Worth of a Duke

by K. J. Jackson

  Wynne exhaled. She would get no answers today from this man. “Yes. My head is firmly upon my body once more.” She stood, folding the blanket. “But can I ask you to show me the way back to the main living quarters of the castle? I was lost on this end of the castle for quite some time before I stumbled upon you.”

  His eyebrow rose at her. “Your questions will cease?”

  “They will.” She put on a bright smile as she set the neatly folded blanket on the bench. “But then you will have to listen to me wax poetic on the fine attributes of the pigments made from cochineal insects—the most beautiful scarlet one has ever seen.”

  Rowen chuckled as he walked to the doorway, his left limp arm rising slightly to usher her out the door. “It is something I have never been curious about until this very moment.”

  { Chapter 5 }

  Wynne thrust her tongue onto the roof of her mouth, concentrating on the canvas before her. She had redone the base of the backdrop, deep reds swirling with blacks—dark, just as she had discovered the duchess’s spirit was.

  Ten days ago, the paints and canvas had arrived, shipped from London. Antsy and ready to start the portrait, Wynne had spent the next four days, hour after hour, with the duchess just trying to convince her to decide on a setting and clothing. Four days of listening to the duchess complain about everything from the cold dampness permeating the castle, to the sunlight shining through a window too strong and overheating her.

  But it didn’t deter Wynne. She had always had a lot of patience—her mother often complemented her on that trait—and Wynne had nothing else to do. So she sat, listening to everything the duchess could invent to complain about. Including thinly veiled barbs aimed at Wynne’s hair, clothes, and general appearance.

  For all that the duchess wanted a new portrait done, her resistance to actually sitting for it was stubborn—she hated that Rowen was blatantly trying to bribe her with the portrait, and she had bluntly complained of that very thing to Wynne.

  It was on day four that Wynne realized she had one small window of opportunity—the duchess’s dog, Pepe. The small terrier was always nipping at the duchess’s skirts, hoping to gain her lap, and the duchess almost always complied.

  Once Wynne got the dowager talking about Pepe, Wynne knew she had finally stumbled upon the one thing that made the duchess happy. Or at least somewhat pliable. So when Wynne suggested putting the terrier in a prominent spot in the portrait, the smallest glimmer of interest finally touched the duchess’s eyes.

  Wynne sketched the dog, and the duchess was so pleased with the likeness, she finally agreed to move forth with sitting for the portrait.

  A success. But now Wynne was stuck.

  Six days, of pondering, of alternating back and forth with the backdrop—adding, replacing, tweaking. The duchess’s likeness had come together nicely, although her eyes were still missing. But the canvas had filled, getting increasingly complex the more time Wynne spent with the duchess.

  Wynne clucked her tongue, leaning back in the hard wooden chair she usually sat at the edge of or stood in front of.

  The sadness she had initially seen in the duchess was true—but it wasn’t just sadness—it was a lifetime of angry despair, and this woman held onto every last shred of it. Wynne wondered how the duchess even managed to eat with all that angst in her stomach.

  Staring at the silver-slippered toes peeking out from under the duchess’s royal blue gown on the painting, Wynne contemplated the latest thing the duchess had just spent the last hour telling her.

  “Good. You are still in here.”

  Rowen’s voice echoed into the empty room and it made Wynne jump and look over the top of the portrait to the doorway.

  She sprang to her feet, grabbing the long white cloth bunched atop the easel, and unfurled it, draping it in front of the portrait.

  In a simple white linen shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows and buckskin breeches, Rowen walked toward her. He swallowed the room with too much ease when he entered, his presence overtaking any thoughts Wynne was having about the duchess.

  She had seen very little of Rowen since he helped her set up the large easel and paints nearly a fortnight ago, and at the sight of him, she realized she missed his company.

  Wynne stepped to the side the canvas, almost as tall as her. “I am. The duchess said she was done for the day just a few minutes ago. Did she need something else from me?”

