Page 30 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

The cold dawn air settled almost harshly on Eliza’s face as she stepped into the reception hall with Tristan by her side. Mr. Kale stood by the doorway, waiting for them with his usual steady look.

“My lord, my lady,” he said, bowing his head. “Jane wished to rise early and see you off, but she could not. Sleep held her too fast. She will be most disappointed.”

Eliza smiled softly. “Please tell her she has nothing to be sad about. I will come to visit soon, and she must be ready to show me more of her drawings. And, Mr. Kale, do tell her that I shall treasure the one she gave me for as long as I live.”

Kale’s lips curved slightly, though his sigh carried weight. “I hope you will not think her too forward, my lady. It is just that she has grown fond of you in a short time.”

“Offended?” Eliza shook her head gently. “It is more excitement than I have had in days, believe me. Your daughter has given me joy.”

“Then I shall relay this to her with the utmost joy in return.”

Eliza nodded as they walked the narrow path toward the waiting carriage. The wheels shone with the falling morning dew, and the horses dug their hooves lightly into the earth. They stopped, and Eliza watched Tristan give Kale a firm nod.

“I suppose this is farewell, for now,” Tristan said. “But I will see you again before long.”

Mr. Kale gave a small shrug. “If I am still here and the land has not been stripped from us by then.”

The words landed heavily, and Eliza felt them cut straight into her chest. She stared at Tristan, who met Mr. Kale’s eyes with steady resolve.

“Do not worry, Mr. Kale. Do not worry at all,” Tristan said quietly. He reached into his coat, drew out several coins, and pressed them into Mr. Kale’s hand. “For the inn. For letting Jane keep my wife company and, of course, for all your troubles.”

Mr. Kale stared down at the coins, his brow furrowed. “My lord, this is far too much. I cannot take it. I only charge a quarter of what you have paid me for all guests.”

“Then think of it as a gift for Jane,” Tristan answered firmly. “And know this … I will not let this land be stolen from you. You have my word.”

Mr. Kale swallowed hard. His voice roughened as he bowed. “You have my gratitude, my lord. My lady.”

With that, Tristan helped Eliza into the carriage. She settled against the cushioned seat, looking back as Mr. Kale lifted his hand in farewell. Jane’s absence tugged at her heart, but the drawing folded safely in her satchel was proof enough of their bond.

The horses snorted, the driver gave a click of his tongue, and the carriage rolled forward. The inn and its people faded into the distance.

Eliza turned her eyes to the window and watched the fields sweep past. Some of the villagers were up already and were moving about their morning work. The smell of damp earth hung in the air, and she traced the glass lightly with her finger, her thoughts restless.

Across from her, Tristan broke the silence. “There is no way Mr. Harwood did not know. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt last night, but I couldn’t. He must have known the cost of this scheme. He must have known what it would take from them. And still, he concealed it.”

Eliza said nothing at first. Instead, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the folded letter from the night before, her fingers lingering on its edges.

Tristan noticed and tilted his head. “Still reading Clara’s words?” His mouth curved into a small smile, though his eyes were weary. “Relax. You will see her soon enough.”

Eliza gave a small, nervous laugh. “Yes. Soon enough.”

But her gaze dropped back to the page, and her smile faded. The truth pressed against her chest like stone.

It was not Clara’s letter. She had lied.

The letter bore no signature, so she had no idea who it came from. It warned her in plain terms that she was being used. Marcus was behind everything, and the project was designed in the first place for nothing but profit.

It was a big way for Marcus to line his pockets, and Evermere’s future was the cloak for a darker design.

The worst part was that she, his sister, had been a tool to place Tristan within his grasp. Her stomach knotted as she read the words again, though she knew them by heart already.

She had thought Marcus only wanted this marriage to rid himself of her and make her someone else’s problem. Now she knew the truth.

Her hands trembled as the thought settled deeper. Marcus had not sought her happiness. He had sought Tristan’s signature. He had tied her to this household not to secure her future, but his own. She was a means to an end.

