He looked back over his shoulder. The dowager stood over him, just inside the stall, her arms crossed over her chest, middle finger tapping incessantly on her elbow.
“What did you do to her, L.B.? You have destroyed her and I want her back to being her.”
Rowen’s attention went back to the hoof, and he flicked free one last embedded rock with the hoof pick before setting it down.
He stood, patting the Arabian mare’s neck. “I did not do anything to her, Duchess.” Voice dry, he turned fully to her, kicking hay off his boots.
“Do not lie to me, L.B. You must have done something to her. Miss Theaton has sat in that dark room for four days now. Four days. She does not come out. She does not speak. She eats very little. She just sits, L.B. Sits. It is not right.”
Rowen stared down at her. The black shawl that always covered her hair was missing. He hadn’t seen the full of her dark hair—now half grey—since before her son and husband had died.
The duchess actually sounded sincere. Sincerely worried about Wynne. It was the first time Rowen had ever seen sincerity from the duchess, and he wasn’t sure he trusted it.
Rowen evened his voice. “Again, I did nothing to her, Duchess, and I am offended you think I did. Besides, I do not know what you imagine I can do to help her.”
It was true. Rowen had already racked his brain, visited with Wynne, day after day, all to no avail. Wynne was stuck solid in the darkness that her world had become, and Rowen had no idea how to pull her out of it.
Stepping around the duchess, he moved out of the stall. He waited until she removed herself as well, then latched the gate.
The duchess’s arms stayed solidly crossed. “Well, you need to think of something, L.B. The only thing you have ever done of value was to bring Miss Theaton into this castle. The only good thing. Do not make a mess of it now. Make her right again. I want her back. Talking to me. Smiling. Laughing. I want my portrait.”
“Selfish.” Rowen’s ire reared and the word escaped him before he could stop it. No matter that it was true. Whereas Rowen wanted Wynne in the land of living because he hated seeing her without life, without energy—the duchess wanted Wynne back in the land of living for her own amusement.
The duchess’s jaw jutted out, and Rowen waited for the tongue lashing to unfurl.
But it didn’t come. Instead, the dowager just shook her head. “What happened that day, L.B.? Let us pretend for a moment you were not the cause of her current state. Did she remember something drastic? Tell me. I cannot help Miss Theaton if I do not know.”
Rowen bit his tongue, contemplating the duchess. She had never failed to make his life miserable, he recognized that. But with Wynne, the duchess was very different. He had to acknowledge he had seen that much. The duchess adored her—actually seemed happy when Wynne was around.
Was it possible that the dowager could surprise him? Truly help Wynne?
Rowen sighed, running his hand through his hair.
Going against every fiber in his being, he opened his mouth.
“She did remember something. A town—Tanloon. But that was all, just the name. So I took her there.”
The dowager’s lips pursed. “You should have told me, I would have accompanied her. Or, at the least, sent a maid.”
“It was all I could do to keep her from leaving right when she remembered—to at least have her wait overnight. She wanted to leave for the town right before dusk. And she would have gone off on her own had I not promised I would get her there quickly. It would have taken a full day in a carriage.”
“Yes.” The duchess’s eyes went to the roof of the stable. “I suppose she would have. She is far too independent.” Her gaze dropped to him. “What did you find in Tanloon?”
“The house she lived in with her mother.”
“Her mother?”
“Yes. And something happened to her mother, something dire. She was attacked, and Wynne witnessed it.”
The dowager’s hand flew to her chest. “Is the woman alive?”
Rowen shook his head.
“Who did it?”
“Wynne did not recognize him.”
“A robber?”
Rowen stopped, staring at the duchess. Her ice blue eyes looked nothing but sympathetic. Again, he shook his head. “She entertained.”
“Do not speak in riddles, L.B. What does that mean—she entertained?”
“She entertained men to survive, Duchess. To keep her and Wynne in a home with food on the table.”
The dowager stiffened. “Unfortunate.”
Instant judgment.
The sympathy he had seen in her eyes vanished. A mistake. Rowen knew instantly it had been a mistake to tell her.
Why had he expected any different from her? Because it was Wynne? Preposterous. This was the duchess, and what little humanity he had thought he saw in her had been his imagination.
“Duchess, whatever you are thinking, you need to stop,” Rowen said, warning clear in his voice. “Wynne is a very different person from her mother.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed at him. “I know that, L.B. Do not insult me. And do not let this wallowing of Miss Theaton’s go on. It is not proper.” Her voice dropped. “Fix her, L.B. Fix her.”
Before Rowen could reply, the dowager spun, arms still at her sides, and walked out of the stable.
Rowen stared at the back of her black skirt, frowning in disgust.
Not proper? Wynne’s grief was not proper?
A large breath stuck in his chest, forming into a rock.
Only the dowager would see Wynne’s grief as unbecoming—inconvenient.
The breath hissed out between his gritted teeth.
Why had he expected more?
~~~
Rowen stood at Wynne’s door, staring at the dark walnut wood, waiting. He rapped his knuckles once more on the wood. He always gave her three solid knocks, three times—three opportunities to respond. She never did, but it at least gave her a chance to prepare herself before he entered.
