Page 15 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)
“ A re you entirely certain His Grace never enters this wing?”
Morag shifted the bundle of linens in her arms as her young face creased with worry. The crisp Highland morning had brought frost to the castle windows, and Diana could see her breath misting slightly in the cold air of the corridor.
“Aye, my lady. Not since he returned from his service in the Navy. Won’t even let us dust properly in there. Says it’s to remain untouched.”
Diana paused at the heavy oak door. Her fingers traced the iron handle that hadn’t been turned in years.
The metal was cold as ice beneath her gloved touch, and she could feel the weight of secrets pressing against the other side of the ancient wood.
Though she couldn’t explain it, something had drawn her here this morning – a restless energy that followed her like Highland mist, refusing to be dismissed.
“But surely as Duchess, I should know what rooms lie within my own castle?” Diana pressed gently.
“Och, that ye should, Your Grace!” Morag’s eyes brightened with sudden enthusiasm. “It’s just… well, it was Lady Catherine’s favorite wing. His Grace’s mother, God rest her soul. She had such particular ways about everythin’.”
Diana felt a flutter of anticipation mingling with trepidation. Ever since arriving at Storme Castle, she’d sensed the presence of ghosts in its corridors – not supernatural spirits, but the lingering echoes of lives lived and lost within its ancient walls.
“Tell me about her,” Diana said, pushing at the stubborn door. “What was she like?”
Morag glanced nervously down the corridor before lowering her voice conspiratorially.
Her words came out in excited whispers that spoke of long-held secrets finally finding a voice.
“My own mother was her lady’s maid, Your Grace.
Said Her Grace was the kindest mistress she ever served.
Always askin’ after the servants’ families, rememberin’ birthdays and such. ”
The door groaned in protest as Diana pushed it open.
Centuries of Highland dampness had warped the wood beyond easy use.
The hinges shrieked like banshees, and Diana winced at the sound, hoping it wouldn’t carry to other parts of the castle.
Inside, dust motes twirled lazily in shafts of pale morning light.
“Oh my,” Diana breathed, stepping into the space that time and grief and life forgot.
The room was practically a shrine to abandoned dreams. Furniture stood draped in holland covers like sleeping giants, and the very air itself seemed thick with memory and sorrow.
Diana’s artistic eyes immediately catalogued the details – the way the morning light fell across the dust-covered pianoforte, the delicate needlework frame still holding an unfurnished piece of embroidery, and the books whose leather bindings had faded but whose titles could still be glimpsed through the years of neglect.
“Mother used to tell me stories about this room,” Morag whispered, following her inside.
Her voice carried the reverent tone of someone entering a cathedral.
“Her Grace would sit right there by that window every mornin’, brushing her hair and singin’ Highland lullabies. Said she had the voice of an angel.”
Diana stepped over to the window Morag indicated and ran her fingers along the stone sill where Finn’s mother must have rested her hands countless times.
The view overlooked the castle gardens, now wild and overgrown, but still beautiful in their untamed state.
She could almost visualize the figure of a young woman sitting there, humming softly as she watched the Highland landscape stretch endlessly toward the horizon.
Diana moved deeper into the chamber, taking in the dust-covered books and abandoned violin.
The instrument lay open in its case, the strings long since snapped and curled with age.
Sheet music lay scattered around it that bore the stains of water and brown spots marking the passage of time, but Diana could still make out the elegant handwriting that had scribbled notes in the margins, suggestions for tempo, and reminders about phrasing.
But it was the portrait propped against the wall that stole her breath entirely.
“Morag,” she said softly, “is that…?”
“Aye, Your Grace. That’s her.” Morag’s voice a gentle whisper. “She commissioned it herself when she was well along with child – wanted a portrait to commemorate becomin’ a mother. Ye can see how proud she was of her condition.”
Diana stared at the canvas with her heart breaking.
Lady Catherine stood in profile, her hands resting atop an obviously rounded belly with tender reverence.
The artist had captured every detail – the way her gown was specially tailored to accommodate her pregnancy, the protective curve of her hands upon her unborn child, and the absolutely radiant expression of maternal joy and anticipation resting on her beautiful features that seemed to glow from within the paint itself.