  “No. But she did need something from me.” Rowen stopped in front of Wynne, looking down at her. “I need to see it.”

  Her eyes flickered sideways to the covered canvas. “See what?”

  “The portrait. Your progress. I need to see it. The duchess cornered me and demanded I come in here. She is not convinced that you are doing anything she would be pleased with, and since you will not allow her to see the work, I agreed to view it—she thinks you are abusing my hospitality.”

  “She does?” Panic set into Wynne’s voice. “But I am not. And there is no reason for you to see it in this stage. Do you think I am abusing your hospitality? Because I can leave—”

  “No, Wynne—stop. What she believes and what I believe have never been the same thing—and our beliefs have not miraculously aligned. But I do need to see the work to sate her.”

  Wynne crossed her arms over her stomach, shaking her head. “No—not until it is complete.”

  “Wynne, I will not judge. I just need to see the work, to be able to tell her something of what is on that canvas.”

  “No.”

  Rowen tried to step around her, but Wynne jumped to her side, blocking his path.

  He stopped, looking down at her with one raised brow. Not angry, slightly amused if anything. “Wynne, I must insist. I am not expecting a masterpiece—I only need to see that something has been done—I am sure whatever you have created thus far will more than satisfy what I need to tell the duchess.”

  “I do not let people see my unfinished work.”

  Rowen stared at her, silent, waiting patiently.

  Seconds slid by until Wynne exhaled a deep breath in a drawn-out sigh. “Fine. As long as you do not judge—it is nowhere near finished.”

  “I promise.”

  She moved in front of the canvas and rolled up the white drape, tucking it on top of the two protruding arms she had devised at the top of the easel.

  Rowen moved behind her. She could feel his stare over the top of her head, feel the heat of his body on her backside.

  He stood for a long minute behind her, not saying a word, not moving. Agony, for she truly never did let anyone see her unfinished works—save her teachers and her grandfather—and the fact that Rowen was seeing it in progress was torture.

  Torture because she was positive he was judging her skill. Judging her vision.

  Her eyes on a specific stroke of green at the bottom left corner of the canvas—one she needed to change—Wynne could not bear to turn around to him. Could not bear to break the silence. Hear the judgment.

  A low whistle fell from his lips to her ears.

  “Wynne…that…that…”

  Rowen’s words—his thought—unfinished, hung in the air, and Wynne could feel her ears burning red. She jumped forward, ripping the white cloth from the top and draping it downward, hiding her work.

  “No, Wynne. Do not do that. Pull that back up.”

  “But you think it is hideous.”

  “I never said that. Pull it back up.”

  Slowly, Wynne bent, her arms wooden, and bundled the cloth to the top.

  “I do not think it is hideous, Wynne. I think…I think…I think it is…interesting.”

  She whipped around to him. “Which is the word one uses to describe hideousness.”

  A smile touched his lips as his dark eyes refused to look at her, instead remaining glued to the canvas. “No. I will come up with better words, I promise. I just…” He shook his head. “I just have never seen anything quite like it, and I am trying to study the nuances of it—in-be
tween your curtain calls on it. Give me a moment to take it in.”

  “I already have. You have seen what you need to see.” She moved to grab the white cloth once more, but he snatched her arm, jerking her to a stop.

  She didn’t bother to hide the fire in her eyes when she looked at him.

  This time, he met her gaze. And he opened his mouth, his voice soft. “Please. Just a moment.”

  The few words hit her, and she recognized the genuineness of them. With a silent nod, she moved a step backward to the side of the portrait, letting him have full view of the canvas.

  She watched him, breath held, as his dark eyes moved across the painting, stopping and staring at different areas, one by one.

  His stare did not leave the portrait. “What is this? What am I looking at, Wynne?”

  Wynne’s breath exhaled slightly. Had she truly thought she would not have to explain herself—especially to Rowen? Foolish.

