Now, with the knowledge that he would be absent for so long, a strange, unfamiliar feeling curled in her chest. She realized, with a disquieting clarity, that she might… miss him. It struck her as utterly preposterous, almost laughable, and yet it persisted, teasing at the edges of her thoughts.
She shook her head as she stepped away, chastising herself for such a ridiculous consideration, but the warmth of that strange awareness lingered, impossible to dismiss entirely.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Who is this, Mrs. Redmond?” Dorothy asked, holding the painting gently by its frame, her eyes tracing Magnus’s face, a beautiful young lady seated in front of him, and an older gentleman beside them.
For a brief moment, a thought crossed her mind. Could this be… Magnus’s late wife? The idea made a strange prickle of jealousy curl in her chest. Had he kept it hidden all this time? Was that why he was so cold to her? She shook the thought away as quickly as it came, chiding herself for such a notion.
Mrs. Redmond leaned closer, adjusting her spectacles. “That, Your Grace, is a portrait of the Duke as a young man, his sister, Lady Evaline, the late Marquess of Grisdale, and the late Duke. It was painted many years ago, shortly before Lady Evangeline got married.”
Dorothy studied the painting again, captivated by the sister’s serene expression. Now that she closely looked, Lady Evalinelooked a lot like Eugenia. “She is very beautiful,” Dorothy murmured. “Her eyes look like pearls. Like Eugenia. They sparkle. How does a painter capture that?”
“Lady Evaline was beautiful... yes,” Mrs. Redmond agreed. “She was quite reserved as well. I think Eugenia takes after her too much in that regard.”
“Do you know what her relationship with His Grace was like?” she questioned. “Were they close?”
“So I heard.” Mrs. Redmond nodded. “That is the reason His Grace did not hesitate to take Eugenia in after her demise.”
“Do you know how she passed away?” Dorothy asked, holding the painting close.
Mrs. Redmond shook her head. “I do not, unfortunately, Your Grace.”
Dorothy’s fingers lingered on the gilded frame. “I wonder what she was like… to be loved that much and to leave such an impression on him.”
The last two months had slipped by almost unnoticed. Dorothy had busied herself with so much work. Each day was filled with paint, polish, and the rearrangement of furniture. For the first time since her arrival in Walford, Dorothy felt alive; her hands were always busy, her mind sharp with plans and ideas. Rooms that had once felt cavernous and cold now seemed tobreathe. The faded drapes were replaced, the dull walls adorned with new colors, new paintings. Even the smallest changes—the placement of a vase, the adjustment of a curtain—brought a satisfaction that lifted her spirits.
Dorothy’s eyes lit up as an idea took hold. The painting was so lovely, so full of life and presence; why should it languish in a storage room, gathering dust?
“Mrs. Redmond, do you think we could hang this somewhere in the house? Perhaps where it can be seen... appreciated?”
Magnus was fiercely protective of Eugenia, and it was evident how deeply he cared for her. Surely, he must have cared for his sister in the same way. Perhaps… just perhaps, he would appreciate seeing her face restored to a place of honor in the house.
Mrs. Redmond regarded her thoughtfully before nodding. “I do think it would be a fine idea, Your Grace. I cannot imagine why it has been left here to waste away. It is quite grand, and it would look splendid above the fireplace in the main drawing room. If you wish, I can have it hung there immediately.”
Dorothy smiled, feeling a small thrill of satisfaction. “Yes. Please do that. I will keep an eye out for any other paintings that might be hidden away. Perhaps we can bring more of them into the rooms. It’s time the house felt alive again.”
As Mrs. Redmond left to fetch the tools and preparations, Dorothy allowed herself a small, private smile. How clever shehad been to think of this. She imagined Magnus returning from his business trip, perhaps in just a few days, and seeing the painting hanging proudly above the fireplace. She could almost see the faint lift of his brows, the brief, approving nod, the subtle pleasure in his eyes that he never showed too easily. Maybe, she thought with a daring flutter in her chest, he might even, just for a moment, feel a spark of warmth toward her.
Her imagination ran wild. She imagined him stepping closer, examining the painting, perhaps even turning to her with an acknowledgment of her thoughtfulness. Her heart thumped at the scenario, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of thinking that he might feel something more than mere approval, perhaps admiration, or… something more meaningful.
For Heaven’s sake, Dorothy!
Then, abruptly, she stopped herself. The absurdity of it struck her all at once. She had read far too many novels, let her imagination run far too freely. She shook her head, cheeks flushing hotter than she would have liked to admit.
“Oh, what am I doing?” she muttered under her breath.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, flustered, and wholly embarrassed by her own thoughts, she turned on her heel and left the room, hoping the heat in her cheeks would fade before anyone noticed.
“Goodness gracious! What on earth is on the road?” Rowan grumbled.
The carriage rattled along the gravel road, throwing up little puffs of dust with each uneven jolt. Magnus sat stiff-backed, hands resting lightly on his knees, eyes narrowed against the sun that filtered through the carriage window. Beside him, Rowan slumped against the worn leather, half-asleep, head lolling to one side with a faint groan escaping him every few moments.
“Do try to maintain some dignity, Rowan,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching with barely suppressed amusement. “Or has the wine from last night completely robbed you of it?”
Rowan blinked blearily, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I may have… overindulged, yes,” he admitted, his voice thick with sleep and lingering headache.
Magnus leaned back, letting a sharp chuckle escape him. “Overindulged, is it? You were practically celebrating your own funeral by the look of it. No wonder you resemble a man half-dead now. Perhaps next time, you might consider temperance or, at the very least, less enthusiasm in your drinking.”
