by Anne Gracie
“She would enjoy seeing the family portrait gallery. You must take her there this afternoon.”
“She wouldn’t be interested.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” said Damaris at the same time, then looked at him in dismay, realizing she’d inadvertently sided with his mother.
“Then that’s settled,” his mother said. “Oh, and by the way, Miss Chance, I had Horwood place in your room a set of watercolor paints.”
“Thank you, Lady Breckenridge, that’s very kind of you.” Damaris was stunned by the unexpected gift and felt a little guilty for her previous uncharitable thoughts.
Lady Breckenridge lifted a thin shoulder and said in a bored voice, “It’s nothing. I acquired them for the convenience of my house party guests. Since it was canceled, you may as well make use of them.”
“I’m sorry,” Damaris said to Freddy when the meal was over. “If you don’t want to show me the portrait gallery . . .”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a complete bore, in my opinion, but I suppose it’s your duty as a Breckenridge bride-to-be to view it.” He seemed a little tense.
“It can’t be that bad, surely.” She would dearly like to see a portrait of Freddy as a child.
He glanced at her and his expression lightened. “An endless litany of pompous bores and entertaining rakes. I shall expect you to play close attention and identify which were which from their portraits.” The cheerful tone was, she was sure, assumed, but she decided to play along.
“Bores or rakes? I have no other choices?”
“No. The Monkton-Coombes family breed either bores or rakes, usually but not always in alternate generations. Care to guess which group my father belongs to?”
• • •
The portrait gallery was a long, narrow room that bordered what had once been the great hall, Freddy explained. “We’ll start with the oldest ones and work our way up to the present,” he said, leading her down to the far end, where the paintings were darker and the poses a little stiffer.
“It’s so interesting. They’re so different from anything I saw in China.”
“Here’s the first lot of ancestors to have been immortalized. Sixteenth century. Bores or rakes, remember—which is which?” There were nine portraits in this section; five ladies and four gentlemen. The men all wore small goatee beards and mustaches—obviously the fashion of the time. The first portrait was of a stern-looking man wearing an impressive gold chain and a feather in his hat.
“Not a rake,” Damaris decided. There was no humor or warmth in his face, both qualities she’d come to associate with rakishness.
“Spot-on.”
The second was of a younger man, plainly dressed, wearing a corded beret and a thoughtful expression.
“I rather like the look of him,” she said. He was handsome, with a long face and a firm chin, which even his little beard failed to disguise.
“You would,” Freddy said, feigning disgust. “A rake of the first order. When he died, several women tried to throw themselves into the grave with him. Can’t imagine why—the fellow isn’t even good-looking.”
Damaris gave him a sideways glance. If he couldn’t see the resemblance between them, she wasn’t going to point it out.
Next was a stiff-looking fellow with an upstanding lace collar, a firmly buttoned gold coat and a velvet hat with an orange feather.
“He looks a little severe,” Damaris said. “But he’s quite good-looking.”
Freddy shook his head. “Righteous swine, by all accounts. Beat his wives—three of them—not all at once, of course—he was, after all, respectable. He died of the pox. Next.”
The next portrait was of a man in a gold and black velvet tunic, very ornate, over a pleated shirt with an embroidered collar. He wore a fur hat and an expression that seemed to indicate that he was either dwelling on spiritual thoughts or bored rigid.
“Dressed like that, I suppose he could be a rake,” Damaris said thoughtfully, “but I think he looks more of a bore.”
“Badly constipated, I’ve always thought,” said Freddy. “As well as pretentious. He left several volumes of the most appalling poetry. Now, come on, there’s one more rake.”
Damaris looked at him in surprise. There were only four portraits of men. “You don’t mean one of the women, do you?”
He winked. “Clever girl. Now go pick her out.”
Damaris strolled back and forth along the line of portraits until she’d narrowed it down to two, both beautiful, both young—one was barely out of childhood. She had a sad but sweet expression, but the other . . .
“This one looks discontented with her life,” she decided. “As if she thinks she deserves better.”
“Wrong. It’s the saintly looking child who grew up to take legions of lovers. Not surprising, though—she was married to the bad poet. Would drive anyone to take lovers.”
They strolled along the gallery, stopping in front of each portrait while Freddy told scurrilous stories about his ancestors that got more and more outrageous. According to him, they were all either pirates, rakes, sanctimonious bores, cowards, or poets or some combination of them.
“Poetic-looking fellow, don’t you think?” he said, pointing to an eighteenth-century ancestor in a brown velvet coat, a lace jabot and powdered hair. He would have been about five and twenty when the portrait was painted. There was a strong family resemblance.
“Looks as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” Freddy continued, “but he was a true scholar.”
“A scholar? Really?” She looked again at the portrait in surprise. He didn’t look like a scholar. The scholars in the other paintings all carried books or scrolls or had been posed resting their hands on weighty-looking tomes. This young man wore roses in his lapel, his coat was unbuttoned and he lounged in his seat.
