Page 9 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“We’re all different. The madness of the king isn’t my madness, but am I even mad? I just don’t know,” he exclaimed, banging his fists on the floorboards.
The more he dwelt on it, the more confusing it seemed, and Sebastian could do nothing but hope for clarity, even as the paintings gave little by way of an answer. Later that afternoon, after beginning another canvas covered with red and yellow stripes, he made his way downstairs where he found his stepmother in the drawing room, busy with her embroidery.
“Oh, there you are, Sebastian,” she said, for she never gave any deference to his rank or position.
“I was just seeing to some business,” Sebastian replied, for he had hoped to have the drawing room to himself.
Victoria looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Are you feeling all right? You’re not still worrying about all this curse of the Sinclairs business, are you?” she asked.
Sebastian nodded.
“Did you have any idea about my father? What signs did you see in him? How did he know what was happening?” Sebastian asked.
He had seen some of the signs for himself, but his father had kept his condition hidden as best he could and had not admitted to any of the early signs Sebastian now feared. But the duke wanted to know about his father’s condition, to learn as much as he could, and to know if what he feared was really going to come true.
“He wasn’t afraid of it like you are. I suppose he assumed your grandfather’s illness to be his own, rather than a curse on the family. But there were signs. He’d grow agitated and frustrated when he forgot simple things,” she said,
“Like the masquerade ball,” Sebastian replied.
His stepmother looked at him and smiled.
“That was one thing, Sebastian. It doesn’t matter. Your father was always forgetting things. He forgot himself in the end, as tragic as it was. He forgot me, too, and you, and the memory of your mother. He was just a shell, and it was kinder for the good Lord to take him,” she said.
Her words were very matter-of-fact, and Sebastian could not recall seeing her shed a single tear for his father, even as his death had been prolonged and agonizing.
“And you don’t see those signs in me?” Sebastian asked, but his stepmother shook her head.
“Not yet, no,” she replied.
Her words were not particularly reassuring, but Sebastian could only nod and thank her before leaving the drawing room and making his way out onto the terrace. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, even as his mind crowded with worries and fear he’d suffer from madness, neglect his duty, question the line of succession.
“It’s all too much,” he thought to himself, fearing he might not cope with such anxieties hanging over him, even as he reminded himself he was not yet mad, and might not necessarily become so.
“You’re not your father, Sebastian,” his mother had once told him, and in this, at least, Sebastian could only hope she was right.
***
“Well, at least you look pretty this evening, Rosalind, though I’m still not sure about you mask. Couldn’t you have chosen something less ostentatious?” Rosalind’s mother asked, as they rode together with the duke to Graystone Manor, where the masquerade ball was to take place.
The duchess’ own mask barely covered her face. It was made of silk, and tied with a ribbon, but there was there no mistaking her features, while Rosalind’s mask entirely covered her face.
“It’s a masquerade, Mother. It’s supposed to be ostentatious,” Rosalind replied. She was tired of arguing with her mother over petty things.
They had been at odds ever since the dinner with the Duke of Northridge, and the duchess had had spared no opportunity to remind Rosalind of the necessity of making a good match.
“I don’t want a repeat of your debut, Rosalind,” she had said, and Rosalind had promised to do better, even as she had no intention of changing her behavior.
But the masquerade was different by its nature. Men and women danced freely, and the rules of invitation and acceptance were different. A masked woman could invite a masked man to dance, in the same way a masked man invited a masked woman to do so, and Rosalind was pleased to think she had a modicum of control over what was to come, even as she knew her mother would still try to interfere.
“Look at all these people,” Rosalind exclaimed, as the carriage drew up outside Graystone Manor.
They had traveled a little way out of the city center, following the course of the Thames to the estate at Richmond, where the house was surrounded by pleasant parkland, and approached along a tree-lined drive. Half a dozen carriages were pulled up, and liveried footmen stood stiffly at the bottom of the steps leading up to the main doors of the house.
“Now, we must look out for the Duke of Northridge,” Rosalind’s mother said, though Rosalind knew it would be impossible to distinguish anyone among the throng of masked revelers.
The only person she would recognize was Elizabeth, whose own mask was on the compartment seat next to Rosalind, the matching pair to her own. As the carriage drew up, Rosalind spotted her friend standing next to one of the stone lions flanking the steps, and she waved to her, not waiting for the compartment door to be opened, before clambering out and hurrying over to her.
