Chapter 18

CHAPTER18

“And where are the two of you tiptoeing away to?” Peggy’s voice cut Edwin to the quick, bringing him to a sharp halt.

He turned to find her lounging upon the threadbare armchair by the main staircase, lying in wait. “I am showing Joanna my paintings.”

“You do not need to use metaphor with me, dearest nephew!” Peggy cackled raucously. “But I will require your darling wife back by one o’clock this afternoon, for that is when we are to arrange the transformation of this dreary place.”

Edwin wished the floorboards would truly crumble and swallow him up, but before he could retort, Joanna interjected.

“We really are going to see his paintings. He is the most gifted artist,” she said, unperturbed by Peggy’s veiled coarseness. “I intend to fill this manor with his work.”

A small flicker of pride glowed in Edwin’s chest, ignited by his wife’s kind words. My wife… He had not yet grown accustomed to the term, but he was beginning to appreciate the weight of it.

Peggy’s mouth opened and closed for a moment, like she did not know how to respond. “I… did not know you painted, Edwin. When did you begin this? Why have I not seen any of your paintings? I would have commissioned a portrait, had I but known!”

“That is why I did not tell you,” Edwin replied. “I do not do portraits.”

Peggy hurried to stand, smoothing the creases from her bombazine skirts. “I must accompany you. I must see these paintings for myself.”

“You will see them when my wife decides where they are to be hung, if any are worthy,” he insisted, giving his aunt a warning look. “I shall return her by one o’clock. My collection is not that vast.”

Without another word, he boldly took Joanna by the hand and led her away from the entrance hall, walking her through the labyrinth of the manor until they came to the condemned entrance to the southern wing. It was not in as poor a condition as the eastern wing, but it still called for caution.

“You keep your paintings here?” Joanna asked, her hand still in his.

He opened the door and ushered her inside. “No one bothers me here.”

“Does anyone bother you, no matter which room you are in?”

He made an odd sound, partway between a cough and a snort. “I suppose not.”

“Was that a laugh?” her eyes widened as if she had just witnessed a horse with two heads.

“I was clearing my throat,” he rushed to insist. “It is dusty in here.”

She narrowed one eye, evidently dubious, until she began to cough, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Mercy, it is rather dusty! I believe I just swallowed some.”

“Shall I fetch you some water?” He raised his hand, meaning to clap her on the back, but that did not seem like a gentlemanly thing to do.

She raised a dismissive hand. “No, no… I shall be quite well once I have begun to digest this lump of dust.”

A short while later, she was ready to continue, though he noticed she made no move to take hold of his hand again.

Together, they picked their way across a sea of red streaks, marking the dangerous floorboards and treacherous steps of the ancient staircase that curved up to the next floor. A musty scent infiltrated Edwin’s nostrils as they walked, his eyes drawn to the patches of dampness that spread like a rash across the peeling silk wallpaper that had once been so beautiful.

Why did I let it fall to ruin like this? he lamented, though he knew the answer: he had not let it fall to ruin. He had done his best with the meager fortune that had been left to him when he inherited the estate, while his father had lived like a king. Of course, like everything else, his father had hidden the state of the dukedom’s coffers from both of his sons, to be revealed as a vicious final trick long after he was gone.

“It has such potential,” Joanna sighed, drawing Edwin’s attention back to her. She wore a dreamy smile, her eyes gleaming with optimism, and though he would not show it upon his own face, he was beginning to see the manor in a different light. In her light.

Presently, they paused outside what had once been a grand bedchamber, reserved for the monarch in the unlikely event that they decided to visit. Edwin unlocked it with a key that he wore around his neck and pushed the double doors wide, to gauge Joanna’s initial reaction.

Her gasp made his soul sing. “You said your collection was not vast!” she cried, hurrying into the room. “This is… a gallery, Edwin!”

“I did not want my aunt to follow us,” he admitted.

Joanna paused in the center of the old bedchamber, which had been cleared of everything but an easel and every canvas that Edwin had ever touched with his brushes. There, she turned slow circles, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as she took in the clustered masses of paintings. Wherever there was room, there was a canvas—some finished, some not, some he was proud of, some he would have liked to stay hidden.

“You said you did not paint portraits,” Joanna’s voice caught in her throat as she peered up at the only painting that he had properly hung upon the wall. “Is that one of yours, or—?”

He shook his head, unable to look at it. “I do not know the artist.”

“Is that your mother?” Joanna looked back at him, her eyes shining with a sorrow that stung.

He gave a small nod. “I found it stowed away in a cupboard. My aunt informed me of who it was.”