“He was famous for extolling the educational value of the Grand Tour,” Freddy informed her solemnly. His eyes danced, and she waited, knowing there would be an outrageous end to the story.
“According to his journal, which I discovered as a boy and George and I read in secret, he didn’t take in a single artistic or cultural sight in the two years he spent traveling through Europe. He did, however, describe in great detail the education he received from a long line of generous-minded European ladies. Left a string of bastards behind him on his Grand Tour—his father kept getting demands for money years afterward. Amazingly, he didn’t die of the pox, but quietly in his bed at the age of eighty-one.” He frowned. “At least I assume it was his own bed, and quietly, but now I come to think of it, that was most unlikely. Grandfather kept a mistress, right to the end.”
Damaris laughed. “You do resemble him.”
“Nonsense, he’s a handsome fellow, whereas I . . .”
“You said George and you read his journal? Is that George?” She pointed to a portrait of a chubby-faced little boy with golden curls.
“Yes, he would have been about four then.” He pointed to another painting of the same child with long golden locks. “In that one he’s eight. Mother had it done just before his hair was cut to what Father called a proper manly look.” He pointed to a third painting, of a boy of about twelve in a dark pink velvet suit. “That was painted a few months before he died. He hated that one, thought it made him look a sissy.”
“Are there any paintings of both of you?” She was eager to see Freddy as a boy, and she was curious about his brother. Freddy hardly ever mentioned George, but when he did, there was . . . something about the way he spoke of George that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A studied carelessness, as if his brother didn’t matter, and yet beneath it she sensed an undeniable fondness.
And each year he came down to Breckenridge for his brother’s memorial service.
“A painting of both of us? Yes, of course.” He led her to a large, gold-framed pain
ting of a young woman she had no difficulty recognizing as Freddy’s mother, seated with her arm around a standing boy, the same boy of the pink velvet suit. Behind her Lord Breckenridge stood with his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. On the other side of Lady Breckenridge was a large urn, overflowing with vines and flowers.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“There.” He pointed to the urn.
Damaris examined the painting more closely, wondering if perhaps he’d been portrayed hiding behind the urn—she could imagine him as a lively and mischievous boy playing hide-and-seek. But there was no sign of any small face peering out between the leaves. She turned to him. “I don’t understand.”
“After George died, my parents had the artist paint me out of the picture. They put the urn in my place. You can just see the toe of my shoe, there.” He pointed and sure enough there at the base of the urn was a small shoe.
He said it carelessly, as if the small shoe were an amusing mistake, but they’d painted their only remaining son out of the family portrait. Damaris was horrified. “Why would they do such a thing?”
“Because I killed George. Now, there’s a rather charming promenade and a fernery on the east side of the house. Would you like to see it?” He took her arm and began to guide her toward the door.
• • •
She yanked her arm out of his grasp, refusing to move. “What do you mean, you killed your brother?”
He shrugged. “Perfectly true.”
“I don’t believe it. How did you—I mean, how did your brother die? Was it an accident?”
“Well, of course I didn’t mean to kill him.” Again, he shrugged. “Still, my fault he died. Now, the rain seems to have stopped for the moment, so perhaps a quick walk might be possible. Come along.”
Again she pulled back. “Freddy, don’t change the subject.”
“Why not, it’s a boring subject,” he said, his careless manner belied by the tension in his body. “What’s done is done and no amount of talking is going to change the facts.”
“But it’s important, and I want to understand.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Please, won’t you explain to me what happened?”
“I never explain,” he said with a hard look she’d never seen from him before. “There’s no point. Now, are you coming or not? If you want to stay here with the ghosts of Breckenridge past, you can, but I need some fresh air. And a change of subject.”
Damaris could see she wasn’t going to get anything out of him in this mood, so she allowed herself to be led from the gallery. But as he took her back through the maze of corridors, her mind was spinning with questions.
How could he have killed his brother? And if it was an accident, how could he be blamed? His parents obviously blamed him—she was horrified by the cold-blooded act of having him painted out of the family portrait, as if whatever he’d done was so unforgivable he couldn’t even remain in a painting.
And he seemed to accept it.
But how could whatever he’d done be so unforgivable? He would have been only a boy when it happened. George was the older brother, and in the picture he looked only twelve or thirteen, which meant Freddy would have been about ten. Even if the accident had been a piece of stupid carelessness, or a foolish risky act, or even the result of a moment of temper—well, that was the nature of young boys. They seemed to have no understanding of risk or danger.
And no matter how dreadful the consequences of a child’s act, she could not imagine rejecting him as a member of the family. Even now, so many years later, Freddy’s parents barely acknowledged him. If they didn’t need him to secure the succession, would they even care what he did with his life?
No wonder he only visited Breckenridge once a year. The wonder was that he came at all.
But it wasn’t duty that brought him back here each fifth of December. It was guilt.
She followed him along, her heart aching for the unforgiven little boy who’d grown into the man who pretended not to care about anything. She had to find out what had happened.
