She studied his face, then lifted her chin. “Yes.”
“How did you know?”
Because she and Millicent had concocted the plan and Millicent had seeded it into her father’s brain. She decided against confessing, not until she knew why he was so angry. “He didn’t tell me, but once I heard of your reputation, his…purpose wasn’t hard to guess.”
“Not for you, or for any of those others interested in the mystery of your mother’s death.”
A vise slowly tightened about her chest; she ignored it. “I suspect that’s so, although I haven’t thought much of it.”
“They’ve certainly thought of it.”
She hoped so, but his tone sounded vicious. Unsure of his direction, she made no response.
After a long moment of, distinctly grimly, studying her face, he abruptly said, “Let’s take off the gloves here.”
When she raised her brows in surprise, he clarified, “And speak plainly. For some reason that I’ve yet to fathom, you are suspected of being in some way behind your mother’s falling from that terrace”—he stabbed a finger toward the place in question—“to her death. Your father”—his jaw clenched; hands gripping his hips, he swung and paced away—“being one of those who credit portrait painters with an ability to see beyond any superficial façade, has commissioned me to paint a portrait of you, presumably convinced that I will see, and through my painting reveal, your guilt or innocence.”
Reined temper—nay, fury—invested every sharp, decisive movement; it resonated in his tone, in the crisply bitten-off words. Swinging around, he stalked back to her. Halting before her, he looked into her face. “Is that correct?”
She held his gaze, replayed all he’d said, then nodded. Once. “Yes.”
For one second, she thought he’d explode. Then he swung violently away, hands rising to the sky as if invoking the gods whose gardens surrounded them. “In the name of all Heaven, why?”
He swung back; his gaze impaled her. “Why does your father suspect you? How can he suspect you? You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
She stared at him, dumbstruck, for one heartbeat quite sure the earth beneath her feet had tilted. Slowly, she blinked, but his expression—the charged conviction she could see in it, limned in silver—didn’t change. Softly, she exhaled; the vise about her lungs eased a notch. “How do you know?”
He did know, absolutely; it was written in his face. He’d already seen the truth where others did not.
Impatient, he pulled a face, but the intensity in his expression didn’t waver. “I see—I know. Believe me, I know.” He moved closer, his gaze razor sharp as he examined her face. “I’ve seen evil—I’ve looked into the eyes of more than one man who truly was evil. Some people hide it well, but if I spend sufficient time with them, they’ll slip and it’ll show—and I’ll know.”
He paused, then went on, his gaze steadying on her eyes. “I’ve been watching you carefully, albeit for less than two days. What I’ve seen is all manner of emotions, complicated and complex feelings, but of the shadow of evil I’ve seen not a trace.”
After a moment, he added, “I would have by now if it was there. What I see is something quite different.”
His voice had changed, softened. Enough for her to feel she could ask, “What do you see?”
He looked at her for the space of ten slow heartbeats, then shook his head. “I’m not good with words—I paint things I can’t describe.”
She wasn’t sure that was the truth, but before she could think of how to probe, he asked, “I need to know before I speak with him—why does your father think you were in any way involved with your mother’s death?”
Apprehension flared. “Why—what are you going to speak with him about?”
His temper returned; the smile he flashed her was all restrained violence. “Because I have no intention of being his unwitting pawn in judging his daughter.”
“No!” She grasped his sleeve. “Please—you must do the portrait. You agreed!”
Her desperation rang clearly. He frowned, then he twisted his arm, breaking her grip, catching her hand. She felt his fingers move over hers, then they stilled.
A moment passed, then he sighed. He raked his other hand through his hair, met her eyes again. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you simply tell him you’re innocent? Force him to believe you—surely he will? He’s your father.”
His frown deepened. “You shouldn’t have to go through this, to face what amounts to a public examination with me as your inquisitor, laying all you are bare.”
