Chapter 12
It had been some days since the confrontation with the duchess, and Roderick believed that the estate was settling.
Perhaps settling was the wrong word. It was less like a person settling onto a bed, and more like earth settling after an earthquake.
Unsteady, but no longer throwing the inhabitants around.
He walked a few steps toward the eastern wing, determined to push through with his plans to have it become habitable to guests. He glanced at the light green walls with soft petal and leaf patterns in the wallpaper.
The rug along the hallway, softly illuminated by the window at the opposite end, had faded from years of being in the sun. The paintings were the same as he had seen in the rest of the house. Nature. Mythical animals. Flowers. All of them much too soft and feminine for his personal taste.
I could change them out for a Turner. Maybe even a Martin… Yes, a Martin painting would fit well here.
As he walked further down the hall, lost in his thoughts, he slowly became aware of something that had been growing around him.
Is someone… singing?
He froze in place and looked around. The doors that lined the eastern wing were all closed, save for one at the end. He slowly snuck over toward it, his feet avoiding the loose floorboards. Slowly, he began to recognize the song. His mother and Millicent had sung it for him as a child.
Bye, baby Bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting, Gone to get a rabbit skin to wrap the baby Bunting in.
Suddenly, he remembered sitting on his mother’s lap as a child while she embroidered and sang to him. Tears pricked Roderick’s eyes but he blinked them away, stepping toward the door and peeking inside.
The duchess had her back to the door, her hair pinned loosely, swaying as she sang. Her left hand held a platter of paints, a paint brush in her right. She did not paint like a novice. She must have spent decades painting. He frowned. Roderick had never seen any of her paintings before.
Wait…
With sinking horror, he realized he had.
When they first met. He had offered a blasé compliment, not knowing that he was speaking with the artist. He suddenly wished for the ground to open underneath him as embarrassment flooded his body.
What an awful first impression that must have been from her perspective.
He swallowed hard, looking around the room. Behind the duchess, he could make out several partially finished paintings. Mostly landscapes. Some still life paintings focused on flowers. He did not see any portraits, presuming they would be tucked behind other works.
As she painted, the ends of her hair caught in the light from the window, turning almost golden.
He had never seen her like that before.. Unguarded. Peaceful. Soft. His eyes traced over the lines of her neck, the delicate movement of her wrist; even the shift in her shoulders as she tried to find the right angle.
His chest tightened. He knew he should leave. He had caused so much turbulence just by arriving at the estate, and if he had not , she would be none the wiser, living peacefully in the life she had built.
I should leave…
He knew if she caught his curious gaze he would hear no end of it. Stepping back, he intended to leave as fast and as quietly as possible but his boot caught a loose floorboard.
Roderick winced. The duchess gasped and spun toward the door, paint smearing over the canvas as she turned. Roderick’s cheeks flushed, his eyes focusing on the floorboard that had cracked under his weight.
“I was not aware that the floorboards in this area were so… delicate,” he said, attempting to hide the embarrassment that was trying to claw its way out of his stomach.
“Mr. Vale,” she began, and he could hear the anger building under the soft tone of her voice.
“I am so sorry,” he said quickly. “I did not mean to intrude on your peace. I did not come here with the intention of disturbing you. I simply wanted to see the east wing and I heard you singing.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes hard as she focused on him.
“And how long were you standing there?” she asked.
“Longer than I should have been,” he admitted. Her eyes flickered with surprise before softening.
“I see,” she replied softly. For a moment, the two of them stayed in place, before the duchess slowly turned back to her canvas. Her hand did not move to start painting again. The ease and freedom that had been in her posture before had completely left her.
Some part of him wanted to speak to fill the gap. What exactly he wished to talk about, he was not sure. He glanced around the room again, his eyes tracing over the different paintings.
“I recognized the song,” he blurted out. She straightened slightly and looked over her shoulder.
“I… My mother and her friend, Lady Harcourt used to sing it to me and my brother, Oswin.”
“I did not know you had a brother,” she said, her body tensing.