• • •
The following day while Freddy was initiating her into the mysteries of billiards, she broached the matter again. “My mother died when I was twelve.”
He looked up from the shot he was about to take. “You must have been very sad.”
“Yes, and my father would never talk with me about her.” Not quite true; he talked at her, enumerating all of Mama’s faults and warning Damaris not to be like her. “It was very difficult for me at the time, but I have since found it helps to talk about it.”
He made a decisive shot and straightened, leaning on his cue. “I can see right through you, Miss Chance, and while I’m sympathetic for your loss, if you think I’m going to talk about my brother to appease your curiosity, you’re mistaken.”
Miss Chance? It was a formal warning, then. “It’s not curiosity.”
He raised a sardonic brow.
“Well, not only curiosity,” she admitted. “It’s hard to lose someone when you’re that age, and it must be even harder to know that your parents blame you. But I’m sure—”
“We will not discuss this.”
“But if you only—”
He rested the cue on the table, his expression uncharacteristically grim. “This is not your business, Damaris. Your business is to play the affianced bride—nothing more. And in return I will give you a cottage as we agreed. That’s it. Nothing else.”
“But—”
He rammed his cue into the cue stand. “I can see you’re dreaming up some foolish, romantic female scheme to bring about a reconciliation between my parents and me, and I won’t have it, you hear?”
“I only want to—”
“Well, don’t. There’s no point in stirring it all up again. What’s done is done, and nothing can change it, so leave it alone. Otherwise I’ll send you back to London—in a yellow bounder,” he added in an afterthought and stalked from the room.
Damaris contemplated the arrangement of the balls on the baize-covered table. His parting shot had reassured her somewhat; he would never send her away in a yellow bounder, she was sure. But he was deadly serious in his insistence that she let drop the matter of his brother’s death.
She might, if he weren’t hurting so badly.
He reminded her of a dog she’d found injured and lying in a ditch when she was a child in China. She’d tried to help it and he’d snapped at her, leaving a nasty bite. But she’d persisted and sought help, and in the end the dog had been saved.
She wasn’t foolish enough to think she could save Freddy or even divert his parents from their hurtful stance, but she needed to understand why it had happened in the first place.
And why was that, a small voice inside her asked. As he’d said, his past was none of her business. She was little better than a hireling, employed to play a part. She ought to stay out of it, as he’d told her to do.
But she couldn’t. There might be nothing she could do to solve the problem, but at the very least she could understand.
The problem was, how to find out? Neither Freddy nor his parents would talk to her about it, she was sure. The servants might know, but she couldn’t embarrass him by questioning the servants, and even so, they ought to be loyal enough not to discuss family business with a guest.
There was, however, someone who was no longer a servant. She’d be bound to know, but whether she’d talk to Damaris or not was another matter. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, surely.
• • •
The next day she found Nanny McBride’s cottage without too much difficulty and knocked.
“You’ll be Mr. Freddy’s young lady,” Nanny McBride said with a stern look. She looked past Damaris and frowned. “And where’s himself, then? Did he no’ bring you down to meet me?” She spoke with a strong Scottish brogue. She made no move to invite Damaris in.
It wasn’t quite the welcome she’d expected. “No, I brought myself. I hope you don’t mind, Mrs., er, Miss McBride.”
The old woman looked her up and down, assessing her and, to judge from her expression, finding her wanting. “He said you weren’t interested in meeting me.”
Damaris shrugged. “He told me he only visited you out of duty.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “He did, did he? Then what’s he playing at? Come you in, young lady. I think we need to talk.”
She ushered Damaris into a small, cozy cottage, comfortably but plainly furnished. Over the fireplace hung a simply framed pencil drawing of two boys.
“Sit yoursel’ down, miss. You’ll take a cup of bohea with me?”
“Bohea?” Damaris was very familiar with the Chinese tea, of course, but it was rather expensive for a former servant living on a pension.
Nanny McBride tried hard not to let her pride show. “Master Freddy knows my weaknesses. He sends me a wee something every month along with his regular letter, and not just tea, but all kinds of delicacies to tempt an old woman’s fancy. He spoils me, he does.” She bustled out to put on the kettle.
Damaris smiled to herself. So he only visited his old nanny out of duty, did he? Her eyes were drawn to the framed drawing and she moved closer to examine it.
It was a vivid sketch of two young boys, laughing and shoving against each other. The mischievous expression of the younger boy was unmistakable. But the joyous innocence in the boy was well and truly gone from the man.
“Freddy and his brother?” she asked as Nanny McBride came back with the tea tray and set it down on the table.
“Aye, clever, isn’t it? Lord Breckenridge had an artist fellow down from London to paint the family. I sat with the boys when he was sketching them—the young devils couldn’t stand still to save their lives, but the fellow didn’t mind. He made a few sketches—I’ve never seen anything like it—his pencil just flew. A half dozen lines and there were my boys to the life! He gave me two of the sketches afterward and one of the estate carpenters framed them for me.”
She gave Damaris a shrewd look. “That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it? To talk about the boys?”
