“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is.”
“Rose always said the same. Phoebe reminds me a little of her, though she is not quite as outgoing.” He leaned against a wall nearby.
“What was Rose like?” Harriet asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and perching on the end of his desk.
“She had the most amazing laugh.” His voice was hoarse, and as he began to speak, the weight moved from his shoulders deep into his chest. “Her smile… had a way of spreading itself, whether or not you’d intended to smile. She was clever, witty. She loved animals. She was always bringing home little injured creatures; nursing them back to health.”
“A love you both share.” Harriet’s smile made his stomach swoop, and the weight in his chest eased.
He nodded. “She was always happiest when she was making art. She had so much talent, so much potential. People wanted to commission work from her, but Father said it was beneath her station. She did it in secret, under a different name. I was so proud of her; I wish I had told her.”
“That is what you should share with Phoebe. Rose lives on in your stories of her, in her artwork.” Harriet shifted and for a moment, he thought she would close the distance between them again. “You do not have to let the past keep her from you. Either of you.”
Theodore’s eyes drifted to the wall in the direction of the room he knew housed Rose’s paintings. “I will speak to Phoebe.”
“Thank you.” Harriet stood and straightened the creases in her skirt, moving to the doorway as she did.
“You need not thank me; I am only doing my duty.” Theodore shrugged.
“That is not what I am thanking you for.”
A little while later, Theodore found himself standing outside the music room, Rose’s painting tucked under his arm. Phoebe was inside, idly playing on the pianoforte. The medley was clumsy.
Point out what she is doing well.Theodore swallowed the ways he could think that she would improve. “Is that Chasing the Squirrel?”
Phoebe started and jerked round to face him, eyes wide. She nodded, her eyes going immediately to the floor. He ignored the stab of pain in his chest and took a step into the room. He saw her tense, and hesitated.
Carefully, he knelt down, adjusting the painting as he did so. Harriet had made this seem so easy, but as he knelt before his niece, the familiar knot of words stuck in his throat.
Horses.The thought made him smile. He gently slid the painting towards Phoebe, removing the cloth covering as he did. He didit slowly, not wanting to startle her and said nothing. He simply waited.
As soon as his niece saw the painting, she froze, her eyes wide. Tentatively she reached a hand towards it, her mouth open slightly. He saw her fingers tremble as she reached towards it.
“It was your mother’s.” Theodore imagined he was talking to a frightened animal, his voice gentle and soft, even as it broke on the word ‘mother’.
“Now it is yours.” He gestured towards the painting.
For a moment, nothing happened. Theodore prepared to stand, but as he shifted his wait, Phoebe slowly turned from the painting. He froze, his heart speeding up.
Seconds or perhaps hours might have passed as his niece raised her face, and for the first time, met his gaze. Theodore could not keep the surprise from his face.
His jaw slackened, his brows raised to his hairline.
Phoebe stepped towards him, hesitated and then threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace gingerly. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His mind reeled, and he tightened his embrace, holding her close to him. She felt so tiny in his arms that he feared he would break her.
He could almost hear his sister’s voice in his mind, mingling with Harriet’s.I told you so.
This miracle was not his doing, he knew that. It was his wife’s.
CHAPTER 19
“Just a moment,” Harriet called as she pulled on her dressing gown, covering her thin night shift.
She was sitting in the antechamber of her bedroom, drawing in her sketchbook. Her conversation with Theodore kept playing in her head, and she could still feel the steady beat of his heart against her fingertips.
