Chapter 15 #2
As he got older and more intrepid, he would inevitably want to explore further afield, and Maria had to concede that the image of herself wandering through the forests with the other ladies of the Corset Chronicles was a rather appealing one.
Here I am imagining our future in which Gilbert is growing up in this house. I must rein myself in somewhat. Does Damien intend this marriage to last for any length of time? Or will he seek release when he has gotten what he wants from it? I might only be Damien’s wife for a matter of weeks.
Finally, as the sun was setting, the time came for Gilbert to return to the orphanage. He yawned and rested his head on Maria’s breast as they rode in Damien’s carriage back to Willow Street.
“I will see you again very soon,” she promised as the sleepy boy was handed into Rosie’s care.
Maria found herself tearful as she rode away.
She should have been happy, but could not help but be afraid of what the future held.
For all the changes that she could see in Damien, there was still a long way to go.
And he might, at any moment, pull the rug from beneath her feet and decide that the marriage had served its purpose. She scrubbed at her eyes angrily.
He does not have the right to toy with my emotions like this. I will ask him outright what his intentions are the moment I get back to the house. I will demand he make it clear to me. Then I will know, one way or the other!
But when Maria returned to the house, Damien was nowhere to be found.
She asked Mrs. Whitby to carry a message, but no response was returned.
Maria went to the library, the drawing and sitting rooms and even the dining room.
All were dark and cold. Finally, she found herself at the staircase which led up to the suite of rooms that were his personal quarters.
Out of bounds. Forbidden. Is he up there? He must be. There is nowhere else in this house he can be, and he does not go out.
It took an effort of will to place her foot on the first step.
It creaked loudly, almost prompting her to hurriedly step away.
Angry at her own timidity, she ascended quickly, trying not to wince at every sound made by the antique staircase.
She passed brooding suits of armor and swords whose blades were notched and dented, a chilling sign of their heavy use.
At the top of the staircase, she found herself in a corridor very like her own.
There was a set of doors to her right and another at the far end of the hall.
Thick curtains shrouded the windows, and the walls were thick with paintings of landscapes.
Taking a breath, she walked the length of the hallway and stood before the door at the end. Before knocking, she listened.
There was no discernible sound from within.
No snoring of a sleeping man. No conversation or sounds of movement.
Not even the crack of a fire. She knocked.
It sounded unbearably loud in the silent hallway.
At any moment, she expected Damien to snatch open the door or appear at the far end, striding angrily to demand an explanation for her presence where she had been told she could not be.
I have a right to ask, for my sake and Gilbert’s. I have a right to know what my future holds so that I may plan.
“You cannot offer marriage, even half a marriage and then expect all of your previous isolation to continue,” she muttered, externalizing her thoughts simply to give the stygian hallway a human quality.
She glanced back along the hallway. Only shadows looked back. There was no sound from within the room. She knocked again, louder. Then she cleared her throat.
“Damien. I am sorry for the intrusion, but I must speak to you.”
The dark silence mocked her with its emptiness.
She thought of the forbidden wing that Mrs. Whitby had warned her of.
The locked door on the floor below was in the same position as the doors at the other end of Damien’s hallway.
Those doors must also lead to the south wing.
Her mouth was dry, but she pushed through her nerves and strode the length of the hall once more.
Forgoing knocking, she turned the doorknob of one of the pair of doors, expecting to find it locked. It was not. The door swung open at a push, soundlessly. Beyond was a corridor lit by lamps spaced at intervals along its length. More paintings hung on both walls, and the carpet was a plush green.
At the far end, was an open door and the welcoming glow of firelight. She advanced, stopping at one of the pictures. She was no judge of art, but could see there was a distinct stylistic similarity with the others. A collection of paintings by the same artist?
I did not have Damien labelled as a lover of art. The man is an onion, layers upon layers.
At the far end of the corridor, she stopped, gazing at the room beyond in wonder. It was bedecked with paintings from floor to ceiling. Above the fireplace was a life-size portrait of a beautiful young woman holding a babe-in-arms.
