The words reminded him too much of the excuses he had heard before, vague and dismissive. He shook his head. “That was clearly a painting.”
Her eyes widened, caught, though she still tried. “You cannot be so sure—”
“I can,” he said sharply. He stepped further inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. “And I will not leave until you pull it out.”
She lifted her chin. “You cannot stand there forever.”
A dry laugh left him. “I served on the front lines, Eliza. I have stood in mud for three days with no sleep and no fire, waiting for an enemy charge. Do not think I lack patience. I will wait here for as long as it takes.”
The air between them tightened. She saw it, he knew she did, for her shoulders slumped. At last, with a reluctant breath, she bent down and drew the canvas from beneath the bed.
Tristan’s chest went still when his eyes settled on it.
The painting was damaged, the frame cracked, but the restoration she had attempted … it was enough to bring the woman’s likeness forward again. The colors in the canvas gave life to the face of the woman in the painting. A face he had not seen in years.
His mother.
Her green eyes looked back at him, and along with shock, he felt a deep wave of despair settle at the very bottom of his stomach.
Eliza looked at him, cautious. “I—”
“Where did you get this?” His voice cut through the chamber, rougher than he intended.
She swallowed. “Do not be angry. I only—”
“Do not tell me not to be angry,” he snapped. His hand tightened against his sleeve. “Answer my question.”
Her mouth trembled as she spoke. “I found it in the attic when I was exploring. It was left under a sheet, forgotten. Mrs. Yarrow said no one had touched it in years and that it would not matter if I—”
“I had no idea Mrs. Yarrow was in charge of the paintings in the manor,” he said coldly.
“She is the housekeeper,” Eliza tried, her voice lifting slightly. “So technically—”
“Do not get technical with me.” His tone cut hers away.
She stared back at him, frustration flaring in her eyes now. “What is the great matter? I am only trying to restore it. To bring it back to its original state. I am not destroying it, Tristan.”
“That is not the point,” he said through clenched teeth. “The point is, you chose to do this without a word. Without permission.”
She drew herself taller. “I am sorry, but in case you have not noticed, there is nothing else to do in this place. Nothing. I was only trying to give myself a purpose.”
“Then find another purpose,” he returned quickly. “Read, sew, walk the gardens. Do not go about taking things that are not yours to handle.”
Her eyes burned at him. “I did not know it was forbidden. If I had, I would have asked. I can take it back—”
“It is too late,” he said flatly.
Her lips parted in disbelief. “Too late? It is only paint. I can—”
“Please stop.”
“I will, when you stop trying to bite my head off over this. Like I said, it is just a pai—”
“Enough!” His voice cracked through the chamber, the word louder than he meant, final and sharp.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy as stone. She lowered her gaze, her hands trembling slightly against her gown.
Tristan drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. “Please forgive me. That was completely uncalled for.”