Concern, open and sincere, colored his tone—concern for her. It had been so long since she’d been offered such straightforward and unconditional support—and more, defense—she wanted to close her eyes, wrap herself in all the tenor of his voice conveyed, and wallow.
But he was confused, and he had to understand—had to understand and agree to paint her portrait.
She drew in a long breath, felt the cool night air reach her brain. She glanced around; her gaze fell on the bench around the central fountain, presently silent and still. She gestured. “Let’s sit, and I’ll explain what happened, and you’ll see why things are as they are.”
Why I need you to paint me as I truly am.
He didn’t release her hand, but led her to the bench, waited until she sat, then sat beside her. Leaning forward, one elbow on his knee so he could watch her face, he closed his hand around hers—and waited.
She was supremely conscious of his nearness; ignoring her prickling senses, she cleared her throat. “Papa…you must understand he’s in an invidious position. He loved my mother dearly—she was literally the light of his life. When she died, that light went out and he lost…his connection with the world. He was dependent on her in that sense, so losing her was doubly difficult for him. This is what happened, what he knows.”
Pausing, she assembled the facts in her mind. “My mother and I got along well, as well as any mother and daughter. Socially speaking, I’m more like her than Papa—I quite enjoy entertaining, the balls and parties. Mama lived for them—entertaining was a central part of her existence. She and I shared our liking of that part of life, but I’m also my father’s daughter, and can manage perfectly well on a diet of peace and quiet that would have driven Mama insane.”
A small smile curved her lips as she remembered; she felt it fade as her memories rolled on. “She was thrilled when Thomas Entwhistle started calling—he’s the son of Sir Harvey Entwhistle. I suppose you would say he was my suitor. We planned to wed, we talked of announcing our betrothal…and then Thomas disappeared.
“Mama was…upset. As was I, of course, but after a time she seemed to think that I’d said something to Thomas to send him off, but I hadn’t.” She frowned, looked down. And saw her hand cradled in Gerrard’s strong fingers. She drew breath and went on, “That was the start of a…” She paused, then shrugged. “I suppose it was a growing estrangement. No specific break, just a stepping back on her part—I never understood why. Perhaps with time…but then…”
She drew a huge breath; lifting her head, she looked straight ahead, felt Gerrard’s fingers firm about hers. “The day of her death, she came down late to breakfast—Papa had already gone to his study. She passed Mitchel in the doorway as he left. She looked…as if she hadn’t slept all night.”
She glanced at Gerrard. “My mother was beautiful, but even the slightest illness showed in her face. I asked what was wrong, but she denied anything was. She plainly wanted me to ignore her state, so I did. Then she realized I was in my riding habit. I can remember her looking at me—no, at it…it was so strange. She’d seen the habit any number of times—she’d bought it for me—but that morning she looked at it as if it were…oh, greasy kitchen rags. A nauseating sight. She asked where I was going—her voice was odd. I told her I was going riding with the others—she went dead white, and said no.
“I was so taken aback I laughed. But then I realized she was in earnest. I asked
why not, but she would only shake her head and say I couldn’t go.”
She sighed; the deadening feeling that afflicted her whenever she thought of the rest of that day slipped slowly down her veins. “We argued. Increasingly bitterly. The servants heard, of course, and I think Mitchel did, too—his office is just down the hall from the breakfast parlor. She simply kept saying I couldn’t go riding—no reason, no explanation of any kind. She got increasingly strident…in the end, I simply walked out.”
When she didn’t go on, Gerrard stroked her hand, gently prompted, “And?”
“I went riding.”
He frowned. “And she fell from the terrace?”
She shook her head. “No. That was sometime later. This was the morning. I rode out, and we went into St. Just. I didn’t get back until mid-afternoon, and went straight to my room. Despite the ride, I was…upset. Unhappy and uncertain. I didn’t know what would happen, but I wasn’t going to be treated like a child, told I couldn’t go here or there with no reason.