He had used her to open a door, and Tristan was the prize.

Her throat tightened at the thought, and she felt her fingers squeeze the piece of paper. She could not keep this secret forever.

She lifted her eyes and saw Tristan watching the passing fields, his profile sharp, yet softened by thought.

She remembered the way he had looked yesterday at the villagers, at the children, at her.

He was not a man who played games with people’s lives.

He was a man who shouldered burdens, not one who created them.

He deserved nothing but the truth.

Her heart pounded faster in her chest as the question she had been trying to avoid all night pierced her mind.

Would he forgive her?

The fear gnawed at her. If she spoke, if she confessed that her brother had bound Tristan to her through lies, would Tristan ever look at her the same way again? Would he see her as part of the betrayal, even if she had not known?

Eliza pressed the letter into her lap, remembering his words the night before.

Arranged or not, you are still my wife.

Her chest ached at the memory. He had trusted her with that admission. She could not let fear keep her silent.

Yet she could not speak now. Not here, not while the carriage wheels rattled and the walls of Evermere drew closer with each passing second.

“Are you well?” Tristan’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Yes,” she said too quickly.

His eyes lingered on her, searching, but he did not press further. He turned back to the window. “We are almost there.”

The carriage rattled over the last stretch of the road and soon, in the distance, the familiar grey walls she had come to recognize rose from the ground. Her eyes remained still on the manor as they approached it. This was what she had been traded for.

The place Marcus had always wanted. The place she now called home.

As the carriage rolled through the gates, Eliza held the letter tight in her hand. She knew the truth now, and she knew it could not remain unspoken for long.

Her heart raced as the carriage slowed and as Tristan’s voice broke the silence once more.

“We are here.”

***

The smell of lime in the atelier had greatly reduced, and she was grateful for it. She could spend most of her days here now without disturbance or any kind of worry about her health.

That was if she still had had days here anyway.

Her fingers were steady around the brush, and she painted gently on the canvas balanced on the easel. It was a slight accurate reiteration of the inn she had stayed in. It was far from perfect as she was painting from memory, but it was enough to keep her mind completely occupied for now.

It had been mere hours since they returned to Evermere, and she had been restless ever since. She pressed her lips together and added another careful shade to the roof.

She was about to put her brush into a dark hue when the door creaked, and she turned. Clara stood there, her arms wide, a look of slight relief plastered on her face.

“Good grief!” Clara exclaimed. “It is like I have not seen you in forever. Thank you for coming back.”

Eliza managed a small smile as Clara crossed into the room and pulled her into a hug. The familiar warmth made her chest loosen, if only for a moment.

“I did not know you missed me that much.”

“Believe me. I do. For some reason, I keep seeing Mr. Hale everywhere I turn.”

“Really?”

“That man is wearing me down, I am telling you.”

“Is that a good thing or a…” Eliza asked, her voice trailing off.

Clara’s gaze shifted past her shoulder, half out of curiosity and half in a bid to shut her up and change the subject. “What is this?” She stepped closer to the easel, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, this…” Eliza muttered, her eyes turning as well. “This is the inn we stayed at the other day.”

“You are painting the inn?”

Eliza only sighed, dipping her brush again. “I suppose so.”

Clara tilted her head. “All right, tell me the truth now.”

Eliza blinked, her hand growing still for the fraction of a second. “What?”

“You heard me.” Clara folded her arms. “I know what that face means.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what you look like when something is gnawing at you. So talk.”

Eliza gave a small huff. “You do not know me as well as you think, Clara.”

“Oh, do I not?” Clara arched her brow. “Let me see. You are doing that thing where you tap your thumb against the edge of your brush. You only do that when you are thinking too hard.”

Eliza blinked and looked down at her hand. Sure enough, her thumb was brushing against the soft bristles of her paintbrush. How did she not even notice she was doing that in the first place?

“When you are upset but trying to hide it, you laugh too lightly,” Clara continued, the utter vindication in her voice prevalent. “And when you are nervous, you bite your lower lip. Shall I go on?”

