Page 28

CHAPTER 28

“ A nd here I decided to try a softer gold rather than the darker brocade. I thought it might warm the corridor, and I daresay it does, do you not think?”

Fiona’s eyes were full of delight as she gestured toward the curtains framing the landing windows. Her hand swept with confidence, her step light as she turned to face him.

Isaac smiled faintly and gave a nod. “It does.”

She beamed at him, clearly pleased, then moved on.

They’d toured nearly every room by now. She spoke with such certainty about the design choices, the fabrics she’d commissioned, the subtle shifts in color that gave each room a new life.

But Isaac barely retained half of what she said.

Because he kept watching her.

The way she moved, the way her hands fluttered when she grew excited, the flush of her cheeks when she described the drawing room’s wallpaper debate with Mrs. Burton.

She does not simply speak—she lives every word.

He followed her up the stairs to the second floor, listening, smiling, even teasing here and there, until they stopped before a room she hadn’t shown him yet.

And there it was.

He saw it before she even noticed his silence.

One painting. Hung with great care. Framed in simple dark wood. The colors vibrant, almost dreamlike. A palace in a desert, stars above, a crescent moon shining on pale sand. It was unmistakable.

His throat tightened.

Mary.

She’d painted that one after reading One Thousand and One Nights . Had insisted on giving it to him. Said it belonged in his study, though it never made it there.

He had locked it away with the others.

“I found this room filled with beautiful paintings,” Fiona said, standing beside him now. “All of them gathering dust. It seemed such a waste to leave them there. So I used several of them after the renovations. I think they add the perfect touches to the rooms.”

He did not speak.

“Are they yours?” she asked, turning toward him with a hopeful smile.

“I do not paint,” he said. His voice felt foreign in his own mouth.

She tilted her head. “But there were so many brushes. And the oils. All those supplies.”

He looked straight ahead. Not at her. Not at the painting.

His hands were still. His face composed. But inside, something coiled.

“Speaking of Arabian paintings,” he said with forced lightness, “I have something else of Arabian descent for you.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

“Would you like to see?”

She lit up, just as he hoped she would. “What is it?”

He offered her his arm. “Come, I’ll show you.”

They descended the stairs together. Her voice filled the air once more, lifting the grief that had threatened to crush him only moments ago.

“I should like to invite Elaine and the others for an evening,” she said. “Now that you’ve returned and the work is done. I think it would be lovely.”

He opened the door to his study. “Indeed.”

Fiona stepped into the study, and Isaac followed, closing the door behind them. Before she could ask what they were doing in his study, he reached for her hand and gave it a gentle tug, guiding her toward the large oak desk.

He moved with purpose, opening a deep drawer and retrieving an ornate chest unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Fiona gasped. “Isaac… what is it?”

The chest was exquisite—carved wood inlaid with intricate designs, stained glass panels catching the morning light in soft hues of amber, blue, and green.

He set it before her. “A little patience.”

Her fingers twitched with anticipation. She waited only until he stepped back before lifting the lid.

A breath escaped her lips.

Inside was a full tea set, each piece delicately formed of stained glass and trimmed with silver. The teapot shimmered like sunlight through cathedral windows, and the cups were studded with the tiniest jewels—emeralds, garnets, even a speck of sapphire.

“I—Isaac…” she whispered, touching one cup as though it might vanish.

But he wasn’t finished.

“There is a second layer,” he said.

Fiona looked down, confused. It appeared to be the base of the box, solid and flat. But as she felt along its edges, she discovered a panel. It lifted away smoothly, revealing two velvet pouches nestled in fitted recesses.

Blue and gold. Embroidered.

She opened one carefully and brought it to her nose.

“Oh—my, I think I smell cloves,” she said, eyes wide. “And cinnamon. Is this…?”

“A blend,” he said simply. “From abroad.”

Fiona closed the pouch, still stunned.

“I should have gotten you a proper wedding gift beforehand,” Isaac said, his gaze unreadable.

She turned to him, the box still open between them. “Isaac, what could possibly be better than this?” Her voice came out soft but certain. “It is more than enough. And I cannot begin to express just how much I love it.”

A quiet passed between them, warm and brimming.

Later that evening, the house came alive with guests. Light laughter trickled down the corridors, and the scent of rose water and roast duck filled the air.

Fiona moved with ease from group to group, her smile bright, her hand resting now and again on a guest’s arm, a quiet word here, a warm welcome there. Every so often, her gaze flicked toward Isaac.

He stood tall and composed, greeting her friends with gracious civility, even the occasional dry remark that earned him a chuckle or two. To the untrained eye, he looked perfectly at home. But Fiona knew better.

He is trying.

And somehow, that made her heart squeeze.

At dinner, he was seated across from Anna’s husband, the Duke of Copperton, and the conversation turned, of all things, to soil and weather.

“The weather in the Scottish lowlands is far more agreeable to early root vegetables than I had expected,” Isaac said, leaning slightly forward.

Copperton stroked his jaw. “I’ve never ventured that far north with my farms, but I shall consider it now.”

“Indeed you should,” Samuel said, lifting his glass slightly.

Fiona watched from her seat. Laughter moved freely around the table, bright and unforced. The evening had unfolded far better than she’d hoped.

Isaac fit. He truly did.

As the conversation shifted to general society gossip, Hester leaned in slightly and said, “Have you heard? Lord Canterlack has been rather shunned of late. Entirely snubbed at the Carrington ball, and Lady Rosethorne refused to acknowledge him in Hyde Park.”

The remark landed like a stone in a pond, and there was silence. Fiona felt Isaac still beside her. She turned her head just slightly —enough to catch the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly against the tablecloth. He said nothing.

