Page 71 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
He stepped closer and the scent of paint welcomed him, reminding him of her. He reached the door to peek in and saw that she was engrossed in a landscape. She was painting the rugged beauty of Strathcairn again, each hill taking shape under her hand.
Anselm entered with a soft knock and as soon as his eyes landed on her, he was full of gratitude at the sight. They had missed their afternoon walk due to a meeting. Until this moment, he had not realized how much he had longed to see her because he had missed the now familiar ritual. He walked to stand beside her and quietly observed her work for a moment before speaking.
“Things have been looking up for Verity, you know,” he said, a hint of relief in his tone as he loosened his collar. “I have received word that her newest novella is receiving excellent notices, even amongst those who usually disdain such work. And I am not sure if it is just me, but she seems… happier.” He paused, then continued with his gaze still resting on her painting. “Would you agree?”
“I think ye are right,” Marion said as she continued her strokes. “She seems comfortable here and I too have noticed a change in her for the better.”
“You have done well, Marion. Which is why I have come here. You do not have to report to me anymore. I do not need you to tell me of her comings and goings. I need to trust that if she needs my intervention…that she will come to me directly.”
Marion lowered her brush and set it on a nearby palette before turning to face him fully.
“Thank ye, Anselm,” she said as she threw her arms around him unexpectedly. “That truly means a great deal. But… I think ye should tell her yerself. She would be so relieved. So proud that ye feel she is wise enough to be her own lass.”
He sighed as he pulled back from her hold and walked to the window so he might open it to let in the evening air.
“It is more complicated than that, Marion. I have been responsible for her care for so long. Since she was a small child. It is difficult to… to simply stifle that instinct even though she is a grown woman now. In fact, to see her as an adult now, capable of navigating her own life and her own choices… is a lot to grapple with.”
“What do ye mean?” Marion asked.
Anselm hesitated, his jaw tightening at the thought of opening up. Yet, once the first words came the rest flowed like a waterfall.
“After our mother’s death…” he began, his voice low as he paced the room. “You see, our father was not fit to manage the duchy. Not truly. If I am being honest, even before that.
“What do you mean, Anselm?” she asked as she walked across the room to join him by the window.
“The responsibility fell to me, even before he was gone. Verity was so young. So vulnerable. I could not let her see…”
He did not elaborate more because he couldn’t. He could not put words to the depths of his despair when they realized his father was slowly losing his cognition. He did not know how to explain how his mother had truly died, yet he knew the implication was clear that there was more to the story than most knew.
“But Verity is not that lassie anymore, Anselm,” she said softly. “Obviously yer family has been through more than I ken… but I also ken that she is a woman who is finding her voice. She needs to see that ye trust her too, to feel it.”
“I suppose,” he said. “I will think about it.”
“Perhaps… perhaps if ye simply reached out to her. Spoke to her and told her that ye truly see her as she is now. Ye might be surprised at her reaction.”
“I will… I will try, Marion.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the soft brush of wind against the open window.
“Do you miss him?” she whispered.
Anselm’s breath hitched as a faint sigh escaped him. He looked away again, towards the shadowed corners of the room. He nodded slowly.
“I have been missing him for a long time now. Even when he was still here.”
“I miss me parents too,” she said softly. “Every day. It never truly leaves ye, does it?”
Anselm watched her walk over and stand in front of the Strathcairn landscape on her easel. She looked at it and then toward him.
“I remember when me maither used to paint with me in the fields behind Strathcairn Hall. And me faither… he always had a story for everything. Even the rocks in the stream had a purpose, things they had seen in the centuries they had sat there. And then one day… they were just… gone.”
Anselm’s heart ached for her as her voice trembled. He recognized the effort it took for her to recall what had happened so many years ago.
“I felt utterly alone,” she continued. “I had no siblin’s to look to, only meself. It was like I was adrift in an endless sea, with nothing to hold on to. I was passed from the McCrae’s to the Harlowe’s…then the Viscount…”
Anselm listened. His expression grew darker with each word and his hands clenched into fists by his sides.
“And the notes before the weddin day… they just confirmed everythin’ I feared about me future. That I was somehow tainted, ruined, and undeservin’ of happiness… without me real family on this earth.”
