His mouth quirked upward in his customary smile and his eyes twinkled with their familiar playfulness, but there was also a depth to them, a seriousness that belied the flirtation. Just as there was a certain steadiness, a firmness of posture that contradicted the carefreeness of his stance. This was the type of man who not only could charm you, but would also stand firm when the storms of life railed, or hold you gently when they simply became too much to bear.
I stared down at the hands which had brought this image to life and felt sick to my very soul. There was no way Gage could have missed the affection with which I had wrought the painting. That must have been what he’d seen.
But why hadn’t he simply said so? Why did he have to speak in riddles and vague comments? Why couldn’t he just speak plainly?
I swallowed my frustration, bitter as it tasted, for the truth was, whether he’d spoken it aloud or not, my regard for him was not reason enough to propose marriage. Perhaps that had made him more certain of my answer, wrong as he had been, but it only meant misery later on if Gage did not reciprocate that devotion.
Suddenly desperate to escape my studio and the house, I pushed myself to my feet and went in search of my warm winter cloak and half-boots. Frost coated the ground, crunching under my feet as I stepped off the portico. My breath fogged in the crisp, early morning air, floating upward into the deep blue sky. I wrapped my arms tightly about me and began to walk at a brisk pace, allowing my feet to take me where they would.
I crossed the west field and wove my way through the barren wood separating our property from the village. The shops along the main street were still locked up tight, it being too early for most people to be up and about. The low sun at my back cast my long shadow ahead of me down the road. I contemplated it as I came upon the lych-gate to St. Cuthbert’s Church, and on an impulse, I entered.
My steps wove between the gravestones, absently noting the names of families who had lived in Elwick for generations, standing side by side in death as they had in life. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself beneath the old oak tree that guarded over my parents’ graves. I stared at my mother’s inscription and then reluctantly forced myself to look at my father’s more austere marker. There were no pretty flowers or scrollwork, just simple block lettering, as our father would have wanted it. Ever practical, ever pragmatic. Even when it came to his youngest daughter’s marriage.
I frowned, feeling the bitterness I’d denied for so long that I’d stirred up last night blacken my heart. For years I’d been making excuses for my father’s lapse in judgment. He had been the one man I’d known I could always trust and rely on, no matter what, but in the end he had also failed me, spectacularly. I had been afraid to admit that, afraid to feel this intense anger for the man who had loved and raised me, especially when he wasn’t here to defend himself. But after last night, after watching Gage’s and my relationship crumble to dust around me, I could no longer push it aside. I wanted to scream at him again, only to do so would mean shrieking at an inanimate gravestone in the middle of a churchyard at dawn, and would surely convince anyone who happened to hear me that I was insane.
Regardless, my face must have been twisted up in quite a nasty expression, for when my brother suddenly appeared at my side, he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Father would have understood your being furious with him,” Trevor told me in a gentle voice. “He would have expected it.”
I turned my scowl on my brother. “Did you follow me?”
He replied without hesitation. “Yes. I saw you leaving Blakelaw through my bedchamber window, and thought you might like some company.”
I frowned down at our father’s grave. “Does it look like I want company?”
“Actually, yes.”
I furrowed my brow, trying to decide if he was attempting to be funny. When he didn’t elaborate or even acknowledge my aggravation, I rolled my eyes and returned to my contemplation of our parents’ eternal resting place.
We stood there silently side by side, the skeletal branches of the oak clattering together overhead. Between the tree and my brother, I was pretty well shielded from the wind, but not from the cold of the frozen ground, which I could feel even through the soles of my boots. I shifted from one foot to the other, allowing my agitation to grow. Anything to escape this sorrow pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
“I’m sorry, Kiera,” my brother said, his voice heavy with regret.
I turned to meet his gaze, surprised by the anguish I saw shimmering in his eyes.
“I should have protected you from this. I should have done something to stop it.”
“How could you?” I protested. “I never confided in you, in anyone, while Sir Anthony was alive. I . . . was too scared, too . . .” I swallowed “. . . ashamed to admit what was happening.”
“Yes. But I knew something was wrong. I knew you were unhappy. You’ve never been good at hiding your emotions.” He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you think Sir Anthony kept us away as often as he could?”