Continued silence.
He turned the handle on the door slowly, bracing himself. He still had no idea what he was going to tell her. The duchess seemed to think he would know what to say, but he hadn’t been successful in moving Wynne’s eyes from darkness to light in the last four days, and he wasn’t sure what else he had to offer her.
He did know he would give anything to take away the pain she was wallowing in. And in that, he knew he needed to at least try again with her.
Cracking the door, he stepped into the room. Long draperies were drawn tight against the bright day. Dark, even though it was in the middle of the afternoon.
His eyes scanned the room. Wynne sat, despondent, on the one chair in the room. It had an upholstered seat that butted into a tall, straight back and had wooden armrests. It was a chair for sitting for only a few minutes—completely uncomfortable—but there she sat. He had seen her in no other spot, no other position in days.
She looked tiny, her feet tucked up under her, disappearing under her skirts. Holding herself tight across her belly, she lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his.
Dark circles lined her hazel eyes. Eyes that still looked dead.
“Have you eaten today?” He inclined his head to the tray holding bread and cheese on a side table next to her.
She gave one slow shake of her head, her eyes dropping down to her lap.
“Have you looked outside? It is a beautiful day.”
No response.
This was the point where he usually prattled on for a few minutes about the horses and the latest happenings in the stables, and then exited, leaving her because he thought that was what she wanted.
He scratched the back of his neck.
Stepping forward, each foot soft against making noise, Rowen stopped in front of her, his boots almost touching the front legs of the chair.
He knelt before her, balancing on his heels, his knees touching the chair. At this angle, he could see her
downward-angled face perfectly.
She closed her eyes to his presence.
“Wynne. I have no idea what you are going through. My imagination does not do justice to what you must have witnessed. But you are starving yourself.”
His hand went lightly on her knee. “Not only starving your body. You are starving your soul. You are punishing yourself and it is not right.”
Her eyes cracked open to him. Vacant. But at least she was looking at him. It was progress.
“I do not know what to say, Wynne. I am at a loss.” His fingers tightened on her leg. “I have racked my brain a thousand times over. I cannot say anything to take this away, to make this right, to lessen your pain. But you must understand, Wynne, this was not your fault.”
A tear slipped off her lower lashes, forging a line down her cheek.
Rowen waited, silent for a long moment.
“Maybe you need to paint, Wynne. The dowager misses you. Maybe you need to get out of that chair and get a brush in your hand and paint. Lose yourself in it so you can bring yourself out of this.”
A sudden gasp swallowed a sob, and Wynne exhaled, words whispering out. “I cannot paint. I cannot paint her.”
Her words choked off, and she shook her head, her forehead etched in pain. “I never should have listened to her.”
“The duchess?”
“My mother. I should have made us stay on the mountain. Never boarded that ship. She said it would be a new start. We would be fine. An adventure.”
“You could not have known what was to happen, Wynne. She could not have known.”
Wynne shook her head, suddenly vehement. “You do not understand. I failed her. It was me. I was supposed to take care of her—it was what grandfather trained me to do, expected me to do—and I failed her. I failed him. I did not take care of her and she turned into a whore because of me.”
“Wynne, no. Do not do that to yourself.” His other hand went to her knee as well. “You did not make her do anything.”
Her fingers untangled from her arm and went to her forehead, rubbing it. “You do not understand, Rowe. It was not just that she turned into a whore to support us—it was that I let her. I knew. Deep down, I knew exactly what was happening, what she was doing. And I did nothing to stop it.”
“You saw her with men?”
“No, just them leaving. But I did not need to see her with them. I wanted to paint. I wanted to keep living like I wanted, so I pretended not to notice. She did not want me to know…so I pretended. It was easier. And I did not say anything.”
The tears streamed as her bottom lip went under her teeth. Rowen could see her fighting for control.
“I could see it in her eyes, Rowe, how hollow she was becoming.” Wynne’s look glassed over. “She used to be vivacious—the mirth in her eyes. She made me happy every single morning—just opening my eyes and seeing her and I was happy. She was so proud of me. Of my talent. I was special just because she thought so. And…and she just degraded. Fell into nothingness. Every day. Right before my eyes.”
Her head dropped again, the tears landing on the back of Rowen’s hands.
“And I did nothing. Nothing to stop her, nothing to help her. I just painted. I let her tell me that my painting was the most important thing, and I believed her because I wanted to deny the truth—that she was trading her body so I could continue to paint.”
She shuddered and opened her eyes to Rowen, the hazel depths haunted.
“How can I forgive myself for that? For what I did? For what I did not do? And then at the end—it should have been me under the poker. Under the fists. After everything, I owed her that.”
For all the words that had not come to him before—this—this Rowen knew something about. A mother that would give limb and life for her child.
