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“I won’t be mad if you want to slip a few rubies in your pockets.” Lee sidles up to me in front of several paintings propped up against the brick-faced wall of the servants’ entrance to the kitchen.
“Is that the good crystal I hear clinking around in your pant legs?” I tease.
“Did you see those porcelain goose things?” He makes a gagging noise. “A thousand pounds. What on earth possessed these people?”
Most of the paintings are what I’d imagine as fancy British interior design: Hunting horseback behind a pack of dogs. Landscapes. Still life and gardens. But then a small portrait in an ornate frame catches my eye. It’s of a young dark-haired woman looking off her shoulder. Her eyes are a deep chocolate brown. A simple gray dress covers her slight frame and drapes over the side of the antique chair she’s perched on.
Lee whistles softly. “They’re tossing the ancestors out with the old linens. This is dreadful.”
My gaze remains glued to the painting. The girl is around my age, maybe a year or two older. She appears preoccupied. Not lost in thought but as if listening to a conversation just out of frame. That look you get when people are talking about you like you aren’t in the room. She’s trapped in this pose, though she doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know how she found herself here or what else her life might have been, might still be, if she had the nerve to decide otherwise.
It’s mesmerizing.
“Hello?” Lee snaps his fingers inches from my face. “Babe, you in there?”
I gesture at the painting. “She’s sort of captivating, right?”
Staring at her, he makes a face like he’s stepped in something. “It’s a sad white girl.”
“I don’t know. I like her.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t kink-shame.”
The registry says little about the painting itself. Oil on canvas. Not even a date. By the hair and dress, I’d guess World War II era, but I can’t be sure. It’s perfect for further research, however.
“Hi there,” I say, approaching the woman in the blue pantsuit. She looks up from her clipboard. “May I be of assistance?”
“I hope so. I have questions about one of the paintings.”
“Oh, lovely. Let’s see if I can answer them.”
She introduces herself as Sophie and offers that pearly-white smile again. She’s gorgeous, I realize. Her brown hair is arranged in an elegant chignon, and she has warm hazel eyes and cheekbones I’d kill for.
“Do you work for the Tulleys?” I ask as we fall into step with each other. “Or are you just organizing the sale for them?”
“I work for the duke’s eldest son. Benjamin,” Sophie clarifies, as if I should know this information. “I’m his executive assistant.” She laughs dryly. “My duties range from attending to business matters to running his entire household.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Sometimes,” she relents.
I lead her back to the painting of the dark-haired girl. “This one. Can you tell me anything more about it other than what’s on the registry?”
Sophie studies the painting, pursing her lips. Then she flips through the pages on her clipboard, stopping to read.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing in here about it. A lot of these pieces belonged to Lawrence Tulley, the duke’s grandfather, who wasn’t diligent about cataloguing his collection. If you’re hoping this has any value of significance, I’m afraid it doesn’t. The valuable pieces are either being retained by the family or sold to museums.”
“No, it’s not the value I’m interested in. It’s the history.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” Sophie says before walking off to speak to one of the sale attendants.
I turn back to the painting and check the price. One hundred pounds.
Fuck it. I’m splurging. Dad’s going to have some questions when he gets the credit card bill, but my total haul isn’t so extravagant. Besides, this is an academic pursuit. He’ll understand.
For the drive to Jamie’s estate, the mystery woman rides onthe seat next to me. I begin to wonder how, presumably, a Tulley family member gets put out with the old bedsheets and ill-advised fad wardrobe. What relegates a person to a yard sale folding table? At some point, she meant enough to someone to have her portrait painted. When did that change, and why? What betrayal or tragedy befalls a family already so entangled in scandal and strife to prompt the wholesale disposal of this woman?
“You better keep that thing in your room.” Peering over his shoulder from the front seat, Lee scowls at the painting. “I don’t like its eyes.”
