Page 130 of Ironvine

Averting his gaze from the garden, Charles drained his glass of wine quickly. The wall next to him was lined with small paintings of landscapes, seascapes, ships in ports, small portraits.

“I don’t remember all these paintings here before, Aunt. Have you collected them?”

“Not I, nephew. Your mother.”

Georgina rose and went to the wall of paintings. “They are very fine. Are these two Sheffields, Aunt?”

Aunt Vivian sat up straighter. “They are indeed. You are familiar with the artist’s work?”

“I am, very much so. Anton Sheffield was a close friend of my father’s. He often invited him to stay here in the country and would rent a small house for him. I was quite fortunate, for whenever Mr. Sheffield was here, he was kind enough to give me lessons.”

“Did he?” Aunt Vivian’s eyebrows perched higher on her brow, her head tilting.

“Georgina is a most accomplished artist,” said Charles. “She’s using the conservatory as her atelier.”

“How wonderful,” murmured Aunt Vivian.

“Perhaps you could give me lessons, cousin?” said Alice.

“I would love to, Alice. Mr. Sheffield was a very generous teacher, and I’d be pleased to help you in any way I could.”

Aunt Vivian stood. “Who is your father, girl?” Her voice was odd, and it had Charles lifting his gaze to her. Her body was rigid as if she awaited an answer to a question she had longed for years.

“My father died some six years ago—Sir Edward Townsend.”

Aunt Vivian’s face paled, and her hands flew together.

“Aunt?” Charles put his freshly refilled glass down.

“You are Edward Townsend’s daughter?” asked Aunt Vivian, her tone almost ominous.

“I am.” Georgina shifted her weight under Aunt Vivian’s sudden somber scrutiny. “Surely you knew him if you lived here? You knew my mother.”

“I knew your mother, yes, but I had married and left for my husband’s home in Surrey just before your mother had re-married. Over the years my visits were brief, and I…” She swallowed hard. “Dear Lord,” she murmured, a hand to her temple. “I only returned to Penrose Park this past winter, after my husband passed away.”

“Aunt, are you unwell? Whatever is the matter?” Charles sat up.

Aunt Vivian’s eyes remained transfixed on Georgina. “You…you are Edward Townsend’s daughter?” she repeated, her voice low, faraway.

“Mother?” said Alice.

“I must show you both something, something very important. It cannot wait. It cannot wait any longer,” said Aunt Vivian. “Charles, as you know, I’ve withheld your mother’s belongings from you since her death. Although I knew you loved her, I feared your father’s influence could have swayed you, and I did not want her things destroyed or sold, such as these paintings.” She went to the other wall and unhinged a small, rectangular painting in a thick gold frame and brought it to them. “This was Sophie’s most precious possession.”

Charles and Georgina peered at the painting of a cottage, a blue sea stretching in the background, and a man and a woman standing together in the wild grasses before the small house.

“This a Sheffield as well,” Georgina murmured.

“It is, yes.”Aunt Vivian brought her hands together.

The artist had captured a casual glimpse of the couple who held hands. The lady smiled at the painter as she and her partner walked on through grasses buffeted in the wind. The lady’s blond hair was loose and long, and one hand was at her temple, keeping her hair from her face. The handsome gentleman held her hand, smiling softly at her. He adored her. They shared an intoxicating secret.

Georgina gasped. “Oh my God.”

“Yes, dear girl,” Aunt Vivian said. “Yes.”

Charles’s grip tightened over the braided gold frame, the blood rushed in his veins, rage fomenting in his middle. “Who is this man holding my mother’s hand?”

“That is your mother?” Georgina’s voice shook, her fingertips grazing the surface of the painting. “This man is my father.”

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