Elaine glanced quickly at him, then at Fiona, and with a breezy tone that felt just a bit too sudden, declared, “You must play something for us, my dear. That pianoforte has been woefully neglected tonight.”

Fiona gave a mock gasp, one brow arching. “Another solo?”

Elaine clutched her heart theatrically. “Must I get on my knees?”

Fiona laughed. “Very well. But how about another duet?”

A delighted murmur stirred among the ladies. “Oh, it isn’t every day we’re treated to a duet,” Hester said.

“Indeed not,” added Nancy. “The last time was during your wedding week. I’ve not stopped thinking about it.”

Anna grinned. “Come now, Elaine. You mustn’t let us down.”

Elaine smiled and rose, casting a playful glance over her shoulder. “Let it not be said I lack a sense of occasion.”

They moved to the drawing room and settled side by side at the pianoforte, and the first soft notes filled the room. Fiona’s fingers moved with practiced ease, but it was the sound of her sister-in-law’s harmony that brought a true grin to her face.

Their melodies wove together effortlessly, laughter glancing between them with every flourish.

When the final chord faded, Copperton gave a slow clap. “You are surrounded by quite the talent, Craton.”

Fiona caught the flicker of pride in Isaac’s expression before he masked it with another sip of his port.

“That was a breeze,” Elaine said, stretching her fingers with satisfaction.

Fiona followed her gaze—only to notice it linger on a painting just above the instrument.

One of the canvases from the hidden room. Elaine’s brow furrowed slightly. A strange stillness settled over her expression.

But before she could speak?—

“Oh goodness, look at the time,” Anna announced as she stood. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“Nor I,” Nancy added, gathering her shawl.

Hester gave a regretful nod. “It’s been such a lovely evening, but I fear we must be off.”

The party moved toward the front hall, farewells warm and full of laughter.

“It was a most marvelous evening, Fiona,” Anna said, taking her hand. “You must host again soon.”

“Indeed,” Hester added. “And next time, you’ll play two duets.”

Fiona smiled and saw them to the door.

But as she, Isaac, Elaine, and Samuel returned toward the drawing room, Elaine paused in the corridor.

Her eyes had landed on another canvas—one Fiona had hung just outside the library.

Elaine stopped.

“I see you’ve finally found places for Mary’s paintings, Isaac,” she said. “I must say, the house looks wonderful. And the art pieces add such life to it.”

Fiona’s gaze shifted between Elaine and the painting, her brow drawing in faint confusion—until her eyes fell on Isaac.

He had stilled entirely. His shoulders had squared, jaw taut, every line of him held so tightly it looked as though he might splinter.

Fiona felt the change before she fully understood it.

“Mary again...” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. Her eyes flicked back to Elaine. “These are hers?”

Elaine turned sharply, her gaze landing on Isaac with something close to disbelief. “You didn’t know?”

Fiona shook her head slowly.

Elaine’s expression hardened. “Never say you’ve still not told her, brother.”

The chill in her voice settled over the hallway like frost. Isaac said nothing. Not a word. Not even a blink. Fiona looked at him, waiting. But he stood like stone, unmoving.

“Isaac,” Elaine said, more firmly this time.

Still, no reply. Samuel stepped forward slightly. “Elaine?—”

“No, Samuel,” she cut in, lifting a hand. “Let me.”

She took a step closer to her brother. “You cannot keep burying this, Isaac. She’s your wife. She deserves to know.”

Fiona’s heart beat faster, confusion knitting in her chest. “Who is Mary?” she asked, quietly.

But Isaac didn’t look at her.

Elaine’s voice sharpened. “Don’t just stand there. Say something .”

He didn’t.

Samuel’s jaw tightened. “That is quite enough now, Elaine.”

Fiona looked between them all, bewildered. The air had shifted, thick with tension, like a room just before a storm.

Elaine turned on her husband. “No, Samuel. He needs to wake up to reality. He has to tell her. She has a right to know.”

“We are going home,” Samuel said, not raising his voice but leaving no room for doubt. “The children have long since gone past bedtime. Rebecca won’t sleep until you’ve told her one of your ridiculous stories.”

Elaine deflated with visible effort. Her arms dropped to her sides. Samuel stepped beside her, gently tucking her arm into his and steering her back toward the front of the house.

Fiona stood, rooted in place for a moment longer. Then, glancing once more at Isaac—still silent, still frozen—she turned and followed the couple to see them out.

Who is Mary?

Fiona returned and found him exactly where she’d left him—standing before the painting, hands at his sides, his gaze fixed on the canvas as though it held the power to turn back time.

His expression was faraway. Not vacant. It was wounded.

“Isaac?” she asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

She stepped closer, reached out, and tugged at his sleeve.

He did not look at her. But he spoke.

“Mary is our sister.”

Fiona froze.

“She died,” he continued, voice steady but hollow. “Right before her debut.”

“Oh…” The word slipped from her lips, soft and stricken. Her hand remained on his sleeve. “Oh, Isaac.”

The pieces clicked into place all at once. The silence. The painting. Elaine’s fury. His stillness.

It wasn’t reluctance that had kept him from speaking. It was grief.

His eyes remained locked on the painting. And though his lips parted once more, no words followed.

He wants to speak. But he cannot.

She saw the anguish etched in the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether the wind might carry him or destroy him.

Fiona’s throat ached with the urge to ask more— Who was she? How did it happen? Why does it haunt you so? —but the questions withered before they reached her lips.

Not now. Not tonight.

Instead, she slipped her hand into his. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I truly am.”

His hand flinched at her touch. “Don’t be.”

The words were low, abrupt. Bitter—not with her, but with what was buried far deeper.

Then, without another glance, he turned and walked away. Fiona stood in the hallway, alone, the painting watching her in silence.