“Well, not brothers by birth,” he explained. “Lady Harcourt took my mother in when she had nowhere else to go. Oswin is her child. He has been like a brother to me all my life, so the word slips out before I can remember that it is not entirely true.”
“I see,” she said gently. “But if you have been raised as brothers, I suppose it feels the same.”
“I suppose,” he replied.
“I have a sister, Cecily,” she replied softly.
“Miss Cecily,” he repeated. “What is she like?”
“Sweet, naive, and much too kind for her own good. I would not have her any other way,” the duchess said with a soft smile. “What about your family?”
Roderick chuckled slightly, leaning against the doorway.
“I believe Oswin would get on well with Cecily. He sees the best in everyone. He could be told a man is a villain and would attempt to befriend them. His mother, Millicent, is the most gentle soul. My mother and I were ever so lucky to be allowed into their home.”
“And what was your mother like?” the duchess asked. Roderick felt his shoulders tense.
“She was an excellent mother. Kind, affectionate, sweet,” he said, aware of the softness in his voice.
“I could not have asked for a better mother, but I went all my life unaware of the strength she was hiding until she passed. I wish she had spoken to me more before then, but I understand she had her reasons.”
“Women often do,” the duchess sighed.
“Indeed,” he agreed. “She and Lady Harcourt made sure that Oswin and I never lacked anything. Not affection, not education, not care. Oswin and I spent half our childhood in the library, and the other half in the fields with the horses.”
Roderick looked at her, suddenly aware of how much he had been talking. He expected her to be angry or annoyed. Instead, her expression had softened.
“Your childhood sounds peaceful,” she said, her voice almost wistful.
“It was,” he agreed, his chest warming. “What about yours?”
The softness in her expression hardened and she looked away.
“I… do not believe I was the easiest child to raise,” she murmured.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I always needed control. I needed everything in its place. My father and I were constantly at war with each other over that,” she explained, taking a shuddering breath.
“My sister was brought up in that environment, and she learned to hide from our tempers at an early age. My mother knew I needed a place where I could be free, somewhere control could be surrendered without it spoiling anything.”
She glanced at the canvas where a large yellow streak ran across it.
“She introduced me to painting. I used it exactly as she asked me to. I let it be my place where I could be free, and eventually I not only fell in love with it, but it became something necessary for me to continue living. It was the only safe place I had to let go.”
She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. “I improved over time, but never entirely let go of my need for control. After a while, I learned to use it in a way that helped Cecily. I did not wish for her to have to hide away for her entire life.”
Roderick’s heart warmed as he imagined what the duchess described. Her life was tense, but love and affection existed.
“Painting was the escape you needed,” he said softly. “You said it was your safe place to let go. What do you mean by safety?”
She tilted her head, like she needed to consider how best to explain.
“Knowing no one can take something from me,” she said. “Knowing I cannot be erased.”
“Do you think I am trying to erase you?” he asked carefully.
The duchess bit the inside of her cheek.
“I do not know,” she admitted, looking into his eyes. “Your actions say one thing, your words say another, and then you change how you act, and I am left completely adrift.”
He opened and closed his mouth unsure how to respond. No one had ever been so honest about how he was affecting them.
“That can be a discussion for another time,” she sighed. “Do you paint?”
Roderick laughed.
“I know nothing about art. I know horses,” he said. Something akin to a smile rested over her lips.
“That would explain your taste in furniture then,” she replied. Another laugh burst out of him, and he had to cover his mouth.
“I have never had anyone question my taste before,” he said with a slight smirk. The duchess nodded.
“I can tell,” her voice almost teasing. “You pick items that are much too heavy and dark for the space they are in. You may believe that you are adding your touch, but eventually you’ll find the rooms feel much smaller despite being the same size they had been before.”
Roderick’s eyes widened. He tried to picture it in his mind, and a sinking feeling washed over him as he realized she was absolutely right.
“Why did you keep the desk under the window?” he asked, wanting to understand her. She grimaced; clearly that room was still a sore spot.