  Her arms came up, wrapping herself. “It is what I have always done. People, animals—it does not matter what I am painting—if it is profound in their lives—what makes them whole, what makes them react, think like they do—then I paint it into the backdrop. Especially with people, my paintings have never been about the veneer they put before me. I will paint the veneer, because it is what I am supposed to do. But I do their likeness—and myself—a disservice if I stop there. The backdrop—the memories I include in it—creates the vividness of the whole.”

  “But how do you know so much about the duchess?”

  “She talks, just like all the others.” Wynne shrugged, the hold on her stomach tightening. “It started when I was young—seven, maybe eight. It was incredibly awkward for me to sit with someone and stare at them for a portrait—it still is. I am much more comfortable when my subjects talk to me. So I ask them questions. A lot of questions. I spend hours and days with them. And they tell me things. And the deeper I can move into their memories, their thoughts, the more complete I can make their portraits.”

  “I am amazed you got her to talk to you at length.”

  Wynne took a deep breath. “It has always been like this. The longer people sit for a portrait, the more secrets they share. It always starts small—something they loved but told no one about, something they did that caused them shame. And I just listen, and then the secrets snowball. Affairs. Death. Betrayals. Incest. Lost loves. Illegitimate children. Everything a seven-year-old should never have heard.”

  His eyes left the canvas to look at her, and he stared at her. “Has that been hard?”

  Wynne paused, her eyes dropping from him. He was seeing too much of her again. “Yes—no. It was at first, but at this point, this many years later, I have heard enough about the madness of men that very little surprises me. I learned to channel the worst of the worst into the paintings so they do not rest in my mind.”

  “That works?”

  “Yes—too much so. Now I find it necessary. All of the secrets, each and every one tells a story about a life that could never be fully captured by clothes, by the trimmings around a person. The secrets give me much to work with—the lines on a face—the hollowness in an eye.”

  Her gaze came up to him. “But it is not all dire. I have also heard of much beauty in life, the fine that can be humanity—the first time a mother looks at her newborn babe, the kindness a stranger can give, the dignity of dying well, love so deep it transcends time and space. For all of the bad I have heard of, I have also learned of the true grace of the human spirit and what it can overcome. Those…those are the stories I keep tiny pieces of for myself.”

  Rowen nodded, his gaze going back to the portrait. He stayed silent for a long stretch. “It is extraordinary.”

  The rest of Wynne’s held breath escaped.

  “What is this?” He pointed to the upper right corner where Wynne had started an imagined fresco on the ceiling behind the dowager duchess. A white dove, blood staining its chest centered the miniature scene.

  Wynne cleared her throat. “If I tell you, I must have your utmost discretion. Even though it is never spoken of, there is an inherent trust that people who sit for me give me. The secrets are not mine to keep.”

  “You have it. I swear. I just want to understand.”

  Wynne nodded, one arm pulling from her belly to point at the fresco. “The duchess started that tale flippantly—she was talking about her early childhood, her mother’s skill at molding her into the epitome of a well-bred lady of the aristocracy. She is so proud of her mother—how she instilled backbone into her.”

  “What does a bloody dove have to do with that?”

  “When the duchess was a small child—she did not say how old, but I would guess maybe five or six—she found a baby bird, a dove, injured on her family’s estate. She brought it home and kept it hidden in her room in a cage she had a maid steal from the groundskeeper. She managed to raise the bird, feeding it from her fingertips. Months went by, and she eventually let it live outside of the cage in her room, which was fine, as only her maid and her nanny ever came in.”

  Wynne paused, knowing she was betraying confidence by retelling the story. But then she reminded herself it was the duchess that had demanded Rowen look at her work. So this was her work, and the work needed explanation.

  “Until?” Rowen prompted her.

  “Until her mother came into her room one day and discovered the bird. It was obvious the bird had become a pet when the dove landed on the duchess’s shoulder. And her mother believed it was not of good breeding to care about anything. Anything.”

