Mrs. Agnes had mentioned something about fresh flowers needing arrangement in the lower parlor, but Cressida’s feet had carried her elsewhere, drawn by the morning sun slanting through tall windows she’d passed dozens of times these past weeks.
The covered portrait waited at the far end, precisely where it had waited since her first exploration of Ashmere months ago. She’d asked Theodore about it once. He’d gone completely still, then a knock at the door had saved him from answering.
She walked the length of the gallery, her slippers silent against old wood. Past landscapes of moors in autumn and seascapes wild with storm. Past stern-faced ancestors whose names she’dlearned from Mrs. Agnes during those early awkward weeks when the housekeeper had tried, with transparent hope, to make her feel at home.
The curtain’s edge had come loose again. A triangle of gilded frame showed where the velvet had shifted, revealing carved acanthus leaves catching the light.
She stopped three feet away, her fingers curling into her palms.
She’d told herself she would wait. That Theodore would tell her when he was ready, that patience was how trust grew between two people learning to be married. She’d been so careful these past weeks not to push or demand anything, not to become the kind of wife who required explanations for every closed door.
But trust was meant to move in both directions.
The morning had started well. Theodore had lingered over breakfast, discussing the village visit they’d planned for next week. He’d mentioned the blacksmith’s daughter was getting married, that perhaps Cressida might want to send a gift. Small things, domestic things, the kind of casual planning that suggested a future they were building together.
And yet this portrait remained hidden. This one piece of his past, covered and forbidden, a wall she kept running into whenever she thought they might finally be moving forward.
She reached for the curtain’s edge.
The velvet was heavier than she had expected, dusty where it hadn’t been touched in years. She pulled it aside in one smooth motion, letting it pool on the floor, and stepped back to look.
A man stared down at her from the canvas. Young, perhaps five-and-twenty, with Theodore’s dark coloring but none of his severity. This face held warmth, humor in the eyes and mouth, the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being liked. He stood in riding clothes with one hand resting on a horse’s neck, the moors spread behind him in careful detail. The artist had captured him in late afternoon light, golden and warm, the kind of light that made everything beautiful.
The engraved plate fixed to the frame’s lower edge read:Charles Yeats, 1788-1805.
Cressida’s breath caught.
Charles.
She moved closer, studying the painted face. Looking for resemblance, for clues to whatever had prompted Theodore to hide this particular family member behind velvet and silence.
Charles’s eyes were lighter than Theodore’s, his mouth wider, his whole bearing more open. The artist had captured something magnetic in his expression, a charm that seemed to reach across the years.
This was a man people would have loved easily. A man who would have filled rooms with laughter.
No wonder Theodore couldn’t bear to look at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Cressida spun around.
Theodore stood in the doorway, his face white with fury. He crossed the gallery in five long strides, each footfall deliberate and terrible, and she found herself stepping back until her shoulders hit the wall beside the portrait.
“I asked you a question.” His voice was deadly quiet.
“I was—” Her throat had gone dry. “I wanted to see?—”
“So you decided to invade my privacy? Touch what I specifically forbade you from touching?” He gestured sharply to the crumpled velvet on the floor. “That curtain has been in place for seventeen years.Seventeen years, Cressida. And you thought you had the right to?—”
“I have the right to know my own family.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “Your family is my family now. Our marriage?—”
“Our marriage?” Theodore’s laugh was harsh. “Our marriage gives you no claim to this. No claim to him.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I wasn’t trying to claim anything. I was trying to understand?—”
“Understand what? The parts of my life I’ve chosen to keep private?” He turned away, dragging both hands through his hair. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Couldn’t trust that some things are meant to stay buried.”
“How can I trust you when you hide everything from me?” Cressida pushed off the wall, anger overriding caution. “You say we’re learning to be married, to be partners, but you shut me out at every opportunity. I’m allowed into your bed, but not your history. Into your body, but not your thoughts.”