“I threw myself on my bed—and fell asleep. Later, I woke, bathed and dressed for dinner, then went down. My father came down—I could tell he knew nothing of the argument. Then Mitchel came in, and we waited for my mother to appear.” She lifted her free hand in a small gesture. “She never did.”
After a moment, she went on, “Eventually, Papa sent upstairs and Mama’s maid came hurrying down, saying Mama hadn’t come up to change for dinner. She’d had afternoon tea in the parlor, but when Treadle collected the tray, she wasn’t there. He’d assumed she was walking on the terrace, or had gone down into the gardens.
“Everyone thought she must have gone walking and perhaps sprained her ankle. The servants went out to look; they scoured the gardens. They didn’t search the Garden of Night until last, because it’s so close to the house—you can hear anyone calling from there, and anyone there can hear those on the terrace. But she couldn’t, of course, because she was dead.”
Gerrard sat, slowly stroking his fingers over her hand, putting all she’d told him in sequence, in context. “I still don’t understand why anyone would imagine you had a hand in your mother’s death.”
She laughed, not humorously; there was pain in the sound. “You could say that came about by default.” She looked down at her fingers, locked in his. “Default in the sense that there were no other suspects. Also in the sense that I didn’t protest my innocence, not until far too late.”
She drew in an unsteady breath. “Immediately after…when they found her and later, I was distraught. Despite that odd estrangement, we’d still been very close. I was…in anguish, not just over her death and the manner of it, but because of the argument, because she’d gone with that between us, because the last words we’d exchanged were so horrible.”
Her voice quavered; she swallowed and shook her head. “I cried for days. I don’t remember all I said—all I know is that people view how I behaved then as a sign of my guilt.”
Gerrard felt his jaw clench. To honestly and openly grieve for a parent, then have that held against one, used against one…he smothered the caustic words that rose to his tongue; her revelations were flowing freely—not a good time to interrupt.
She went on, her voice low but clear, her gaze fixed on their linked hands. “We went into deep mourning—I didn’t set foot out of the house for three months and I didn’t receive callers. I don’t remember much of that time other than that Millicent came for the funeral and stayed. I don’t know what I would have done without her.
“Eventually, however, I emerged, and went about again…and that was when I realized what people were thinking—that I’d pushed Mama to her death. When I first realized, I laughed, it struck me as so nonsensical. I couldn’t believe anyone would credit it. I assumed it was one of those silly notions that flare, then fade…only it didn’t.”
Jacqueline heard the strength building in her voice, felt again the upswell of hurt and, even more, the anger that had followed it, that fueled her determination to see her plan through. She looked up. “By the time I realized that, it was too late. I tried to speak with my father, but he refused to discuss the subject. The others were the same—the Frithams, even Mrs. Elcott, who’ll normally talk about anything. She was the one who made me understand what was going on—that the reason they all wished the subject of Mama’s death closed, deemed an accident and forgotten, was because they all believed that any examination of the facts would point to me.”
She drew breath, and more evenly stated, “They think they’re protecting me. The only people who believe in my innocence are Millicent, Jordan and Eleanor. The other younger people weren’t aware or involved, so they don’t have any real opinion, but everyone else…we’ve tried, but none of us can get the subject mentioned, let alone discussed!”
Frustration rang in her tone; Gerrard squeezed her fingers. “So while you were in deep mourning, essentially cut off, you were tried, found guilty—and then absolved, with the incident to be buried.”
“Yes!” She thought for a moment, then amended, “Well, no, not quite. Everyone around has known me all my life—they don’t want to believe I’m guilty. But they fear I am, so they’ve decided to avoid the question altogether. They don’t want to look at who killed Mama because they’re afraid they’ll find it was me, so they’ve declared her death an accident, and are determined to leave well enough alone.”
“But you don’t want it left alone.”