Maria recognized Winterleigh in the background. It looked bright and new. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful with a joyful light in her eyes. She gazed down at the baby she held with the adoration of a religious devotee.
“Come in and close the door,” Damien said.
Maria jumped. He rose from a wing-backed armchair facing the fire. It had completely hidden him until he stood.
“There is a draught. I was about to close it myself. You have saved me the trouble.”
Maria did as she had asked, a shiver tracing the path of her spine as she turned her back to him.
“You are not angry?” she asked.
“Exceedingly. You have broken the prime commandment of Winterleigh that all are expected to abide by,” Damien said.
“You do not sound it.”
“Do I not? Should I shout?” Damien said, coming closer.
“Please do not. I have a headache from straining my eyes to find my way around this dark warren.”
“There is a simple solution. Find a house elsewhere whose owner does not suffer my affliction.”
“I don’t want to find another house. Or another husband,” Maria said.
Damien stood close now, towering over her. Her breath came in quick gasps. Her lips parted. She felt drawn to him, wanting to close the gap and melt into his embrace. But she held her ground.
“That is well. I do not wish you to either. Welcome to the south wing.”
He waved an arm at the room.
“It is remarkable,” Maria said. “All these pictures crammed into this space. Why not have them on display all over the house?”
“I am selfish. I want them all for myself,” Damien said, walking around the room.
Maria followed, beginning to limp more after her activity. She leaned heavily on the stick.
“Who is the woman in the portrait? That is the only picture I have seen that is not a landscape,” Maria asked.
“My mother. With me in her arms,” Damien replied, “and it is the only portrait she ever painted. She was a landscape master.”
Were all these paintings his mother’s? Maria gazed at the in wonder. She knew nothing about Damien’s mother, but it seemed as though she was an uncommonly talented artist. Damien’s mother’s brushstrokes could only be described as beyond reproach.
“She certainly was, though I am no judge,” Maria said. “I must confess that I have little knowledge of what constitutes good art.”
She winced as her ankle warned her that rest was needed.
Why does this dratted house have to be so large?
Damien turned, noticing the slight grunt of pain.
“Sit down,” he ordered, moving to her side.
“I can manage,” Maria protested.
“I noticed. You can manage to fall into a hole and almost spear yourself on a caltrop. You can manage to drive yourself into a dead end and almost into the clutches of brigands. You manage very well.”
His arm went about her waist, and she leaned on him.
There was no obvious sign of effort as he bore her weight and helped her to the chair, which was the room’s only furnishing.
She sat with a sigh, and Damien crouched in front of her, arms hanging over his knees.
He watched her with eyes that caught the firelight and sparkled.
“None of that is funny,” Maria said.
“I disagree.”
“You are certainly in a happier mood than I am used to seeing.”
Damien stood, looking around the room. She saw warmth in his eyes as his gaze slid over the paintings, ending at the self-portrait of his mother.
“You find me in my sanctum where I am at my most…relaxed. Had you ventured here a week ago, I would likely have flown into a rage.”
“What has changed?”
Damien pursed his lips. “One of those managing moments when I realized I had driven you to do something exceptionally dangerous. When I believed you might die.”
“Would that matter to you? Have you achieved what you wanted from our marriage?”
“It seems so,” Damien replied.
Maria hid the chill that ran down her spine. She had wanted to hear him tell her how far off the completion of his objectives was.
If he has achieved what he set out to do, then how long do we have left?
“My gamekeeper has reported no fresh incursions onto the grounds. It may be too early to declare victory, though. You need not fear that I am seeking annulment anytime soon.”
“I did not fear it,” Maria said stoutly.
“Ah, you believed I was smitten and could not live without you?” Damien said, lips twitching.
Maria tossed her hair, knowing how it bounced when she did so. She smiled coquettishly.
“I did make you blush, after all,” she said.
Damien chuckled. “You did that. Quite the achievement.”
Silence settled between them. Damien’s eyes drifted to the self-portrait of his mother, and his expression softened so much that it took Maria’s breath away. Never before had she seen her husband gaze at anyone or anything with such a gentle countenance.
“What happened to your mother?” Maria asked, suddenly.