Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

“ C ome see us on Sunday, we shall go to church together,” Hanna called as she made her way into the carriage.

Emma waved, having already bid Arabella farewell.

Arabella likewise raised her hand over her head and waved at her sisters, who now settled in the carriage and took off.

Once the carriage had disappeared around the bend, Arabella rushed back inside the house. She had planned to go to Harry’s study early, but he hadn’t left until just before her sisters did. She wasn’t sure what had caused his delay, as he usually left the house before she awoke to avoid having to converse with her.

Not that he had breakfast with her and her sisters that morning. She had invited him, but he had declined with the excuse that he did not want to intrude on their sisterly time. Arabella had known it for what it was—yet another of his excuses. However, she had said nothing and simply accepted it.

Yet, she had secretly anticipated his departure. Now that he and her sisters were gone, she rushed to his study. She sent Mabel into town with Mrs. Blomquist and had observed the butler setting off in the direction of the laundry. She knew she was safe for the time being.

Quickly, she slipped into the study and closed the door behind her. She looked around, her heart racing. How could she find evidence that her husband was seeing another woman? How had she ended up in this situation? She was a young, beautiful woman, and she was saddled with a husband who clearly did not care for her and who was, by all accounts, keeping a mistress.

Anger bubbled up inside her, and she clenched her hands into fists, grateful that she was wearing gloves, for otherwise her nails would have dug into the palms of her hands and drawn blood.

She looked around his desk, carefully picking up various papers and rifling through drawers, always making sure to put everything back in the same state she had found it.

Then her eyes fell on a box he kept by the window. He had been looking at something here—drawings—and when she had caught him, he had reacted rather severely. Was he hiding something in there?

She squatted down, taking care not to trap the satin fabric of her peach-colored gown underneath her half-boots for fear of ripping it, and then unlatched the box. Fortunately, it was not locked, and it opened almost immediately.

Within, she found a number of items—bonnets, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and a cane. She examined these items and found that they all bore the initials of his parents’ names.

“What am I doing? I should not be here. This is wrong,” she whispered to herself, guilt and curiosity warring within her.

Yet, despite knowing that this was not what she should be doing, she couldn’t help herself. She pulled out a leather binder that was leaning against the back of the box. She recognized it as the one Harry had been looking at.

She felt guilty—she truly did. She was not the sort to invade someone else’s privacy. Once, she had caught Emma rifling through Hanna’s belongings and had been enraged at the sight, and now here she was, doing the same thing.

However, Harry had left her no choice. If she felt she could talk to him, she would, but he was so evasive, always hiding from her. She had no other option but to stick her nose where it did not belong.

She untied the knots on the leather binder and pulled out its contents. They were pencil drawings, and good ones at that. She flipped through them one by one and recognized the faces of Harry’s parents. They were younger in some of the drawings but older in others, which was peculiar because they had died before they reached forty.

There were also drawings of older people who bore a resemblance to Harry and his parents. Grandparents, perhaps?

In another drawing, she saw a young woman holding a child, and her throat constricted. She did not recognize the woman, nor did she look anything like Harry or his family.

Who was she? Was she the person he was going to see? And the child, was it his? Was he seeking a place where his child could be sent away forever?

If that was the case, she supposed she should be happy that he even cared enough to question his valet about the location. But still, a child? How old was this drawing, anyhow? She flipped it over to see if there was an inscription on the back, the way some painters sometimes did, but she found nothing. All she spotted was the letter ‘H’ at the bottom right corner.

H.

Was this the painter? Who was he?

Then it came to her.

It was Harry! Harry had drawn these pictures, she was certain of it. It made perfect sense. He had drawn his parents as he remembered them, and how he imagined they would have looked as they aged. The other people, those older individuals who were not his parents, had to be his grandparents.

Which left her to deduce that the woman was indeed the woman he loved. She had been drawn in great detail—the fine lines of her eyelashes, the curve of her lips—more carefully than those in the other pictures. The detail was astonishing. Even the freckles were sprinkled across the woman’s face with painstaking precision.

No, Harry had drawn her with great love—it was quite clear. And the child? The child was not drawn with as much care, indicating that whoever had made this drawing did not care for the child as much as their mother. It made sense.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Harry, what secrets are you keeping from me? Why… why did you not tell me the truth?”

“Your Grace?”

She leaped up and spun around, dropping the drawings on the floor.

“Baxter,” she said, her voice shaking. “I did not hear you coming.”

“You were absorbed in your examinations,” the butler noted, nodding toward the scattered drawings. “Shall I help you pick them up?”

“No,” she uttered, feeling her cheeks flush.

How had she not heard him coming? How foolish!

“No, Baxter, there is no need. I was looking for a drawing that Harry had asked me to frame,” she said, noting the way the butler’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t believe her. “I mean… I am framing it for him as a surprise.”

“For his birthday?” Mr. Baxter asked, intrigued.

Arabella nodded, though she had no idea when her husband’s birthday was.

“Indeed. He told me how much he liked the drawing, so I thought I would frame it for him.” She scanned the floor and quickly picked out the drawing she wanted to use for her ruse. “This one of his parents.”

She held it up, and Baxter’s expression changed. He smiled.

“They were moon-eyed over one another, my late master and mistress. A pity you could not meet them,” he said.

Arabella was surprised to hear that Mr. Baxter had known Harry’s parents.

“I did not know you worked here for so long.”

“Not here. When the former Duke was alive, yes, but after his death, Sir Richard saw fit to close up the house and send us all to Sheffield or one of the other estates. I went up north, as did Mrs. Blomquist. I was glad to be called back when His Grace decided to live here. It was rather quiet in the country.”

“Is it quite usual to keep one’s job when one’s master passes away?” Arabella asked, genuinely curious.

Her father had dismissed her mother’s lady’s maid as well as several other servants who had been employed primarily to serve her mother without batting an eyelid.

“No, but the former Duke asked for this in his will. We were to remain on the estate’s payroll until His Grace was old enough to decide whom he wanted to keep. When he came of age, he decided to keep us all.” He smiled, and Arabella saw how fond he was of Harry.

Could she dare ask him about the woman in the drawing? No, she could not risk exposing her own ruse. Not now. Instead, she simply nodded.

“That was kind of him. Pray, when is my husband expected to return?”

“This evening, Your Grace,” Mr. Baxter replied.

“Right. Well, would you fetch me when he returns? I must speak to him.”

Mr. Baxter frowned. “It might be quite late, Your Grace.”

“I do not care about the hour. I must speak to him.”

The butler gave a curt nod and slipped out of the room, leaving her to clean the mess she’d made on the floor.

She had to confront Harry. Now that Mr. Baxter had caught her, she had to speak to Harry. There was nothing else she could do now. Tonight, when he returned, she would confront him about the secrets and lies, for she was tired now of feeling like a ghost in her own home, a visitor in a life not her own.