She nodded, but she didn’t look pleased by the memory.
“When we toured the gallery, you came across a painting that had no signature.”
“I think I remember.” She brought the glass to her mouth and took a sip. “No plaque either.”
“That’s just the thing,” he said. “There was a signature, indecipherable to you at the time. But I understood it, so faint it was barely discernible, once you pointed out the strangeness of the painting to me. The signature read Rousseau, and it occurred to me in that moment that the painting had some connection with my mother.”
Margaret’s glass hit the table with a softclink. “The woman in the window... I remember now. She was holding something in her arms...”
“Yes. My interpretation is that the figure was Celeste cradling Isadore. My mother painted the picture herself as a gift to my father.” He observed her glass, the water oscillating gently back and forth until it settled, her lips having marked the rim. “I did not know how to act in the face of that realization. It does not excuse my quick dismissal of you that evening, but it does explain why I behaved in the manner I did. You could not have been permitted to remain any longer and notice what I had seen. That was my line of thinking, though I regret it now.”
In the proceeding silence, Margaret turned slowly from the fire to Alexander, and in the firelight, he saw her eyes shine with tears. She promptly batted them away, forcing a smile. But he had seen enough to know that she had carried his rejection with her all these years.
“That makes perfect sense,” she murmured, reaching again for her glass. “And I understand now why the painting was removed.”
Alexander started. “Removed?”
“I walked the gallery just before finding you here. The painting you mentioned is gone.”
“Are you quite certain? You did not mistake it for another?”
“I am positive.” She looked surprised, setting her glass in her lap. “I walked the same path we had on the night we first met. The Gainsborough painting came first, and then there was an empty space where the, well, where the Rousseau painting had once been.”
Alexander stood abruptly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He looked into the fire as it crackled, trying to remember if he had ordered the painting removed. No such thing had ever happened. Someone else must have taken it down.
“It wasn’t you,” Margaret said.
“No.”
“Then perhaps it was Carlisle. He arrived at Somerstead Hall before us. It’s entirely plausible he removed the painting before we arrived.”
“That would be most likely.” Alexander turned halfway toward Margaret. “But Carlisle does not know the truth about that painting. He questioned me about it once, and yet I never revealed its importance to me. I suppose it is not unfathomable that he drew the correct connections himself. A strange thing to do, nonetheless.”
“We agreed that he did not seem well pleased by the existence of Isadore. He may be trying to hide any evidence of her. For what reason... Who can say?”
“Only Carlisle,” Alexander murmured. “But he is not here to be asked.”
A moment later, they caught the rumblings of a carriage arriving outside.
Or is he?
Alexander looked decisively at Margaret, who followed him wordlessly out of the library. In the entrance hall, the grand doors yawned open, emitting a chilly breeze. The butler stepped inside first, bowing for Alexander. There was a flurry of activity on the steps, with a view of a busy courtyard. Alexander braced himself for Carlisle’s return.
But it was not Carlisle who entered Somerstead Hall.
It was Isadore.
She grasped a small, lonely traveling trunk, pausing in the entryway as her eyes locked with Alexander’s. Dark crescents marked her undereyes. They had not been there the day before. Her clothes, however, were the same.
“You have come,” Alexander said, thunderstruck. “I had not expected you to arrive so soon.”
“When a woman like me receives an invitation from a duke like you, it seems unwise to ignore it.” Isadore glanced around,flinching as a footman walked past her with another, larger trunk. “I hope this is what you intended, me coming here.”
“Yes.” Alexander stepped forward to greet her, and she performed an awkward curtsy for him and Margaret. “Yes, of course. I am relieved to see you. There was little time for introductions yesterday. Allow me to introduce my wife, Margaret Pem— Margaret Somerton, Duchess of Langley.”
He was relieved when Margaret stepped forward and took Isadore’s free hand, looking far more collected than Alexander felt as she greeted their guest with a gracious smile.
“How strange it feels to be called that—the Duchess of Langley, I mean. You and I are both coming to terms with our new circumstances, Miss Bell. It is a pleasure to host you at Somerstead Hall.” She took Isadore’s trunk and handed it to the butler, then took her by the arm. Margaret was a natural, moving so effortlessly, with so much charm, for the benefit of his sister, that it made him ache. “I hope the journey was not too challenging for you. You would have been more than welcome to drive up with us from London.”