  Wynne stepped next to Rowen, her eyes centered on the dove, solemnly shaking her head. “So her mother silently left the room. The duchess tried to get the dove to fly out the window, but it would not leave the windowsill. Would not leave her. By the time her mother returned, knife in hand, the duchess was desperate. But she was not tall enough to push the bird off the sill. Her mother, on the other hand, easily caught the bird and then, without a word, promptly stabbed it in the chest and tossed it out the window.”

  Wynne’s voice caught and she had to wipe a tear from her lower lashes. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Rowen watching her intently. She rushed on. “And by the end of that story, the duchess—her eyes—it was the heartbreak of crushed innocence. That the world could be cruel, and move on, and not acknowledge her despair. I believe it was when she first realized that what she wanted—what she loved—was insignificant. And that is something she has obsessed about—battled against her entire life.”

  “Yes, well, we were all innocent once.” Rowen’s words came out clipped and cold.

  Wynne blinked at the harshness in his voice and looked up at him, only to see his face had set hard, his eyes on the canvas.

  She knew she was close enough to him that he couldn’t help but notice she was staring at him, but he refused to meet her gaze.

  Her brow creased. This land, these people were so very different than the mountain folk she had known—even what she remembered of New York. People who said what they wanted to without reservation. She was quickly finding out that polite society was not so polite here in England, if this household was any indication.

  “Some of this is very…dark,” Rowen said, his voice softening. “It would be jarring to the unprepared eye.”

  “Yes, well the duchess is dark. It is all around her. There are a few spots of happiness, but not many.” Wynne looked at the portrait, her eyes scanning the edges around the duchess. The face of her newborn son swirled into the dark black-reds of drapery. The ship she had dreamt of seeing the world in. The corset that stole a child from her womb. The grave of her mother she refused to see buried.

  Wynne shook her head, washing her mind free of the duchess’s memories. “My instructors in New York would always paint over my backdrops before they were delivered. They never believed people would want to look inside themselves that deeply.”

  “Was that difficult—watching your work destroyed?”

  Wynne shrugged.
“It should have been, but it was not. I never minded—so many secrets need to remain secrets.”

  She stepped forward, pulling the white cloth forward to drop before the portrait. Rowen did not stop her this time. “But my grandfather would never allow me to paint over what I had created—he was steadfast in his belief that more people needed to acknowledge what makes them what they are—both the good and bad.”

  “Where do you fall in your belief?” Rowen asked.

  “I honestly do not know. I understand both sides. I am just a conduit, trying to represent these souls in the best way I can.” She looked up at him, startled by his eyes boring into her again. “How about you—where does your belief land?”

  “You will never paint me, Wynne. That is where my belief falls.”

  “To live the unexamined life?”

  “As you said yourself, some secrets should remain secrets. And some memories should remain untouched. That does not mean it is unexamined.”

  Her eyebrows arched as she turned from him, going to a simple wooden table with a bowl of water on it. She started to scrub the tips of her fingers, matted with dried paint.

  Rowen followed, stopping by the table, knuckles resting on the wood. “You disagree?”

  “I do not know how one can find peace in the present, without finding peace with the past. That is all.”

  “Are you sure about that, Wynne? You yourself have memories your mind will not even allow you to acknowledge right now,” Rowen said. “Yet you seem at peace. Do you honestly think you cannot remember what happened to you because it was something good? You cannot remember how you got in that forest for a reason, Wynne.”

  “Stop.” She slammed her hand in the bowl, sending water flying. Breath suddenly hard, she glared up at him. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I am at peace, Rowe. I have no idea where my mother is. What happened to her. What happened to me to send me into a barren forest.”

  She stepped closer to him, craning her neck upward to still meet his eyes. “So do not make that mistake. You have no idea…” She took a deep breath, shaking. “No idea how lost I am. How I am pretending.”