Chapter Twenty-Nine
Christiana examined the painting on its easel. Amelia had painted in her bedchambers so Hugh would not get wind of what she was doing—but over the past few days, he had been so occupied with running the estate, and her, that it would never have occurred to him to check.
Christiana pushed the surge of guilt back.
“It’s perfect,” she said. If anything, it emphasized the burns across Hugh’s face, Amelia having spent more time depicting them than anything else in the painting. His clothes were a vague and somber black, and the background was a gray smudge. She made him appear almost monstrous.
And yet, for all that, Christiana loved it.
There was one painting of Hugh in the gallery, from before the fire.
There, he was almost impossibly handsome, his dark hair brushed back from his forehead, his skin unmarred and whole, and a worldly expression in his brown eyes.
That version of him was arrogant, fully aware of his position in the world.
That version did not know pain or sacrifice.
The man who stared at her from Amelia’s painting had known all these things. In his eyes, she read patience and kindness, a quiet endurance spawned from his determination to survive.
The reason Amelia had painted it was so she could ensure no potential servant would flinch at the sight of it, but Christiana found herself wishing she could hang it in her private parlor.
“I know,” Amelia said, watching her expression. “He looks like him, doesn’t he?”
“He would hate it.”
“Yes.”
“After this is done, I ought to destroy it.”
Amelia nodded slowly. “That would probably be for the best. But…”
“But,” Christiana agreed.
“Will it work, do you think?”
“Perfectly.” Christiana attempted a smile.
She had risen from Hugh’s bed that morning, and it sometimes felt hard to believe that this was her life.
But she wasn’t done—they had made progress, admittedly, but she would not rest until Hugh took his place in this community, in Society, in the world, as he deserved to.
“So will you do it?” Amelia asked. “Dismiss Mrs. Partridge and Penwick, I mean.”
“I did a little investigation, and it seems they have bought a house at the very edge of Grancott,” Christiana said. “A sizeable property.”
“Too large to have been purchased on their income here, you mean?”
“The worst part of it is Hugh might well have helped them if they had asked.” Christiana sat on the edge of Amelia’s bed, her head aching.
“If they wished to marry and buy a house, he might have given them some money with which to do so. They’ve served the family for a long time. Instead, they insisted on this.”
Amelia shook her head. “I always thought they quietly disliked us all. And Mrs. Partridge has openly insulted you.”
Christiana glanced at the portrait one last time, then drew the sheet over it. “I’ll speak with them today.”
Mrs. Partridge’s eyes bulged. “You can’t mean that, Your Grace.”
“Of course I can.” Christiana sat back in her chair, positioned behind the desk.
Hugh had his study, and although she preferred to do her reading in the library, she found it preferable to do other work and discuss matters with the staff in a private parlor she had commandeered for the very purpose.
“I am your mistress, and you have not only stolen from His Grace but insulted me. And even if you hadn’t, the fact remains I can dismiss you if I so choose. ”
Penwick stood silent beside Mrs. Partridge, his hands behind his back. Although his face resembled stone, a muscle in his cheek twitched. “And I suppose you have His Grace’s permission?” he asked in that grave, almost-ponderous tone he had.
“I do,” Christiana said. “But even if I had not, I would still be within my right to do this. In fact”—she planted her hands on the desk and rose to her feet—“I ought to have done so when I first noticed the discrepancy in the accounts. How is the new house, by the by? Is it everything you had hoped it would be?”
Mrs. Partridge’s face turned white, and Penwick inhaled sharply. “Your Grace—”
“I have no objection to matchmaking within the household, so long as it does not interfere with your duties,” Christiana said.
“But I object to you misrepresenting the accounts in a manner that allows you to pocket the excess. And I know precisely how much excess it has been over the past seven years. Mr. Arnold, no doubt, has glanced over the accounts to see they’re present and correct, but he has not made the calculations.
” And no wonder—it had taken her hours upon hours to check through the seven years’ worth of records since the fire.
Oddly, the total sum embezzled almost exactly matched the cost of the cottage Penwick had purchased.
Mrs. Partridge’s upper lip quivered. Gone were the bluster and resentment; in their place was a woman who realized the axe had finally come to fall. “Please, ma’am,” she said.
The audacity of the pair finally settled on Christiana. “How dare you? How dare you see a family’s misfortune and scheme how best to take advantage of it? Don’t you think they suffered enough? Is loyalty too much to expect?”
They stood silent before her, offering her nothing.
She could never have forgiven them, but especially not now.
“You are to be dismissed immediately, without a reference or character. If you go now, and go quietly, then we will not pursue legal action at this time. But if you dare speak a word of this to anyone—if you have the audacity to pretend as though you have been wronged—then we will bring the full force of the law on you. I’m sure the magistrate would be very interested to learn you have been stealing. ”
Penwick straightened to his full height, which was unimpressive. “You have no proof.”
“I have circumstantial evidence. And, let us not forget, the word of a duke. Are you one to deny him? Whose word do you think the magistrate will weigh more heavily?” She held his gaze for a long moment, waiting for the moment the truth set in.
They both knew the way of the world. Christiana had seen it with her own eyes, and she had heard terrible stories. So often, the arm of the law did not extend into the homes of the aristocracy, no matter their crimes. But it did come down hard on those less fortunate.
Hugh would have let the offense against himself slide, perhaps out of a belief that he did not deserve his position or fortune.
And so Christiana would take up arms in his defense because however much sympathy she had for ordinary people, they had capitalized on someone else’s suffering, and that she could not abide.
Years of being treated as lesser built in her chest.
“You will take your things and leave the premises immediately,” she said. “There is still enough light for you to make it to the village; from there, you may do as you choose, so long as you do not cast aspersions on the duke. Am I understood?”
Mrs. Partridge stared at Christiana for a long moment, as though debating whether to fight against this insistence. But in the end, she seemed to conclude there was nothing she could do; she inclined her head stiffly and stalked from the room.
Penwick—Mr. Penwick—hesitated by the door. “A word of advice, Your Grace,” he said, though the disdain in his tone made it plain the advice was a thinly veiled insult. “His Grace has given you plenty of rope. Be sure you do not hang yourself with it.”