Curiosity gripped Daphne. However, she also did not want to press Mrs. Fletcher. The staff had begun to trust her. Their gratitude toward the changes she made in the work shifts improved their moods and their willingness to follow her direction. Still, she was certain that they were loyal to the Duke, and she would not want it any other way, either.
Still, curiosity seemed to prevail as she found her voice dropping to i a murmur, “Mrs. Fletcher, we have done so much to this house’s functionality in a matter of weeks. Design, work shift structures, and more. At this point, you know I love order and practicality. I do not like unnecessary mystery at all. What tragedies do you refer to, then? I have not heard of anything.”
Daphne then realized that she did not know much about her husband. She was so focused on what business he was into that she did not think to ask about his family. What kind of proper wife was she?
“Your Grace, it is not my place to say, but I can at least show you the portrait in the gallery. You can at least see what His Grace has lost.”
“Oh. So, their portraits are still there?” Daphne asked, suddenly feeling like her voice could give up any time.
“Yes, Your Grace. Follow me,” the housekeeper replied, her face pleading. She was experiencing a sense of anguish—that much was clear. It must have been difficult for her to break the rules while also trying to please her new mistress. “I clean theportraits monthly, but I do not use lamps or open the drapes. I am like a ghost there.”
Daphne nodded in understanding. The place must not be disturbed, and yet must remain clean. She suspected that her husband’s relationship with his family was better than hers with her father and her mother.
Yet, they are no longer here.
If they were, the housekeeper would not have mentioned tragedies. Surely, if the Duke had relatives, Daphne would have met them at the wedding.
“We will not light the lamps, then, Mrs. Fletcher. But I need to see the gallery. I need to understand him.”
Their eyes met. It was clear to both who ‘him’ referred to. The past had a way of haunting people’s lives. Current actions depended on what happened before. Past pains. Past loves.
Mrs. Fletcher sighed, then relented. They walked toward the door with theW. She unlocked the heavy door with one of her keys. The knob groaned with disuse. Finally, it gave way to a satisfying clack that sounded like it echoed down the hallway and beyond.
Daphne stepped inside the room. The gallery felt almost sacred, making her shiver as she went in further. The air was colder here. Dust motes danced around a thin shaft of light, the onlylight coming in from the outside. The drawn drapes seemed frozen in time, like stubborn sentinels who kept at their job.
The gallery itself was enormous. The walls were filled with portraits. She imagined they were past Dukes, all stern-faced. Their angry, expressive eyes tracked her movements. Daphne was reminded of the way Briarwood used to watch her during soirees and events.
She chuckled nervously. She was being silly. Mrs. Fletcher looked at her as if with understanding. The gallery had a way of unsettling people and she wondered if the west wing should be locked up simply for the way this room felt.
Then, at the very end of a series of portraits, lined up based on year was the most recent family portrait. There was still space to the right of it, reminding Daphne of what Adrian said about heirs. She flushed.
Remembering what she was there for, she approached the main portrait. It was a masterpiece of likeness, the faces looking alive. The late Duke had a charming smile on his face. Father and son had the same sharp profile, but the former looked weaker. She had never met him. Therefore, she wondered if she was developing a bias in favor of her husband. Beside Adrian’s father stood his mother, a breathtakingly beautiful woman in a silver-grey gown. She had large, kind eyes. This was an anomaly. After feeling as if all the other eyes in the room were gazing daggers at her, she was relieved to be in the presence of the gentle Duchess who wore a maternal expression.
Adrian was in the portrait as expected, but he was still very young, perhaps around thirteen. He had a small smile on his face, though his eyes were already guarded and intense. The artist had captured his wolf-like expression.
Finally, Daphne’s attention focused on the fourth figure. The girl, slightly younger than Adrian, had made her breath catch. She had the same flowing dark hair as her mother, and the same intelligent grey eyes.
“What is her name?”
Daphne nodded gently at the portrait.
“Lady Cassandra.”
“Yes,” Daphne murmured, “the name suits her well.”
The young lady, Adrian’s sister, held a single white rose and gave a genuinely delighted smile. Her jubilant grin warmed the otherwise chilly room.
Daphne raised her hand, wanting to touch the girl’s frozen innocence captured on canvas. So young. If she had lived, she would have been a few years older than her, but she would never grow old.
“Lady Cassandra,” she whispered the girl’s name with reverence.
“She would have liked you, Your Grace,” was all that Mrs. Fletcher could say.
Daphne wondered how much of the grief in this family had contributed to Adrian’s secret activities and dark reputation. She felt that the answers were in this chilly room.
She contemplated what it meant to experience deep love, to be cherished in return, and then to lose that special person. She didn’t mourn the death of her own father. Her relief was too strong.
“Thank you for your trust, Mrs. Fletcher,” Daphne said, her voice steady. “We will keep the west wing as itis for now. The Duke has a real reason to discourage people from disturbing this space.”
