We paused before one of the tapestries. The rich palette of browns, gold, forest green, and burgundy wove together to form a depiction of children at play. I allowed my eyes to slide over the pleasing lines and hues, but kept my mind firmly fixed on our conversation.
Speaking of Damien and his mother had made me all too aware of their continued absence, as well as that of Michael’s fiancée and Philip and Alana. Michael would have to be a fool not to notice the significance. That I was the only one here in Philip’s family’s stead made me more than a little uncomfortable, and uncertain whether I should tread lightly.
“You are well?” I asked, pretending to study the tapestry.
He turned to face the tapestry as well, with his back to the room. “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” he surprised me by admitting.
We fell silent, listening to the rumble of the others’ voices across the room as I contemplated my next question and whether to pry at all.
His gaze flicked toward me. “How much do you know?”
“Almost nothing,” I admitted, allowing him to take the reins of the conversation.
It took him so long to respond I began to worry he would not tell me. I could press him with questions, but it would be so much easier if he willingly confided in me. The tension I had witnessed earlier was still in him; I could feel the muscles in his forearm tighten beneath my hand.
“Do you remember Will?” he finally asked, his voice heavy with repressed emotions.
I glanced up at him. “Of course.”
His gaze met mine, seeming to scour my face for information, as if my expression could tell him something he wanted to know. “There was such a large age gap between you, and then he was off fighting on the continent. I wasn’t sure.”
“Fifteen years,” I confirmed. “But he stayed at Swinton Lodge even after the rest of your family decamped for Dalmay House and London.” I looked away, suddenly unwilling to let him read my face as I relived my memories. “I daresay I saw more of him during that last year than anyone. He acted as my drawing master while Father struggled to find a replacement when Signor Riotta resigned.”
Michael appeared genuinely surprised. “Really?”
I nodded. “For almost six months.” I stared unseeing at the Goya tapestry, my mind conjuring the soft gray eyes of William Dalmay shadowed with the pain that had seemed ever present in his gaze. Even when he laughed it had been there in the tight lines at the corners of his eyes. “Your brother might have been the best drawing master I ever had,” I added in a soft voice.
“I never knew that,” he murmured. “Father said he’d been painting again that last summer. But I never thought . . . I guess I just always assumed he was alone.”
I felt his curious gaze on me, and I knew why. In my mind’s eye, I could see one of Will’s last paintings, the grotesque images, the distorted bodies. Even within context, they were bizarre and disturbing. As a fifteen-year-old girl they had given me nightmares, though I never mentioned them to Will. I couldn’t add to his already heavy burdens.
“Did you . . .” Michael struggled to voice the worry tightening his features. “Did he ever show you his artwork?”
I turned to him, able to answer honestly. “No.” He had never shown me. I had seen them by accident.
He exhaled in relief and turned back toward the tapestry. I studied his profile, wondering why, if at all, Will’s paintings mattered to Michael’s current troubles. Had he kept them? Was that what troubled Lady Hollingsworth? Had she or Caroline seen them, and worried what they meant—what ghastly secrets the Dalmay family hid?
“Michael, what is going on?” I asked, tired of dancing around the issues at hand. “Why did Lady Hollingsworth send for Philip? And why did that servant’s presence at the top of the stairs earlier trouble you so?”
“Ah, you saw that, did you?” He spoke lightly, but I could tell he felt anything but amused.
“Yes. And if Philip had not been so concerned for my sister’s health, I suspect they would have seen the oddity in it as well. What is going on?”
He sighed and closed his eyes, as if gathering the strength to speak, when the soft tread of feet pulled our attention toward the door.
I believe he would have answered—that the truth would have come out right then and there—had my brother-in-law and sister and Lady Hollingsworth and her two children not chosen that moment to enter the drawing room. I had been flustered by their continued absence, and now I was irritated by their sudden appearance. Had I been a four-year-old I would have stamped my feet. Only the looks on Philip’s and Alana’s faces kept my frustration in check. Something was definitely wrong. My sister’s gaze sought me out, and the grooves between her eyes seemed only to deepen.