Page 21 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist
Eliza stared at the firelight. “My brother,” she said at last, her voice cracking. “He was a cruel man. One of the cruelest on earth. I could not be happier to be away from him, and yet—” she hesitated, clutching the cup tighter“—and yet I miss him.”
Mrs. Yarrow tilted her head, studying her. “Miss him?”
“I know it sounds odd,” Eliza whispered. “But not having him near … not hearing his voice storming through the walls, not hearing his plans to use me for his schemes. It digs a hole in me. A wrong sort of silence.”
Mrs. Yarrow’s eyes softened. She leaned forward slightly. “You do not miss him, my lady. What you miss is the noise. The body grows used to its cage, and when the door is opened, it mistakes freedom for loss. Your mind is only trying to tell you that your old life was safer. But was it safer?”
Eliza looked at her, and the housekeeper’s tone rose just a notch.
“Tell me this. If you could return to your old house this very night, with no consequence waiting for you, would you go?”
Eliza lowered her gaze, and her thoughts twisted in her chest. She thought of Marcus’s sharp words, the weight of his demands, the constant fear of what foolishness he would try next. She thought of the cold rooms of that house. She thought of her paints hidden away, her every choice bound by him.
“No,” she eventually whispered. “I would not go back.”
Mrs. Yarrow smiled faintly. “And there you have it.”
Eliza’s lips pressed together. A little of the weight lifted, but another soon took its place. “All well and good, but what life is there for me here? My husband has barely spoken to me. He says nothing except what sounds like orders and has barely looked at me with any warmth. It is as though I were not even here. Is he always like that?”
Mrs. Yarrow gave a small laugh. “Yes. The earl has a kind heart, though you will not see it at first. He hides it under walls stronger than stone. No one has yet managed to bring them down. Do not take it to heart.”
“He hardly even looked at me,” Eliza said. “I am his wife. Should he not try to get to know me?”
“He may not know how,” Mrs. Yarrow replied simply. “War changes a man. You must not let his distance make you think you are unwanted here.”
Eliza took another sip of the tea. “Then what should I do? Sit here every day, waiting for him to speak to me?”
Mrs. Yarrow shook her head. “No, my lady. If I were you, I would make myself busy. The manor has more to offer than silence. There is the library, filled with books. There are portraits, each with its story. You may find your own ways to make this place less lonely. However, if you continue to wait for the earl, the days will feel long indeed.”
Eliza managed a small smile. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Mrs. Yarrow said, rising to her feet. “You must not think of yourself as trapped. This house can be yours as much as his. But you must claim it.”
Eliza leaned back, her eyelids growing heavy. She tried to speak again, but only yawned.
Mrs. Yarrow nodded. “The tea is doing its work. Come, my lady, let me see you to your room.”
Eliza rose and followed her into the hallway. When they reached her chamber door, Eliza turned to her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Yarrow. I do not know what I would have done tonight without you.”
Mrs. Yarrow inclined her head. “Goodnight, my lady.”
Eliza slipped inside and leaned against the door once it closed, the warmth of the tea still in her. The bed drew her, and she sank into it with a long sigh.
The sleep wasted no time before it claimed her.
***
The next morning, after a quiet breakfast in her room, Eliza stood by the window for a long while, her eyes drawn to the gardens below. The sun touched the flowers in a way that made them glow, and the soft green of the hedges looked almost painted already.
She hesitated before reaching for her sketchbook. It had always been her one comfort. With the book pressed to her chest, she left her room, walked down the hallways, and stepped outside.
The garden air was fresh and sharp, and the breeze carried the smell of roses. She found a bench near a patch of lilies and sat down, pulling her charcoal from her reticule. For a moment, she only stared, then her hand began to move, tracing the curve of a stem.
She couldn’t believe she let herself forget just how much of a joy it was to paint things she appreciated. Perhaps Mrs. Yarrow was right after all.
She was lost in the work when sharp footsteps came from behind. She turned quickly, her lips parting, half hoping it was Tristan.