His hand wrapped around the fingers at her forehead, peeling them away. Settling her cold hand under his, he pulled from his own depths, his own memories. “She never would have allowed it, Wynne. From all you have said of her, she never would have allowed it. And you may have thought she was weak. But she was not. She was a mother. Your mother, Wynne. You were her baby. And some mothers will do everything to protect their children. Endure anything. No matter the harm that comes.”
Her eyes searched him, searched for the truth of his words. Searched for absolution she could not give herself.
Rowen doubted she would ever find that absolution. He never had.
Wynne took a deep breath, shaking her head again. “I cannot paint. I cannot paint her—the duchess. Not now. I look at her and all I can see is my mother.”
“So do not paint her. Paint anything. Paint Pepe. Paint the stable master. Paint a bird. Just paint.”
Her head bowed, swinging back and forth. “I do not think I can.” Her voice cracked. “I cannot. Please, Rowe. Please, just leave me.”
“Wynne…”
“Please. Please just leave.”
His legs stiff, Rowen slowly stood, fingertips reluctant to leave her hands. But he took a soft step backward, spinning to the door, trying to exit as silently as he had come in.
A step outside the room, Rowen paused. His hand stayed on the doorknob as he weighed what he knew instinctively was right—Wynne painting, creating as fate intended her to—against the woman sitting behind him, steadfast in her self-punishment and torturing herself.
Wynne may not see it—how important it was for her to paint again—but he did.
Rowen turned back into the room, striding to Wynne with intent, and stopped in front of her. The clip of his boots on the wood floor was harsh, but he reached forward gently, grabbing her chin, lifting her eyes to him.
She fought him for only a second before her watery eyes met his.
“Paint me.”
“What?” Her hazel eyes clouded in confusion.
“If it will get a brush back in your hand, get you out of that chair—paint me.” His fingers did not move from her chin.
“But you said—”
“I do not give a damn about what I said. Paint me.”
She stared at him for a long moment, questioning it—reading his intentions.
“You will answer my questions?” she asked, her voice hesitant. “It is the only way I know how.”
His hand dropped slowly from her skin, but he fixed his gaze on her, unflinching. “I will. I will answer any blasted question you have if it will move you from this room, from this darkness.”
It took her another long moment before she offered one small nod.
“Good.” Rowen took a step back. “I will set the room. An hour?”
She nodded once more.
A grim smile came to his lips. It would do. For now, it would do.
{ Chapter 12 }
Situated on the wooden chair behind a large, blank canvas, Wynne busied herself with mixing a dark brown on the makeshift palette in her arm. Weeks ago, she had fashioned the palette from a thin board she had found in a refuse pile on the other side of the castle. Cracked, it had just the right curve to fit along her wrist—all she had needed to do was smooth the splinters.
Not that she had used it at all in the last three days.
She didn’t know how Rowen had sat in this room with her for three days—three days that she had sat, crying, unable to move, unable to talk.
Every day she had come into the room with intentions to put paint to canvas. Every day, the second the bristles had touched the paint, she had crumbled.
And Rowen had sat through it all. Sat on that hard wooden chair across from her. Sat for hours. He never asked her to stop, never left. Just busied himself with his papers or watched her, concerned, waiting patiently. A silent comfort.
Three days, and not a drop of paint had made it to canvas.
But when she had woken up this morning, she had felt stronger. Maybe it was that she had no tears left. Maybe it was the food that Rowen kept insistently pushing her way.
Whatever it was—breath held—she made it past the first touc
h of the bristles to the paint on the palette.
Though paint had yet to touch canvas, Wynne felt, deep within, that she could do it. Today she could do it.
Her head came up so she could study Rowen.
He sat, relaxed, leaning back, his hands clasped over his belly, one boot-clad foot up and resting on his knee. His usual white linen shirt was slightly rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. When her eyes made it up to his face, she realized he was watching her intently, curious.
Understandable after the past few days—she would usually be crying by now. It was curious to herself as well, and just to prove that she wasn’t about to break again, she lifted her thin brush to the canvas, setting the deep brown paint to the white canvas.
Success.
She didn’t crack, didn’t heave, didn’t become instantly consumed with guilt and grief. The grief was more numb now, a raw constant presence, rather than the violent consumption it had been. She wasn’t healed—far from it—but she could function. And functioning—even numbly—felt good.
Her eyes went from the canvas, back to Rowen. She had had no goal in mind with the brown paint, had merely wanted to make sure she could do the motion without cracking.
But now she was faced with the actual process of painting Rowen.
Thinking of him. Learning of him.
She needed to start with what she knew. What he had let her see of him. She leaned to her left, her eyes meeting his look. “When did you become so passionate about horses?”
“This is where it begins?” Rowen asked.
“I can think of no other place than the thing that is most important to you.”
She straightened, her eyes going back to the blank canvas. People were usually more apt to share when she was not staring directly at them. But she already knew she was going to have a hard time keeping her eyes off of Rowen.
“So tell me,” she said. “Did you know it for as long as you can remember, or was there a moment?”
“A moment.” His voice was soft.
So soft, that Wynne had to steal a glance at him. A small smile played on his lips, a memory of long ago lighting his features.
Worth of a Duke Page 12