“No!” She shot him a glance—wondered, fleetingly, why she felt she could be so open, so direct, so unguarded with him. “Mama’s death wasn’t an accident. But until I can convince them it wasn’t me who pushed her over the balustrade, they won’t look for who did.”
She saw in his eyes that he understood. After a moment, she went on, her gaze locked with his, “Jordan and Eleanor gave up, but Millicent and I—we kept thinking. We had to find a way to make people question the notion that’s become embedded in their brains—that it was me. We thought of a portrait. If it was good enough to show my innocence clearly…it was the only way we could think of to open people’s eyes.”
His eyes narrowed, steady on hers. “So having me paint you was your idea.”
She shook her head. “The idea of the portrait was ours. Millicent took months to seed the notion into my father’s head. For him, a portrait was a viable way forward—if it shows me guilty, he’ll hide it away; even if someone finds it, it’s not proof, not real proof that can convict someone of a crime. To him, a portrait is the only way to end his…well, his misery. He loves me, but he loved Mama even more, and he’s torn by thinking I killed her—and yet not knowing.”
Her voice had thickened; clearing her throat, she went on, “Entirely fortuitously through her correspondents in town, Millicent heard of the Academy’s exhibition and your portraits—the information seemed godsent. She suggested your name to Papa.” She paused, then added, “You know the rest.”
Gerrard held her gaze for a moment longer, then straightened; looking out across the regimented rows of olive trees, he leaned back against the edge of the fountain. The stone was cold across his shoulders; the sensation helped to anchor him, to help him re-form his view of what, precisely, was going on at Hellebore Hall.
So much more than he’d imagined when he’d accepted the commission to paint Lord Tregonning’s daughter.
What she’d told him…he didn’t doubt it was the truth. Not only was he sure she couldn’t successfully lie to him, what she’d said explained so much he hadn’t understood, like Tregonning’s position—invidious indeed—and his choice of the way forward, and the attitude of others toward Jacqueline. And hers to them.
He’d held her hand throughout; the feel of her fingers, slim and slender under his, helped settle his thoughts, and focus his mind in the right direction. Forward. “What are you expecting to happen once the portrait is painted and shown?” He glanced at her, caught her gaze. “Once people start to question the circumstances of your mother’s death, won’t t
hey think…” He paused, then rephrased, “Couldn’t the answer be suicide?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No—no one who knew Mama would even suggest it. She loved life, loved living. She wouldn’t have suddenly decided she no longer wished to.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. No one has ever raised that prospect, not even though, believing me guilty yet not wanting it to be so, they’d grasp at any straw, even that.” She straightened, briefly searched his face. “Until I—we—convince them it wasn’t me, that it’s all right—safe if you like—to look for Mama’s killer, they won’t. And the real killer will remain free.”
Looking into her eyes, he grasped the point she knew, but had thus far not stated. “Your mother’s killer is still here—he’s someone you know.”
She held his gaze steadily. “He must be. You’ve seen the estate. It’s not easy to slip in undetected, not unless you know the place, and there were no gypsies or suspicious outsiders in the area when she died.”
He looked away, across the garden, still, silent and eerily beautiful under the now waning moon. A moment passed, then he felt her fingers tense within his hand, lightly grip. He turned his head, met her gaze, darkly shadowed in the night.
“You will paint my portrait, won’t you?”
How could he refuse?
She angled her head, brows arching, faintly challenging. “Can you do it? Paint me that well that my innocence will show?”
“Yes.” He had absolutely no doubt he could.
She drew a breath, held it, then quietly said, “I can understand your resistance to being manipulated into being an unwitting judge, but at my request, could you agree to being a witting one?”
He held her gaze, let a moment tick by purely out of habit; he didn’t need to think. “If you truly wish it, then yes. I will.”
She smiled.
“There will, however, be a price.”
Her brows rose, this time in surprise, but, her eyes searching his, she didn’t confuse his “price” with his commission. “What?”
The Truth About Love Page 10