The woman in the portrait possessed an ethereal beauty that transcended mere physical attractiveness.
Her dark hair was arranged in elegant curls that caught the light, and her eyes – Finn’s eyes, Diana realized with a start – held depths of adoration and hope that made Diana’s throat tighten with emotion.
The artist had painted her surrounded by symbols of motherhood and fertility.
“She looks so happy,” Diana murmured, unable to look away from the masterpiece.
“Aye, she was over the moon about the bairn comin’.
” Morag’s voice carried fond warmth. “Mother said she couldn’t wait to commission that portrait – wanted a proper record of carryin’ the next Duke of Storme.
She’d stand in front of it for hours after it was finished, talkin’ to her belly about how someday she’d show the paintin’ to her son and tell him how much she loved him before they had even met. ”
Diana’s eyes filled with tears as she imagined the scene – a young woman, glowing with the anticipation of impending motherhood, speaking to her unborn child with the kind of fierce, protective love that transcended even death.
What stories had Lady Catherine whispered to her baby?
What dreams had she shared? What promises had she made that would never be fulfilled?
“What happened to change everything?” Diana asked softly.
Morag hesitated, wringing her hands in her apron.
Her usual cheerful demeanor had grown somber, and Diana could see the weight of family secrets pressing down upon the young woman’s shoulders.
“Well, Your Grace, the birthin’ was… difficult.
Lady Catherine fought hard, but…” She was unable to finish.
“And the Duke blamed his newborn son,” Diana said quietly, recalling what Mrs. Glenwright had told her.
“Aye,” Morag nodded sadly. “But it wasn’t just the grief that changed things,” she continued reluctantly.
Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and she kept glancing toward the door as though afraid they might be overheard.
“The old Duke… he took to drinkin’ after Lady Catherine’s passing.
And when he did, his temper was even worse than usual…
” She trailed off while shooting worried glances toward the door.
“You can speak freely with me, Morag. What happened?”
The girl took a shaky breath. Her hands twisted in her apron as though the very words she was about to speak caused her physical pain.
“Mother told me she caught sight of bruises on wee Lord Finn more than once, even when he was barely walkin’.
Purple blots on his wee arms and back. When she tried to tend to them, he’d flinch away like a beaten cur, even as young as he was. ”
Diana’s blood ran cold. The mental image of a tiny child, barely more than a toddler, learning to associate touch with pain rather than comfort, made her stomach lurch with revulsion and heartache. This was something Mrs. Glenwright hadn’t mentioned – or perhaps hadn’t known.
“Mother said it was heartbreakin’ to watch,” Morag continued, her voice thick with unshed tears.
“The poor wee lad would go rigid whenever his father entered a room. His precious face would go blank like he was tryin’ to disappear into the very walls themselves.
She said it was like watching a flower slowly wilting in darkness. ”
Diana’s hands clenched to fists at her sides as rage and sorrow warred in her chest. How could anyone hurt a child? How could a father look at his son – his own flesh and blood – and see only blame rather than the innocent victim of tragic circumstances?
“The poor wee lad learned to make himself scarce when his father was in his cups,” Morag continued. “Mother said he’d hide for hours in the stables or up in the tower rooms, quiet as a mouse, poor thing, waitin’ for the storm to pass.”
“Dear God…” Diana whispered, pressing a hand to her throat.
“That’s when the old Duke decided he couldn’t bear the sight of his son any longer,” Morag said. “Wasn’t long after he was sent away. Packed off to live with relatives like unwanted baggage. Mother said it near broke her heart to see that wee laddie carted off with nothin’ but a single trunk.”
Diana closed her eyes, trying to block out the mental image of a young Finn, being sent away from the only home he’d ever known, carrying nothing but a few possessions and the wounds both visible and invisible that his father had inflicted.
She felt her chest tighten with emotion. “Do you know how old he was?”
“Barely walkin’ steady, Your Grace. Just a babe, really.
” Morag shook her head sadly. “That’s why this wing means so much to His Grace, I think,” she continued, gesturing around the room.
“It’s the only place left where his mother’s memory truly lives.
Where he can perhaps remember what it felt like to be loved before the world taught him it wasn’t safe. ”