Page 10 of Destined to be a Duchess
Marianne was in no state to argue with her. She had come to Moorhaven Manor looking for answers. What she had discovered almost made her wish she had stayed in Lambeth.
She was an earl’s granddaughter, and she couldn’t even begin to understand what that meant. Her father was not a wastrel that she could blindly hate. He had been a gentleman who had fiercely protected the woman he loved even though it had forced him to sacrifice everything—until it had killed him.
Her whole life had been a work of fiction. Marianne wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. All her memories, experiences, and dreams were based on lies. She couldn’t even begin to process what her mother had done, not while her entire being was coming undone. She needed to get her hands on those letters to prove the duchess’ unbelievable story.
Her tea had grown cold. The thought of consuming anything made her want to be sick anyway. She stood, raking her hands over her face like that would make her feel better.
“I need some time … to think about all this.” Marianne let her hands fall to her sides. “It’s too much to digest all at once.”
“Of course, I understand.” Catherine uncrossed her arms, moving back towards the sofas. “And you must be so exhausted from your travel. You may retire now if you wish. I will call one of the maids to attend to you and send Anne’s letters with her.” When Marianne remained silent, Catherine stroked her arm.
“Just as your father did not abandon your mother when so much was uncertain, I will not abandon you. You are a lady, Marianne. If you wish to start life over as one, you will have my support. And if you wish to respect Anne’s plans for you and return from whence you came, I can arrange that too. Your mother gave me her blessing to aid you, and I have waited for so long for that chance. I would like to honour her and Nicholas’ memories by helping you.”
“Lady Marianne …” Marianne whispered before she scoffed. “It doesn’t sound right.”
“Just give it time.” Catherine squeezed her shoulder. “You’ll be surprised how much clearer things will be after a decent night’s sleep.”
Chapter 5
The dull blade cut through the canvas with alarming ease.
Anthony stepped back to inspect his handiwork, turning the hilt of the painting knife in his palm. In the dim light of his studio, a large slash ran through the centre of the piece he had been working on before his departure. He had been a fool to think he could have picked up where he had left off after leaving the oils for so long. Halfway finished, the painting was amateurish in style and technique anyway.
With a sigh, he cast the knife onto the table beside the easel, where it clattered against the wood. He cleaned his hands off with a rag that was not nearly as soft as the handkerchief Miss Buller offered earlier, scowling as he took a closer look at the table and found it to be free of dust.
“I thought I would find you in here,” he heard his mother say from behind him.
Anthony glanced over his shoulder. She stood in the doorway, a black shawl draped over her shoulders. It had been a few hours since his return to the manor. In that time, the sun had almost set.
The last strains of light filtered through the studio’s floor-to-ceiling windows, nestled in the top floor of the manor’s northwestern tower. His father had commissioned the room, especially for Anthony’s fifteenth birthday, ten years ago, after consulting with his artist friend about the best light for painting.
“The studio has been cleaned,” Anthony replied, wrapping the rag around his fist. He leaned onto the small table. “I specifically asked that no one come in here while I was gone. I covered all the things that mattered to preserve.”
Catherine frowned in that motherly way of hers. He had missed that look. “To be fair, I respected your wishes up until you wrote that you would be returning home. I knew you would wish to paint and wanted to prepare the room for you.” She came inside, approaching him with slow steps. “I didn’t peek. Not once in those two long years. I know you always hated that.”
“I expect everyone does.” He tensed as his mother’s gaze fell to the slashed painting. He couldn’t step in front of it fast enough. Her mouth fell open in surprise, and Anthony cut her off before she could say anything. “It was ruined. I left it too long.”
“Oh, Anthony …” She shook her head, stepping back. “You’d been working on that for months. Why not at least try to have salvaged it?”
Guilty feelings writhed inside him. Even at twenty-five, he hated disappointing his mother. “What would be the use of that?” he asked. “I was painting it for Father, for his sixtieth birthday.”
And what with him being dead,Anthony thought,there is no use labouring over it anymore.
The painting had been a maritime landscape depicting his father’s favourite spot in all of Norfolk. There was a cliff named St Edmond’s Point where Anthony and his father Edward had often gone riding.
All their important conversations had taken place there, where the sea met the cliffs at the most perfect angle. It was the most perfect colour. The top of the cliff hosted lush thickets of heather, and they had provided a natural frame to the painting. Anthony could still feel the crisp breeze against his skin and smell the salt in the air. Everything about that spot had been synonymous with his father—with fatherhood.
“These things are not easy to discuss,” Catherine murmured, staring at the ruined painting. “A mother should never admit weakness in front of her child, but you are old enough now to learn that I am fallible.” Anthony sensed her hesitation.
His father had been fiercely pragmatic, never wanting to discuss trivial things like feelings. Anthony was the same way. “I misshim. And I missed you. And I wish more than anything that we could have spent more time together, just the three of us.”
“I know.” Anthony’s throat constricted, and he turned from his mother. He thumbed the fissure in the centre of the canvas. “Tell me how it happened.”
That was as much as he was willing to discuss. He needed to form an image of his father’s accident to make it feel real. It was too difficult to accept his death without having seen it first-hand. There was no body, no memory, and therefore no proof.
A man needed proof.
“It was at the races in Newmarket.” His mother’s tone changed, speaking matter-of-factly. “We’d all gone.”
