Chapter Thirteen #2
He picked up another stick and stirred the flaming fire.
‘No, I don’t think I can blame my parents.
I just didn’t want to get tied down, I suppose.
’ Although he had to admit there might be a kernel of truth in what she was saying.
He had never wanted to become like his father or have a marriage like his parents’.
‘Even to the fine girl with the starry eyes?’
He laughed. ‘She was a figment of my imagination. But what of you? Did you ever want to marry?’
‘I am—’
‘Married,’ he finished for her. ‘Yes, but did you ever want a marriage that you weren’t forced into? A happy marriage, like your parents’?’
‘Well, like the fifteen-year-old Jacob, I too had my fantasies. And we have both learnt that fantasies are not real.’
She was right. He knew it, but right now, with the fire crackling, the light drumbeat of rain on the slate roof and a pretty young woman at his side, it did feel as if his fifteen-year-old fantasy had come to life.
Margaret hadn’t exactly told a lie. She had never fantasised about sitting on the floor in front of a small fire in a hermit’s cottage, the rain pattering lightly on the roof above them, with a man who affected her in ways she had not thought possible.
Probably because such a scenario would be more romantic than she could ever have imagined.
But if she had fantasised about such a scene, the man she was sitting next to would be in love with her. He would want to be with her, not just making the best of a situation that was not of their choosing.
‘That was a loud sigh,’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me what caused it?’
Margaret had been unaware that she had sighed and she most certainly would not be telling him the reason. ‘Sitting beside a fire always makes me sigh,’ she said. Another half-truth.
‘Yes, there’s something rather romantic about a fire.’
She tensed, hoping he could not read her mind.
‘Perhaps you could compose a poem about it,’ she said, aiming to keep a teasing note in her voice.
‘What rhymes with fire?’
‘Dire, liar, conspire—’
‘Ire, quagmire, pariah—’ he added, laughing.
Margaret joined in with the laughter, while ignoring the first word that had sprung to mind. Desire.
But how could she not think of desire, when sitting next to the most desirable man she had ever met—a man who was her husband, a man with whom her mother had informed her she would soon be sharing the most intimate of experiences?
A man who had told her that such intimacy would not be part of their marriage.
She shifted uncomfortably on the straw mattress. She would not think of that. She would just enjoy spending time with a man whose company was becoming increasingly pleasurable, a man with whom she would be friends, nothing more.
‘So did you have any hiding places when you were a child?’ he asked, and she suspected he too wanted to get off the subject of romance.
‘Not as a child, but as an adult I’ve spent a lot of time hiding from my mother.’ She pulled a comical face of horror and was pleased that he laughed.
‘Well, you’ve made your mother happy now and hopefully you’ll never again feel the need to wind your way up a pillar and flee through a window to get away from her. She was positively rapturous on our wedding day.’
Unlike the bride and groom.
‘I wonder what your parents would think of this marriage?’ she asked.
He huffed out a breath and poked the fire with a stick. ‘I believe their marriage was an arranged one, so I suspect they would see nothing wrong with people being made to marry against their will. Apart from that, I have no idea what they would think and care even less.’
Margaret picked up a stick of her own and joined him in poking the fire.
‘My father certainly disapproved of the man I grew into,’ he continued, as if talking to the fire.
‘And I have to admit that upsetting him gave me enormous pleasure. While he was alive, every time my name appeared in the gutter press I could picture him storming around his empty house in a state of apoplexy. Even after he died, I could still imagine him turning over in his grave in self-righteous fury at the way I was disgracing the precious family name.’
‘But who were you really hurting?’ she asked in a barely audible voice.
He stopped poking the fire but said nothing in response and they both sank into a thoughtful silence.
‘I think the rain has stopped,’ he said a few moments later, looking upwards.
She followed his glance. The patter on the roof had indeed stopped.
He pushed the remaining pieces of wood apart so they would quickly burn out, then stood up and reached out his hand to help her to her feet. ‘We should make a move in case it starts again. We wouldn’t want to be trapped here all night.’
He sent her another of those devastating smiles that always caused her to quiver inside. ‘Although it would provide me with the opportunity to show you my skills in catching and cooking game.’
‘It’s tempting, but I think I’d rather see what Cook has prepared for us.’
‘Very sensible. I have to admit my cooking skills never got much better than my poetry writing.’
They emerged from the hut to a world made fresh by the rain. The canopy of trees had kept the ground almost dry, but water still dripped from the leaves and a lovely clean scent filled the air.
He took her arm and they retraced their path back through the woodland towards the open lawns and past the ornamental garden towards the house, chatting amicably about the gardens and the surrounding countryside.
Margaret was pleased the tense posture he’d adopted when they’d first begun their walk had left him and, rather than moving at a cracking pace, his stride was now more relaxed, his manner more in keeping with a stroll around the tranquil grounds of a country estate.
