Would Drew stand alone, too? The painting, the money—that was all for Amelia. He would buy the houses in her name. She should not have to save him. He must save her instead. From Tidsdale. From the loneliness she so dreaded.
He snapped up the picture, tore through the twine, and pulled off the cloth. He moved with careful fingers to unveil the painting. Paper stuck to canvas. Chalk and paint in oranges and browns and greens. Earthy colors. A man driving a wagon across a stream. A pastoral scene. Why this one? Why had his father left him this seemingly innocuous work of art? He dropped it back to the bed, where it landed just over a small square of paper.
Drew did not have to pick it up to know what it was. The letter. Atlas must have left it there just before leaving. He snatched it up before he could reconsider. He’d never thought to open it. Never thought he’d want to. But… a wagon crossing a stream through a forest? Why?
The wax lifted easily from the paper and the words swam up at him all at once. He closed his eyes, steadied the chaotic rhythms pumping throughout his body, opened his eyes and read.
My Dearest Andrew,
I miss you. I have missed you since you walked out the door. And I will miss you when my body is nothing but dirt and worms.
But I understand why you stay away. Now, when it’s too late, I understand everything. I would do it differently if I could. I would let you break my nose a thousand more times. It still would not be enough to atone.
I have watched you lead others to safety and belonging. I have watched you care for others as I failed to do for you and your siblings. The world is better because you are in it. Your bright intellect and your kind heart and your roaring passion. I have not seen you in ten years, but I would know you in an instant should we meet on the street. You would be the man with a strong heart and capable hands. Those hands tell me everything about you I need to know. I’m sure they are big enough to carry others across any river.
It’s why I’m giving you Rubens’sA Wagon fording a Stream. You have ever been intrepid, seeking out your education with a dogged determination, desiring to explore antiquity, forging your own path into business, and helping all those you can along the way. In the stream of life, you splash right though, regardless of the rapids while helping others cross. When I sit before this painting, I understand a decade of silence, my dearest Andrew, and I love you.
I love you. The last words on the page in his father’s wild and looping script. Despite ten years of distance, he could clearly hear his father’s voice, as if he stood beside Drew and read the letter aloud, see his hands gesturing wildly as they always had. Ungloved.
He let the letter flutter to the bed and looked at his own hands, turned them over and over—palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles. The last time he’d seen his father, his hands had turned to fists and sought out bone. What would he do with them now? Crush the letter, too? Crush the truths within it. Thetruth that Drew was a man of passion and feeling, not just of control and logic, and that he’d kept all of it locked up for a decade, afraid.
Terrified, really. Lettingitcontrolhim.
He could put the gloves back on. Buy a new pair of unnecessary spectacles. And continue for another decade. Scared, hiding. He could accept that fate.
Or he could do the more difficult thing.
Forgive. Himself. His father.
And love.
Himself. His father.
Love.
Amelia. A-mel-i-a. A dance for his tongue. He missed her, craved her. He flew to his greatcoat. He’d slung it over a chair when he’d arrived, let the water drip from it onto the floor, and now he rummaged through the pocket, found the paper hidden safe there.
He burst from the room. “Mother!” Her chamber was in another hallway on the same floor, and he made his way there. “Mother!”
“What is it, darling?” She poked her head out of a door then stepped into the hall. “Really, Drew. You do not have to wail so.” She brushed a strand of gray hair behind her ear. He’d seen her once in London a few months before his father’s death, and there’d been more yellow than gray beneath her bonnet. A year of grief had changed her.
A month of learning love had changed him.
He held out the paper to her. “Look. It’s my submission for my inheritance.”
“I already gave it to you, my dear. No art necessary.” She cocked her head and peered at the paper. “Is that a silhouette?”
“I know you’re going against Father’s wishes in giving it to me. I don’t want to do that. I painted this in Scotland, where I’ve spent the last month with Mrs. Dart. Amelia.”
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the paper. “Scotland with Mrs. Dart? A business trip?”
“No.”
“Ah.” The corner of her lip quivered as if she was trying to tame a smile. “May I see it?” She held a palm up.
“No. It’s… uh… incomplete.” It was not. He’d used the method she’d explained to him to turn the larger silhouette into a miniature their first night in London, and he’d kept the smaller painting in his pocket every day. On the table beside his bed every night. The painting was complete, both headand body. The outline of her arched back and small breasts had sent him into heated dreams every damn night.
His mother arched a brow at him then chuckled, locked her hands behind her back and leaned closer over the strategically folded paper. “It’s very like her. Excellent work.”
