Chapter 12 #2
Magnus’s fingers tightened around the parcel, just slightly, though his expression remained composed. “I do not listen to the words of a drunk man, Rowan. Sober up, all right?”
Rowan continued chuckling softly beside him as the carriage rolled to a stop.
The sun was low, casting the manor in a warm golden hue, the last remnants of day slipping toward evening.
The quiet of the estate seemed almost surreal after the clamor of travel and meetings, and Magnus felt a rare flutter of anticipation at returning.
The carriage door opened, and the butler greeted him promptly. “Your Grace, welcome back.”
“Thank you, Keene,” Magnus answered.
“Dinner will be served in your study shortly.”
Magnus shook his head. “No. Prepare for dinner with Dorothy and Eugenia in the formal dining room. Let them know.”
The butler inclined his head. “Shall I take all the bags to your chamber, Your Grace?”
“Leave the one I’m holding,” Magnus said, gripping the parcel tightly. “I wish first to see Eugenia.”
As he began ascending the grand staircase, Rowan lingered behind. “I think I’ll get comfortable in the drawing room, perhaps enjoy a few more drinks before dinner.”
Magnus turned. “Rowan, if you take any more drinks, you are not invited to dinner with us. Go to your guest room and retire if you plan on drinking.”
“Oh, come on, I am not drunk,” Rowan argued.
“Yes, you are.”
“I am not.”
Magnus did not respond anymore. Instead, he made his way to Eugenia’s room, the echo of his footsteps soft against the polished floors.
When he opened the door, he found Jenny perched on a small chair beside the bed, a book spread open in her lap, while Eugenia leaned close on the bed, giggling quietly at something Jenny had read.
The sight made him pause for a brief moment, the warmth in the room softening the usual rigidity in his chest. But the instant they noticed him, Jenny rose to her feet. “Your Grace. Welcome,” she curtsied, quickly excusing herself.
Eugenia, seated on the edge of the bed, straightened immediately, her back rigid as she met his gaze. Magnus closed the door gently behind Jenny, then walked over to the bed and lowered himself onto the edge, leaving a careful space between them.
“Have you been good while I was away?” he asked.
Eugenia nodded once firmly, then hesitated, tilting her head slightly.
“How have you been feeling?” he continued, his eyes softening as he watched her small expressions. “Has anything bothered you while I was away?”
Eugenia shook her head vigorously.
“Did you play with Dorothy?”
Eugenia nodded, and a faint smile crossed her face.
Magnus noted the smile and smiled too. “You like Dorothy, don’t you?”
Eugenia nodded again, this time with a wider smile.
Magnus reached into the bag he had carefully carried from the carriage and pulled out a small, exquisitely crafted doll. Its dress was hand-stitched, the porcelain face hand-painted with the softest of features, and the hair curled into delicate ringlets.
“I found this in York,” he began, his voice unusually gentle. “From a very skilled artisan. People have been clamoring for her works, and I thought… well, I thought you might like her.”
Eugenia’s eyes widened at the doll, and a soft gasp escaped her lips. She reached for it then paused, her small fingers hovering above the porcelain. Magnus smiled faintly at her hesitance, encouraging her without a word.
“Not only that,” he continued. “I brought you this.” He lifted a small globe, finely polished, the oceans gleaming under the lamplight.
“It is… educational, yes, but also full of stories. You can come to me if you wish to know more about the places, or you can ask Dorothy—she will know, too, and perhaps tell you tales that I cannot.”
Eugenia’s lips quirked into a tiny, eager smile as she reached to spin the globe gently, tracing the lands with her small fingers.
Magnus shifted slightly, a faint stiffness in his spine softening as he pulled from the bag once more, revealing a delicate keepsake box.
“Lastly, this,” he said. “I saw a little girl in York holding something similar. It seemed precious to her. I thought you might like it, too. To keep little treasures, or things you find on your walks… things that are yours alone. I am not sure how—”
He paused mid-sentence, suddenly caught off guard by the smile on Eugenia’s face. It was not the fleeting grin of a child seeing a new toy. It was different. She seemed elated. As though he had brought her lost treasures.
Magnus found himself taken aback, stepping slightly back as though the smile affected him. He recalled Dorothy’s words, her gentle insistence that gifts from him would mean more than anything anyone else could offer, and in that moment, Magnus wondered to himself if perhaps she had been right.
Eugenia looked at him with eyes that sparkled as though the room itself had brightened for her, and Magnus’s throat tightened.
He cleared it, trying to mask the feeling that was welling within him.
He was proud of himself for at least trying and proud of Eugenia for showing gratitude, even if she could not speak it.
Before Magnus could linger too long on Eugenia’s radiant smile, a gentle knock came at the door.
“Your Grace?” came Rowan’s voice from the hallway, slightly breathless. “You need to see this.”
Magnus raised an eyebrow. “See what?” he asked, momentarily torn between curiosity and lingering attention on Eugenia.
“Trust me,” Rowan said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Just come.”
With a reluctant glance at Eugenia, Magnus excused himself. “Very well. Stay here,” he said softly to the girl, who nodded, still clutching her doll.
Rowan led the way swiftly, his steps echoing down the hall. “There have been a few changes at the estate while you were away,” he began. “Beautiful changes. Renovations.”
“Renovations?” Magnus questioned.
“There’s one… one in particular that will blow your mind.”
Magnus furrowed his brow. “Do explain, then. I am hardly in the habit of being ‘blown away’ by anything,” he murmured, though a faint curiosity prickled at him.
The pair reached the drawing room, and Magnus paused in the doorway, trying to discern what had captured Rowan’s enthusiasm.
Rowan gestured with a flourish. “There. Look.”
Magnus stepped forward, and his gaze fell on the fireplace. There, hanging prominently above it, was the painting he had hidden in the storage. A portrait of himself, Evaline, and his father.
He froze.
Magnus’s chest tightened as his eyes swept over the painting, lingering on his father’s face.
A sudden, hot surge of anger coiled in his stomach, and his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Every calculated thought, every carefully measured composure he prided himself on, seemed to crumble as he stared at the familiar faces in the portrait.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in years, he felt a raw, unrestrained fury bubbling up.
The rest of the room seemed to fade away, leaving only the painting and a storm of unspoken reckoning that threatened to consume him.
“Who did this?” he rasped, glaring at the painting.