When they entered the house, they both stopped and looked up at the stern man who had caused Jacob such grief during his childhood. The portrait dominated the entrance and managed to exert an unpleasant influence, as if he was still present in the house and still terrifying his young son.
‘You know what we should do?’ she said, still staring up at the portrait. ‘We should banish your father from this house.’
‘What an excellent idea. I should take down that eyesore and put my boot through the old tyrant’s face.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Margaret gasped out in shock, causing him to frown in surprise. ‘An artist toiled over that painting and, despite the subject matter, it really is quite a masterpiece. It would be a sin to destroy it.’
‘All right, let’s just send him off to the attic, where he can join my mother.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Don’t worry, I haven’t imprisoned her in the attic. Father put all her things up there, along with her portrait, after she died, and they’ve never seen the light of day since.’
He stopped a passing footman and asked him to bring a stepladder. When it arrived, she expected Jacob to give instructions to the servant, but instead he climbed the ladder, removed the portrait and handed it down to the waiting footman.
‘Right, to the attic,’ he said, taking the portrait from the servant. She followed along behind, up two flights of the grand sweeping staircase, then to the narrow uncarpeted stairs that led past the servants’ bedrooms, up another even narrower flight and through a small door that led to the attic.
‘Right, let’s put the two portraits together so they can continue to torment each other for an eternity,’ he said, looking around the dusty room, with its boxes, trunks and piles of old ledgers piled against the sloping walls.
‘Where is she hiding herself?’ He crossed the creaking wooden floorboards, lifted several boxes and moved them aside, then turned around a portrait.
‘Here she is.’
He lifted up the painting so Margaret could see.
She crossed the room to join him, surprised by what she saw.
It was obviously the work of the same artist who had painted his father, but instead of depicting a morose subject, as Margaret had expected, the woman in the picture appeared gentle and reserved.
Wearing a ruffled pale pink dress, her hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun, she was the epitome of a fashionably dressed mid-century woman.
The only ornamentation, apart from her wedding ring, was a gold locket around her neck.
Margaret gazed at her, finding it hard to reconcile what Jacob had said about her being a cold, unloving woman who’d never wanted her only child with the woman who was looking out from the canvas in such a pensive, wistful manner.
One hand was placed protectively over her stomach and Margaret wondered if she’d been pregnant at the time. If so, her gesture was not that of a woman who did not want her child, but that of a woman guarding something precious.
Jacob placed the portrait back against the wall and leant his father’s against it, so the two would be staring at each other, but their faces would be hidden from the world.
She looked down at the boxes stacked beside the paintings. Several were full of gowns and day dresses.
‘It’s a shame all this expensive material is going to waste,’ she said, picking up a silk gown bedecked with lace and intricately embroidered.
‘Molly is such an expert with needle and thread. She even has one of those sewing machine things and can whip up a dress in no time. I’m sure she could use all this material and make clothing for the servants and your tenants. ’
‘Tell her to help herself,’ he said with a shrug.
She lifted up another beautiful satin gown embellished with finely crafted embroidery. It was a crime that such intricate work had been abandoned to the moths and she knew that Molly would be able to work her magic and create something fashionable with what was left of the exquisite fabric.
She looked back in the box to see what other hidden treasures it contained and found the gold locket Jacob’s mother had been wearing in the portrait.
Pushing on the small clasp, she flicked it open.
One side contained a miniature of the same young lady in the painting, the other was of a small child and a lock of blond hair was curled around inside.
‘Jacob, I think this must be you.’
He looked over her shoulder at the contents of the locket. ‘It’s just a baby. They all look the same and that locket could belong to anyone.’
‘No, it’s the locket your mother was wearing in the portrait.’ She pointed to where the portrait leaned against the wall.
‘That proves it’s not me. That portrait was painted before I was born.’
Margaret lifted up the lock of white-blond hair. ‘But this has to be yours.’
‘My hair is much darker than that,’ he said dismissively.
‘Hair often darkens as one grows older.’
He walked across the room as if suddenly interested in the pile of old books and ledgers stacked in the corner.
She looked back down at the locket and noticed that the miniature of the baby covered another picture. She gently prised off the top portrait and found a miniature of Jacob’s dour father.
‘She’s placed a picture of you and a lock of your hair over that of her husband.’
‘Well, we can hardly blame her for that. Even an unwanted child is better than having that ghoul glaring out at you,’ he said, flicking through a book and not looking in her direction.
She sighed, let the locket’s delicate gold chain curl gently in her hand, placed it to one side and lifted another gown from the box.
Underneath, she found a haphazard pile of letters that appeared to have been tossed into the box.
She picked one up and scanned the contents, hoping it would give her some insight into the woman Jacob had said never wanted him.
‘Jacob!’ she gasped out as she picked up yet another letter and quickly read through it.
He stopped what he was doing and looked over at her. ‘What have you found now?’
‘Letters to your mother. And they are about you.’