But apparently that was not all my brother meant. “Your life at this moment is wide open with possibilities—ones I suspect you never thought to have.” His eyes were very serious. “Do you want to marry again? Do you want to have children? Do you want to keep painting portraits? Do you want to continue to be involved with these inquiries?” He stopped and turned to look at me. “The choice is yours, Kiera. I mean that. Whatever it is you decide, I’ll support you. But I want you to think long and hard about what it is that you do truly desire. This is your opportunity to choose the life you want.” He shook his head. “No more hiding. No more fear.”
I was speechless in the face of my brother’s pronouncement. I had been conscious that my life was at a crossroads, but I had never really contemplated all of the choices that were open to me. That he would have given this matter such intense consideration himself, and love me enough to support me in whatever decisions I made was nearly overwhelming. As a female in our male dominated society it was a rare thing indeed to encounter so much devotion and respect. Though, I should have known to expect nothing less from Trevor.
Emotion clogged my throat.
“You don’t have to decide right this minute,” he said, clearly sensing how much his gift had astounded me. “But you do need to decide soon.”
I squeezed his arm closer to my body in gratitude, barely able to speak. “Thank you.”
He merely smiled and turned our steps toward home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The house was quiet when Trevor and I returned. I didn’t know if Gage had still not risen or if he’d hidden himself somewhere, but regardless, I wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet.
Instead, my steps were drawn once more to my studio in the back corner of the conservatory. Beams of winter sun shone through the glass ceiling and walls, fully illuminating the space. Earl Grey had lolled onto his back on the wicker settee, basking in the warmth. I sat down beside him and he rolled to his side, allowing me to scratch behind his ears. His chest rumbled with the comforting sound of his contented purr.
I turned to stare at Gage’s portrait. It was the first painting I’d completed since finishing William Dalmay’s posthumous portrait, since I’d lost my ability and my desire to paint. And it just might have been my best work ever. If nothing else, I owed Gage my thanks for that—for inspiring my passion again, for giving me back my gift, and for distracting me enough with his presence and this investigation to keep me from agonizing over every step of the process.
Without having given in to my overwhelming urge to capture Gage on canvas, I’m not sure how long I would have floundered. Or whether I might have simply given up.
No. I couldn’t imagine ever doing that. My art was too much a part of me, even when it was painful.
So I supposed that answered one of Trevor’s questions. Yes, I would continue to paint portraits, whether I took them on as commissions or not. It was who I was.
But what of the rest? Did I want to marry? Did I care about having children?
Five months ago I would have unequivocally said no—no hesitation, no doubts. But that was before I met Sebastian Gage. Before he’d pestered and cajoled his way into my heart. Before he’d proved what a good and honorable man he was.
He and Trevor were right. It was unfair to compare Gage to Sir Anthony. They were nothing alike. I couldn’t imagine Gage ever using me or hurting me the way Sir Anthony had, but it was hard to release that fear completely. There was always a sliver of doubt, knowing as intimately as I did how the husband held all the power in marriage. There was always some danger when giving over so much control to another person that they might abuse it.
So what it really came down to was trust. Did I trust Gage enough to take that chance?
I turned to stare at the row of barren pear trees lined up along the west side of the house and thought of the times Gage had saved my life—first at Gairloch and then at Banbogle Castle. I thought of all the times he’d grown angry when others had failed or insulted me. I recalled the strength of his arms holding me tight when I was distressed and the nonjudgmental way he had accepted the worst about me and my past once I shared with him the truth.
Then I examined all the ways he’d trusted me. To assist with his inquiries without botching them. To interview suspects and provide him with my impressions and the benefit of my reluctantly accrued anatomical knowledge. He’d shared with me the pain of his mother’s murder, and risked my scorn to reveal his woodworking hobby. And I suddenly realized that in all the investigations I’d worked with him, he’d never forced me to do anything against my will, unless it was for my own protection. Normally I was fighting him because he was trying to shield me from the horror, not because he was urging me to follow along.