Eliza’s mouth opened, then closed. She set the brush down. “Fine. You know me more than I thought. Still, that proves nothing.”

“It proves everything,” Clara pressed. “Now, come on. Let us hear what is cooking in that head of yours.”

Eliza exhaled long and slow. Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

“I know something,” she began. “Something I ought to tell Tristan. But if I do, it will ruin everything. I would no longer have any of this. The atelier. The room. The…” She trailed off, her voice faltering.

“The what?” Clara leaned forward, her eyes intent.

Eliza’s shoulders sagged. “The connection. I would no longer have him.”

Clara’s gaze softened, and she dropped her arms. “Oh, darling.”

“I know.”

“How about you think about it like this. What if he finds out some other way? Which would be worse, him hearing it from you, or him hearing it from another?”

Eliza swallowed. “I suppose some other way would be worse.”

“Then you must tell him,” Clara said firmly. “And soon.”

Eliza opened her mouth, words perched on the edge, when the door opened again.

Aunt Evelyn swept in, her cane tapping against the floor. She looked from one young woman to the other, her sharp eyes narrowing.

“Aunt Evelyn,” Eliza greeted them, her voice soft.

Evelyn’s eyes continued to dart from one person to the other. “Am I interrupting something? What is going on here?”

Eliza began, “It is nothing. I…”

But Clara cut in before she could finish, her voice quick. “Eliza wants to tell Lord Vale something. Something that may or may not destroy their marriage.”

Eliza’s head snapped toward her cousin. “Thank you for that,” she muttered, shooting her a glare.

Clara only shrugged.

Evelyn studied her with calm interest. “Do not fret, dear. Tristan is my nephew, and of course, my loyalty leans toward him. But I know better than anyone how destructive secrets can be, especially once revealed.”

Eliza straightened. “You do?”

“Oh, believe me. I have had a fair share of secrets that I decided not to reveal to my husband.”

“So you kept things from Lord Howard?” Clara asked.

“Oh, plenty,” Evelyn replied without hesitation.

Clara frowned. “Did any of those secrets threaten to destroy your marriage?”

Evelyn’s mouth tugged at one corner. “Several, if I am being frank. And here is what I learned. Sometimes, we do more damage by speaking than by keeping silent. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. On the rarest of occasions, honesty may not be the best policy.”

Eliza nodded, taking in Evelyn’s words one after the other. She understood the older woman’s perspective.

Clara shook her head at once. “I cannot agree with that. Your marriage with Lord Vale is still in its early days. It is better that they speak everything now. That way, it does not weigh them down later.”

Evelyn waved her cane lightly. “In the end, the choice is Eliza’s. But she must be honest with herself. Is she keeping this secret to protect him, or is she keeping it to protect herself?”

The words sank deeper than she thought, and Eliza lowered her eyes to her lap, her heart pounding.

Clara surprised her by nodding. “For the first time, Lady Evelyn, I agree with you.”

Evelyn gasped, clutching at her pearls. “What do you mean, for the first time? You mean you have never once agreed with me?”

Clara rolled her eyes. “You have had some rather questionable opinions. Especially about Americans.”

Evelyn drew herself up. “I beg your pardon. My belief that the country deserves nothing but fire and brimstone is not at all questionable. I will have you know that it is, in fact, a reasonable opinion to have.”

Eliza laughed before she could stop herself, the sound breaking through the tension in the room. Clara shook her head, and Evelyn huffed, and the two of them slipped into their usual sparring.

Eliza leaned back, watching them with a strange fondness. Their words faded into the background, but her mind circled the same thought. They were right.

She had to decide.

Would she keep this secret to spare herself? Or would she speak it and face what followed? Her chest rose and fell. She knew the answer, though fear still tried to smother it.

She had to tell him because she could not let him discover the truth in some other way. And if she was being honest with herself, she already knew the choice she would make.

She only needed to find the courage.