Page 95 of Ironvine

“And now, as my husband, all is yours.”

“Georgina, I made sure you kept a healthy sum for yourself in the settlement so you would never be dependent on Hugh’s whims. John Holyfloke was shocked at my insistence on this point.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t want you to marry Hugh. I knew you had to, and I wanted to help you escape your fate in Devonshire as you’d asked of me. I knew what sort of husband my brother would most likely be, so I did what I could to protect you. I didn’t want you to be vulnerable, at least in your financial security. In that, I could assist you.

“The money your father left you was yours, it was only right. Hugh certainly didn’t need the money, nor would I have wanted him to use it at his leisure for other women or gambling or some such. Nor did I want you to be put in a position where you had to continually ask him for money. I wanted you to be able to take care of yourself as you saw fit.”

She lunged at him, embracing him. His chest caved in at her emotion, and his arms wrapped around her. “Charles, you were the only one in all this madness who gave a damn about me as a person, not a commodity to be bartered.”

His hold on her tightened. No words came, only a flow of warmth from deep inside his chest through his limbs. He had felt so powerless that day, discussing terms with Holyfloke for her engagement to his brother, Hugh smiling effortlessly at his side. He did what he could to gain her the best possible position, which had given him some measure of relief.

But now he was the one married to her, holding onto her in their home.

“I believe it had frustrated both your brother and your brother-in-law to no end that they had no control over your income in order to force your hand in some way.”

“I am sure of it.”

Releasing her, he gestured at the wrapped canvas. “What is this small painting of your father’s?”

She unwrapped it and showed it to him with a smile. A dark-eyed woman practically bare, laying provocatively on a bed strewn with coloured silks in a shadowy and exotic room, her straight-on gaze bold. “I’m so glad to see it again.”

“A true odalisque.”

“Yes. She’s quite...”

“Erotic.” He examined the darkly toned painting.

“Hmm, that she is. And utterly without shame or timidity. I always liked that about her.” Her gaze fell to his lips. “My father was a patron to a number of artists and often accompanied them on their travels to faraway places. He would bring me souvenirs of his trips abroad, which were small paintings and sketches done by the artists he traveled with.

“He had several larger paintings of the kind from a trip to Constantinople and Asia Minor where he journeyed with several French painters. The pieces were beautiful—ruins, landscapes, musicians and dancers, shepherds, shopkeepers. All of them otherworldly and exotic to me.”

“He must have amassed quite a singular collection.”

“He mostly sold work to his circle of acquaintances on the artists’ behalf. Whatever else he collected, he kept at his house in London, never at Fairthorn. Unfortunately, Mother sold them all along with the house after he died.”

“That is a great pity.”

“It was most upsetting to me. I wanted to keep it all. I often hoped there had been works he kept somewhere else.” She let out a sigh. “He was a true collector with a good eye, as they say.”

“Your mother seems not to have shared in your and your father’s affection for art?”

“She did not. In fact, I can’t think of any interests that bound them together, other than me. Philippa once remarked that theirs was a lovely infatuation that had quickly evaporated under the strains of daily life. What I do know, for Mother told me so herself, was that she did not want to be on her own as a widow. She was still young when her first husband passed away from a sudden illness, and she wanted to remarry to be a part of the course of society as she always had been.”

“Indeed.”

“My father was dashing and charming, by all accounts. The fourth child of a Viscount, who along with his family name to recommend him to society, had his own house in town and a good income which he used to support his interests and various pursuits. He was not much for the country—hunting parties and the like—nor for the social demands of town. He much preferred to travel and learn and explore. My mother was quite the opposite, so I suppose somehow the arrangement suited them both. Respectability with freedoms.”

Charles twisted his lips.Their freedom, yes. But what of their child?“Your mother must have enjoyed her life as the lady of Fairthorn without a husband’s interference.”

“She did, yes.” She adjusted the letters in their packets. “On every one of his trips, he wrote to me. Such wonderful descriptions of Rome, Naples, the Levant, Athens—he even sketched Athena’s temple at the Acropolis for me—all the wondrous things he saw, the fine food he ate, the colourful friends he made.” She touched the leather folder. “I thought them lost to me forever. Now, to have them back…”

“You loved him very much.”

“I did. He was a good father. Encouraged my interest in art, would take me to exhibitions, introduce me to artist friends of his, architects. He even arranged for a tutor for me, a painter from London who stayed in the village for a few months while he taught me.”

“Wonderful.”

---