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“No, not at all, but what young boy or girl hasn’t had some tutoring in it as part of his or her education? I enjoy painting on occasion, and on one such occasion, I chose to paint the tree.”
“Why did you give it to me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Perhaps I wanted to show you some of the beauty of the place since it is to become your future home.”
He’d painted the tree, and even if he claimed to be an amateur, he’d managed to create an image Louisa found appealing, one that offered sunshine and shade . . . and peace. He’d given it to her in a less-than-peaceful time, and yet she’d sensed what was within the painting.
“Tell me about your mother,” Louisa said.
* * *
“Tell me about your mother,” Louisa had said. She was waiting for him to reply.
William was no musician, but Louisa’s performance had moved him. He’d had to fight back the desire to weep. He hadn’t wept in years—not that he’d succumbed this time either, fortunately. He attributed this unusual swell of emotion to the music and to the vision of Louisa at the piano, her face, even in profile, a work of beauty. His mother had been such a beauty when he was a boy; back before his father’s choices had exacted their toll on her.
“I’ll race you to the oak tree, Mama,” five-year-old Will shrieked and then took off running. When he stopped briefly to catch his breath, he saw Mama, her skirts clutched in her hands, running to catch him, smiling and full of sunshine. He waited for her to catch up to him, and then they ran and collapsed at the foot of the tree, laughing and hugging and enjoying the shade in a glorious, free afternoon.
Louisa’s request caused a tumult within his soul. What words could possibly explain everything his mother had been to him? She had been gentle and kind and beautiful, at least to the young boy who’d adored her. She had been his world, his safe place. And then he had been sent to Eton and had been allowed home only on school holidays. And she’d changed during those years while he was at school, withdrawing into herself, intent on her needlework and interested in little else. And then she’d died.
Words were wholly inadequate.
And what words would the specter of his father even allow him to say?
Louisa was watching him closely, waiting for him to speak.
“She was . . .” His mind flailed about. “She was everything to a small boy.”
Pathetic.
Louisa looked at him as if she thought so too.
He heaved a sigh. “What specifically do you wish to know?”
“What did she look like?” Louisa asked. “Who were her people? Where was she from? Do you look like her or your father? Did she play with you when you were a boy? Did she read you stories? What are your favorite memories with her? I want to know her, William. In knowing her—and even your father—I can get to know you better too.”
William had promised her he would be forthcoming, so he tried again. “My coloring is more like my father’s. In fact, I’m afraid I look more like him than I do her. She was fair and blue-eyed.” There. He’d said something about both of his parents.
He loathed dredging up anything that had to do with the past, but he forged onward. “She was Margaret Strickland before marrying my father and becoming Viscountess Farleigh. She was an only child, brought up near the Lake District to genteel but poor people, from what I know. She moved to London when she was offered a governess position, and it was in that capacity that she became acquainted with my father, who was—at the time—a friend of the family with whom she was employed.
“My father, as you already know, hailed from Buckinghamshire. He met and married my mother; I was born into that union a few months later. I was sent off to school at the age of ten, my mother died when I was sixteen, and I never went home again. Rather Gothic, wouldn’t you say?”
He ceased speaking, his stomach in knots, the scars on his back aflame with memories.
Louisa left the piano bench and came to sit by him.
“Thank you, William,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?”
She had no idea how difficult and utterly dreadful it had been for him to speak those words. But then, she’d been protected her whole life and, therefore, had the luxury of innocence.
What an enviable life for a child to have experienced. If he were so fortunate as to have children of his own, he would want them to be brought up with that type of innocence and tranquility. Louisa would be the kind of mother who would insist on her children learning and growing with the assurance that their parents loved them.
He wanted Louisa to be the mother of his children. He wanted it fiercely.
He sprang to his feet and crossed the room, gripping the windowsill and staring out at the garden beyond. He needed to be as far away from her as possible, unsure if he would pull her into a desperate hug or shake her for the pain she was making him feel.
“William?” she asked softly.
“I have done what I can for today, Louisa. I can do no more,” he choked out.
