parchment while the fog coils outside her door.

May this glimpse into her world serve as both caution and comfort: There is strength in solitude, and stories in silence—if only one is brave enough to listen.

—L.F.

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Greystone Hall, Inverness-shire

October, 1852

Q: Please describe your family home to our readers, Miss Greystone.

I live at Greystone Hall, an old stone manor tucked into the folds of the northern mountains. It’s been in my family for generations, though truth be told, it’s far too large for just me and Tabitha. The fog comes often here, curling around the gables like it belongs… and perhaps it does.

The halls creak when no one walks them, and some of the mirrors don’t reflect quite right. But it’s home—cold, drafty, and full of ghosts… of memory, if not of men.

Q: And how old are you? Pardon me if that is impolite, you just seem very young to be alone in this house.

I turned twenty-six this past spring, though I must confess, some days I feel much older. Greystone has a way of pressing its history upon your shoulders. Since Father’s passing and Andrew’s disappearance, the weight of the estate and the silence it holds has aged me in ways no calendar could ever capture.

But I suppose twenty-six is still considered young, isn’t it? Perhaps not so young when one’s been lighting candles for comfort rather than celebration.

Q: Where did you find Tabitha?

Oh, Tabitha found me, really.

It was a bitter evening last April when the mist rolled in early and thick. I’d gone out to fetch kindling from the woodshed and heard the faintest cry, like a child’s, but smaller… more desperate. I followed it to the edge of the garden hedge, and there she was, soaked through, thin as a wishbone, and glaring at me as if daring me not to help her.

She’s never left since. Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t more than a cat. She seems to know things. She stares too long at corners where there’s nothing to see, and bolts from rooms just before the temperature drops. But she curls at my feet each night, and it seems she is protecting me.

Q: What is your favorite hobby?

When the house is quiet and the fog hasn’t crept beneath the doors, I take comfort in pressing flowers. I’ve kept a book for years; an old leather volume with yellowed pages where I lay wild blooms between parchment.

Every bloom holds a memory. A violet from the hill behind the orchard where Andrew and I played as children. A white rose from Mother’s garden, which never did bloom after she passed. Foxglove, of course, though one ought to be careful with that. There’s something soothing in arranging delicate petals when everything else feels uncertain.

A pressed flower page from Annabelle's journal

Q: Why did you and Andrew fall out?

Because we were both grieving… and neither of us knew how to show it. Father died so suddenly. One day he was trimming the hedge in the west garden, and the next… gone. The solicitor, Mr. Holloway, arrived scarcely a day after the funeral with the new will. It named me sole heir. Not Andrew.

I never asked for it. I didn’t even know it existed until that moment. Andrew was furious. Said I must have manipulated Father, or worse… forged something. He stormed out of Greystone and vanished before I could explain, before I even understood myself. I wrote dozens of letters, but there was no reply.

And then… they said he’d died. A drowning, I believe, though his body was never found. I mourned him deeply. I'd lost Mother, Father, and Andrew within a few months. And then the mist brought him back to my doorstep, very much alive with questions, accusations, and secrets of his own.

 Q: Pardon me for prying, but what do you hope happens with Edmund Banks, if anything?

Oh…that’s difficult to say. When Edmund first stepped into Greystone, I felt something shift, as if the house itself held its breath. There was a steadiness in him, a quiet confidence, that felt foreign and strangely welcome. His eyes lingered on mine a bit too long, and I didn’t mind it.

He seems kind and intelligent. A man shaped by war, yet still capable of gentleness. But after everything with Andrew, with the will, the suspicions… it’s hard to know who to trust. My heart wants rest and peace, maybe companionship. But my mind insists on caution.

Still, I wonder: if they can find out what really happened to Father… would he stay?

Q: Any advice you'd like to give our readers?

Yes… if I may offer something from one who’s seen shadows stretch longer than they should:

Trust your instincts. Whether it's a whisper in the mist, a glance that lingers too long, or the silence that falls too heavily, those little warnings are often the truth.

Write things down. Letters, memories, secrets, keep a record. The mind forgets, but paper remembers. And sometimes what you forget may one day save you.

And lastly… be kind to the frightened thing inside you. Bravery isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s simply the act of lighting a candle when you’d rather hide in the dark.

Stay curious. Stay cautious. And always close the door behind you, especially when the fog rolls in.

Until we meet again.

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Postscript

It is said that certain places hold memories the way stone holds cold—that they do not forget, even when we long to. Greystone Hall, I believe, is such a place.

As I took my leave that evening, the fog pressed tightly around my carriage, the lanterns casting halos no stronger than a breath. Behind me, Miss Greystone stood at the upper window, her figure faint in the shifting gloom. Whether she watched me go—or watched something else entirely—I cannot say.

I do not know what became of the will, nor what truths were uncovered in the days that followed. Letters sent in inquiry were returned unanswered. And though I have often attempted to revisit Greystone, something always seems to prevent the journey.

But I think of her often—Annabelle, with her pressed flowers and guarded smile, her courage wrapped in quiet. Some stories do not end cleanly. Some do not end at all. They wait, like unopened letters, or a candle left flickering in a room just beyond the reach of your footsteps.

May we all have the courage to strike a match when the shadows grow long.

Yours by the hearth and the hall,

-Miss Lavinia Forsythe

Editor-in-Chief, The Hearth and Violet Quarterly

If you missed Annabelle's story, you can find it here, (or below) in The Mist at Greystone Hall.