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“I was told there might be a portrait of the daughter.”
“There is indeed.” The housekeeper’s expression brightened. “A lovely young woman. Such a shame she—” She waved a hand. “Anyway, it’s just over here.”
Ivy’s heart gave a sickening thud as she came to stand in front of the portrait. She wasn’t certain what she expected—the most beautiful woman in the world perhaps—but the painting startled her.
“Oh!”
“Is it not lovely?”
“It is,” Ivy agreed.
Painted in a soft style that Ivy seldom saw in portraits, the young brown-haired woman smiled openly at the portrait artist. Ivy should have known not to expect something stiff and starchy from the French portrait artist.
Ivy cast her gaze over the painting, taking in the rosy cheeks, soft eyes and elegant green silks. Mary was lovely though not the grand beauty Ivy might have expected. Instead of feeling jealousy, she could only feel sadness for this happy young woman who it seemed had also seen her husband for what he was—a good and wonderful man.
“Painted by Madame Le Brun,” the housekeeper said proudly. “She was in England briefly in 1803 and the family were lucky to commission a portrait from her before her return to France.”
“This must have been painted not long before her disappearance,” Ivy mused allowed. “Do you know what happened to Mary?”
“Oh no.” The woman shook her head vigorously. “All that was before my time here. I worked in York until only last year.” She shook her head again. “I know very little.”
Or else the woman did not wish to speak of the fact her husband had been accused of murdering someone. It was so hard to tell with all these people unwilling to speak on the matter, including Cillian. She’d forced herself to tread carefully with him. It had taken a lot for him to reveal what happened all those years ago and she did not wish for him to clam up again.
Still, she knew more than she did before. She knew what the lady looked like, where she had lived, and where she had been in 1803. It was something at least, and with any luck, would start her on the path to proving her husband’s innocence.
***
If Ivy didn’t return within the next fifteen minutes, Cillian swore he was saddling his horse and riding into Bath to hunt her down.
He paced the length of the parlor room she usually occupied then paused at the window. He should never have let her go, not with Marshall still out there.
But what the devil was he meant to do? Keep her locked up away from her sister? That hardly seemed fair.
She did have three men with her. She’d be safe.
The dog in his arms squirmed and Cillian put him on the floor. “Do not relieve yourself on the rug,” he warned the dachshund who ignored him in favor of sniffing around the bottom of the curtains and getting entangled in them.
“Your new owner will be here soon,” he told the dog as he crouched to rescue him from the swathes of thick fabric. “Very soon, with any luck.”
Cillian rose and rested his palms upon the windowsill to see if he could spot her coming down the road.
Nothing.
He turned away from the window and did a loop of the room, unable to prevent himself from smiling when he spotted a half-knitted blanket slung over the arm of a chair. The thing was huge, yet he knew it was half-knitted as Ivy had been knitting in that very seat when he had come in from the farm last night. She’d been all warm and sweet smelling with endless amounts of wool splayed over her lap, making him want to snatch her up and hold her close.
Which he had.
He should have held her closer and for longer. What if she didn’t come back?
Cillian pivoted when he heard a rattle outside? Carriage wheels? He strode to the window and exhaled a long, slow breath when he spied the shiny black vehicle.
“Come on, pup.” He picked up the dog and tucked it under one arm. “Time to meet your knew owner.”
He strode outside and waited on the steps for the carriage to pull up. Ivy stepped out and her smile quickly turned into confusion when she spotted the bundle of fur under Cillian’s arm.
“What is...” She paused a few steps away. “Is that a dog?”
Cillian couldn’t help grinning. “It is indeed. The farmer at Carpenter’s Lane had a litter of them and this one was the only one left. He’s no good for hunting apparently but he’s strong.”
