I breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed his shoulder where my hand lay, proud that my brother was mature and wise enough to admit his mistakes and seek to remedy them. Many men would have hidden such errors in judgment from the men they admired, but Trevor had instead prudently sought their advice. Though I wasn’t sure why he couldn’t have confided this to me before, rather than make me worry.
We turned to stare down at our parents’ graves again, with my arm linked through his and my head tipped to the side to rest on his shoulder. Standing thusly, I couldn’t help remembering that cold March day when we’d stood a few paces apart, almost in the same way. It had been nearly a week since our mother had been laid to rest, and still being children, Trevor and I had not been allowed to attend the funeral. So with all the confusion and macabre curiosity of an eight-and a ten-year-old, we had escaped from our governess and come to the cemetery ourselves to see where our mother now rested. I had been frightened to approach, but Trevor had held my hand, letting me know I wouldn’t have to face it alone. Our father had found us several hours later, still rooted to the spot, trying to come to grips with the fact that our mother was truly never coming back to us.
I was as grateful now as I had been then for my brother’s solid presence beside me, his warm arm wrapped around mine.
“Do you know why father agreed to the marriage proposal from Sir Anthony?” Trevor asked.
I glanced up to find him staring at our father’s grave, a pucker between his eyes. I shook my head.
“He thought that since Sir Anthony was a self-made man promoted from the ranks of a lower class that he would better understand and support your painting. He worried a gentleman would never appreciate your need to create art, would never allow you to exhibit it, because gentlewomen simply didn’t do such things.”
I could appreciate the consideration my father had given the matter. After all, I’d been subjected to ridicule and belittlement from the members of the upper class since before I could remember. My first exhibit in our family’s town house in London at the age of seventeen had been met with derision and scorn. Such things would not have been easy for many gentlemen to accept or condone.
“I’m certain he had no idea what Sir Anthony’s real intentions were.”
“I know that,” I told Trevor stiffly. “None of us did.”
“But he did know something was wrong.” His voice was solemn. “Had he not been so ill at the end, so unable to travel, I think he would have confronted Sir Anthony. It was his biggest regret.”
I was about to ask my brother how he could possibly know such a thing when he turned to look at me.
“He told me. On his deathbed. And he made me promise to look out for you.”
I felt something inside me swell and expand, pushing out some of the anger that had seemed a part of me for so long, burrowed deep down in my heart as it was. My eyes traveled over the letters of my father’s name carved into his gravestone.
“He loved you, Kiera. He loved us all.”
I nodded, sniffing back tears. “I know that. I’ve always known that.”
“But love doesn’t make us perfect.”
I gasped a laugh, swiping away the wetness gathering at the corner of my eye. “Oh, how well I know that.”
“Then why are you being so tough on Gage?”
I stopped and turned to Trevor, trying to read from his guarded expression how much he knew. “Did you eavesdrop on us?”
“No. But it was hard not to notice how angry Gage was when he nearly collided with me on the stairs yesterday evening. Or how ferociously you were glaring at the portrait you’re painting of him.” His eyebrows rose in expectation.
I turned aside, unable to meet his gaze. I hadn’t even heard him come into my studio last night.
I considered ignoring his question, brushing it aside. But I did want to talk to someone about it, and without Alana here, I had few options. It would be a somewhat awkward topic to discuss with my brother, but really, who better was there to give me advice? He already knew most of my history and he’d seen Gage and me together. What’s more, he was a man. He might be able to offer me some insight.
So I gathered my courage and told him the truth. “He proposed marriage.”
“Ah,” Trevor murmured, as if that explained much. “And you said no.”
“I . . . I suppose so,” I replied, realizing I hadn’t actually given him an answer, though the “no” had certainly been implied.