“She looks like you,” Joanna walked to him. “Your eyes are the same, and I think,” she lifted her hand, stroking her fingertips lightly across the side of his head, “your hair might be, too, though you have it cut so short that I cannot tell.”

He swallowed thickly, “I have been told as much.”

“Well, she must be placed in the entrance hall,” Joanna said decisively, withdrawing her hand and striding back across the room to begin her search of his work. “Do you agree?”

“I… would like that,” he confessed, fearing that a certain, vengeful ghost might actually come to haunt him if he dared. Nevertheless, he would not stop Joanna if that was where she wished to put his mother’s portrait.

Humming to herself as she riffled through the endless array of canvases, Edwin watched his wife’s expression run through a remarkable carousel of emotions: awe, amusement, disinterest, bemusement, and a heartening dose of pride.

“You paint the river a lot,” she remarked, holding up a smaller canvas that depicted a pebbled beach that hugged the curve of the river.

Edwin shrugged, “I paint many things.”

“Where is this?” Joanna reached for a larger canvas that showed a glittering lake.

“It is not far from here.”

Mischief flashed in her enchanting eyes. “Might we visit one day? In the summer, perhaps?”

“To swim?”

“To swim.”

He grimaced. “If you must, though you might cause a scandal.”

“As a married duchess of four-and-twenty, no scandal can touch me anymore,” she replied, returning to her search.

He had not realized she would be quite so thorough in her assessment of his paintings, piling them into the works she wished to see upon the walls of the manor, and those she did not. It proved difficult for Edwin not to feel offended by some of her dismissals, for though there were some canvases in there that were rather strange, he favored them because they were unusual.

“You do not care for this one?” He picked up a hazy depiction of the manor, as he had remembered it from childhood. The emotions of his memory had been layered upon the initial painting, with jarring streaks of bruised purple, vivid red, dark blue, and splashes of black.

Joanna pulled a face. “If you do, then I will find a place for it,” she hesitated, chewing upon her lower lip. “In truth, I do not understand it. It looks as if it has been spoiled by a jealous rival artist.”

“I think that is why I like it,” he explained.

She smiled. “Then it shall have its place in our home. I was only teasing when I said I would transform this manor into somewhere you do not recognize, for I want you to be comfortable.”

“To be comfortable, I would have to tear it down and build it afresh,” he blurted out, his emotions jostled by the painting.

Hurt drifted across Joanna’s face, as she set the painting down and walked to him. He heard her swallow as she lifted her hands and pressed them to his chest, while he did not know what to do with his own hands. He knew what he would have liked to do, but that had to stay confined to his dreams.

“Think of this as starting afresh,” she told him, her hand upon his heart. “Let this be a way to hold back those errant ghosts—those who are not welcome, at least.”

She peered up at him and, for a moment, his resolve almost crumbled. All he had to do was bend his head and his lips would touch hers, bridging the divide between dream and reality. Her mouth parted, inviting him to do just that; her eyes gleaming with something akin to desire.

“I…” he gulped, slowly dipping his head toward hers.

He waited for her to push him away, waited for her outrage, waited for her to run from him, but she did not move; her palms still pressed to his chest. Had she dreamed of him too, despite the way he had treated her?

His lips were a breath away from the kiss his body craved, when a shrill voice pierced the moment, exploding it like a bubble.

“Where are these paintings? And why on Earth have you hidden them away in such a place? I almost fell through the staircase! Someone could be killed if you are not careful!” Peggy cried out, blustering through the “gallery” doors without waiting for permission.

As if she had been stung, Joanna jolted away from Edwin and hurried to the other side of the room, pretending to search through another pile of canvases. But Edwin, still watching her, noticed the swift rise and fall of her shoulders and heard the whisper of her frantic breaths, though he could not, for the life of him, understand what it meant.

That was too close, he told himself, appalled by his loss of control. It is for her own benefit, as well as yours.

Glancing down, he realized his hand had moved to replace hers above his heart, and beneath it, a warmth that was beginning to spread. And, like a wildfire, he feared it might destroy them both. With the sum he had received from Joanna’s father, and would receive each year, they could survive their life together, but nothing beyond that. He would not leave a pit of debt and destitution to a child who had never asked for it, nor did he want to, for one other, more insistent reason.

His legacy has to end with me, Edwin clenched his hand into a fist, glancing up at the portrait of his mother. For her, for his brother, for all he had endured, he could not let his heart waver. Severing his father’s bloodline was the only vengeance he could ensure, so that those he had lost could rest peacefully, at last.