“Tell him not to finalize anything until I have seen them myself. I want to make sure they are the right temperament.” Theodore would not risk anyone else choosing something unsuitable for his niece.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mr. Grimsby bowed his head low.
“And have some coffee brought up to my study. Once I have looked around the estate, I wish to return to my work.” Theodore stopped working and waved his hand in dismissal.
“I shall see to it at once.” Mr. Grimsby swept into a low bow and scurried down the corridor in the direction of the kitchens.
The sound of his footsteps was muffled by the carpet, and Theodore felt himself smile. A part of him was surprised that he was not irritated by Harriet’s actions.It is probably because the changes she has made are sensible.
It was clear that she had not only made changes that would improve the overall aesthetic of Irondale Hall, but that would serve a function as well. Her changes were not grand, sweeping gestures, even though they felt huge.
“She put a lot of care into this.” Theodore murmured as he looked into one of the drawing rooms.
The chairs had been shifted, bringing them closer together to create a more intimate space. There were several vases of flowers dotted around the room, and a new rug beneath the coffee table.
The dark velvet curtains had been replaced by lighter, more flowing fabric. It had the effect of making the room feel warm, welcoming – like a summer afternoon. He could imagine Harriet and her friends sitting, laughing over steaming cups of tea.
His eyes drifted across the room, his mouth curving into a smile as he took in all of her work. Until he saw something on the far wall that stopped his heart.
He felt as though several buckets of icy water had been thrown onto him, the cold seeping into the very marrow of his bones. His feet were heavy as though they were glued to the floor.
“It cannot be.” His mouth was bone dry as he forced his leaden feet towards the painting on the wall.
He recognized it at once. He remembered when he had first seen it. He had been twenty-three, and had just returned from his trip abroad. Rose had come to find him in the garden.
She had been shy, and nervous as she had led Theodore to her rooms and shown her the painting she had done. It had taken his breath away, though he had not known how to say it to her.
“I should have told you it was beautiful.” He ran a thumb against the gilded frame.
His back felt far too hot, his clothes too tight. He wanted to tear at them, to rip them off. He settled for tugging loose his cravat, but it did nothing to ease his discomfort.
He had left the painting in a room in the Eastern Wing. It had been one of the few things of hers he had managed to find that his father had not destroyed. He wanted to love the painting, but every time he looked at it, it was like a knife in his gut.
The colors of the Peak District faded and swam before his eyes. The figures blurring into smudges. He could hear the sound of wet, rattling breaths. He clutched a hand to his stomach as the contents threatened to re-emerge.
He was back in that moment, by his sister’s bed. She was dying.No.The painting drew him in, again.
He was twenty-three. He could feel Rose’s eyes on him, the expectation in her face. She took a step closer. His eyes fell on the figures. “They seem happy.” He gestured.
“I like to think so.” Rose’s lip trembled. “Theodore, there is something I need to tell you. Something important.”
The sound of footsteps filled the corridor, heavy, thunderous footsteps. Rose’s eyes widened. Theodore cast a blanket over the art – they both knew what their father would do if he saw it.
“Later.” Theodore hissed.
“Theodore please.” Rose’s fingers gripped his wrist but he shook her off.
“Later.” Theodore shook his head, sure whatever it was could wait.
He strode out to meet his father. The next day, Rose was gone. His father told him she had gone to study in France.There is something I need to tell you.
Theodore.He could hear the excitement in Rose’s voice, the way her eyes had lit up when he walked in the room. Her voice echoed in his head as he stared at the painting – her painting.
“Theodore?” This was a different voice.
He could barely hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears.
“It is good to see you.” Footsteps behind him. “Did you have a good business trip?”
