It is said you cannot change your spouse, but that’s a lie. Few others have daily access to a person’s heart, where every word and reaction is another stroke painted on the canvas of one’s reality.
~A scientist’s observations on love
A little round face appeared at the door, and Clara Gresham smiled, beckoning the maid in. “Come, Essie. Has there been word on Mrs. Gresham?”
“Nothing yet.”
“You don’t think there’s truly anything the matter with her, do you?”
The maid shrugged, her brow pinched. “I’m no doctor, miss. She’s complained something fierce as long as I’ve worked here, though.”
“That’s simply her way. Come, see what I’ve made.” Clara pushed back from the little desk and admired her handiwork. She’d painted a tiny forget-me-not on each invitation, her brushstrokes so minute that they blended into one iridescent blue flower.
“Why, Miss Clara, they look like real pressed flowers.”
She giggled. “Quite a lark, don’t you think? Like sending out a small piece of Crestwicke.” She’d been doing her best to convince her family to visit, but so far they’d given nothing but excuses. They were terrified of Crestwicke, she knew, and all its finery. Perhaps these invitations, complete with a specific time and date, would encourage them to come. Loneliness had begun to slice deeper into her soul, demanding a fill for the ever-widening crevice. Nothing repaired that quite as well as one’s own family.
Burke strode into the room, throwing Essie into a sudden fit of polishing as if she were scrubbing the life out of the poor silver spoon. Clara straightened in her chair and dropped a blank paper over the invitations. He would not be happy that her relations were coming, for they were a blemish worse than paint on a new sleeve. He wouldn’t dare forbid it, but she had no desire to suffer through his reaction either. She’d picked a date that coincided with the horse show in Bristol, the one event guaranteed to take her husband away from Crestwicke, and he never had to know they’d been.
“Good day, my dear.” He dropped the nicety in her direction and bent over a pile of letters on the far desk, leafing through each one. At least he wasn’t hovering, but even across the room he made her uncomfortable.
With a glance his direction, Essie leaned near. “Miss Clara, I was wondering if there had been any news. You know. Anything about a certain . . . letter. Because . . . well, there’s been another one.”
Burke stopped paging.
Clara stole sidelong glances at the man, well aware that her husband’s hearing was impeccable. “It’s proven more difficult than I thought to learn anything about it.” She lowered her voice, hoping he was absorbed in whatever he was doing. “Are you certain it’s from the same man?”
Essie nodded with a glittering smile. “He said so many nice things in this one, and the handwriting is the same. It was left on the washbasin. Oh Miss Clara, it’s so very romantic!”
Clara grabbed the girl’s hand and squeezed a warning, stealing covert glances at Burke. They definitely had the man’s attention now, and she could hear the lecture forming: You’re too familiar with the staff, Clara. Why do you chatter away with a maid as if you’re both kitchen wenches?
He watched her with a heavy-lidded gaze. Perhaps he only looked absently their way as some business matter consumed his mind. He might not have heard a thing at all.
Clara lifted her stiff shoulders and forced them back. “It would seem to be an ill-advised affection, after all. Let us remember that. This isn’t a romance novel.”
“No, it’s not.” She grinned with irrepressible joy. “It’s quite real, and that makes it even lovelier. I’ve been able to think of little else for days. Do you suppose they truly are from Mr. Gabe, miss? Or was he merely delivering that first one?”
Clara dug her fingertips into the maid’s arm until she cried out. Clara shushed her with a sharp look.
Essie lifted a glance of apology and lowered her voice to the softest whisper. “I suppose I’m simply anxious. I’ve never had a secret admirer before. Heavens, I’ve never had an admirer before, and it feels quite nice. I suppose I’ve let my romantic notions run away with me.”
“Quite all right, Essie. But let’s keep this between ourselves.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She glanced back up to check Burke’s face and see if he heard, but he’d vanished. Her stomach clenched. Having him in the room had rattled her nerves but having him suddenly disappear left her uneasy. Shaken.
“We’ll continue to work on it, Essie. Your admirer will be found before a fortnight has passed, I’m certain of it. Just leave it to me.”
A silly, lopsided grin stretched her freckled face. “I thank my lucky stars for the day you came to Crestwicke, Miss Clara.”
She rose, shifting uncomfortably. “You must call me Mrs. Gresham. See if you can remember. At least when Burke is about.”
“Oh yes, of course, Mrs. Gresham.” She bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, and Miss Clara.”
She steeled herself against correcting the maid. “Yes?”
“Might I have it back sometime? I do miss reading it.”
Clara squeezed the maid’s hand. “Of course. Let me simply find something with Gabe’s handwriting on it to compare. The man doesn’t write much, apparently, for I’ve found no trace of his hand yet.”
With a small smile of approval, Clara excused herself and slipped out of the room with the invitation clutched tightly to her. There was only one place in this house she might go to evade her husband, and to hide the invitation until it could be posted. She climbed the grand staircase, strode down the long hall, then ascended the steep attic stairs where the light seemed softer and the air easier. She took a breath and nudged open the door to her haven but jolted back. There before the window, blocking the light with his large frame, was Burke.
Her breath caught. He didn’t seem to be aware she was there, or aware of anything at all, really. What was he doing? She edged the door open a little more.
Horror of horrors! There on the easel was her very private work in progress, the cathartic painting dredged from the depths of her pained heart. The one no one was meant to see. Especially the man now staring at it with rapt fascination. Every nuance and brushstroke was exposed to the intensity of his glare.
Dread pulsed over her. How terrible it looked from this distance, like the work of a mad mind. Dark and bleak with sweeping, angry lines and angular features, the portrait exposed every minute detail of her husband’s profile, from the hard set of his jaw to the narrowed eyes glowing with irritation. Lately she had superimposed the matching face of his mother over half of his, both glowing with ire toward the tiny image of herself she’d penciled in the corner. That part hadn’t been painted yet, but she wished with painful intensity that none of it had.
She spun away and closed the door, leaning her back against the wall. She might die. Yes, that must be what happened next, because she simply couldn’t imagine anything less occurring once she left this attic. Fear tingled. What on earth would become of her marriage after this?
Breathless, she hurried down the stairs and tucked herself into the little window seat in her bedchamber, trembling hands over her face. What haven was left to her now that her dear little attic space had been invaded too? And what would he do to her out here?