Portrait Of A Lover (19 page)

Whether or not that was the case, she did not know, so all she could do was press on. “Magnus truly believes they were wronged.”

“That’s not what I know about it,” Whitby said.

He appeared less angry now, and she wondered if it was possible that he might take pity on her and help her.

“Well, it’s your word against his,” she told him, “and I’m tired of all the questions, Whitby. I need to feel as if I know what I’m doing.”

But even if she did know the truth, would she ever feel completely sure?

Annabelle spent the rest of the day questioning various members of the household about Whitby’s grandfather and his twin sons, and everyone who worked in the house said the same thing Whitby had always said—that the boy had been sent away because he’d been violent and dangerous.

One woman had even said that Magnus’s father had “the devil in him,” which had done nothing to improve Annabelle’s optimism.

Of course, there were very few servants who had actually worked in the house when Magnus’s father lived there, and it was so long ago that no one even remembered what he looked like.

Annabelle had the distinct feeling that people merely believed what they’d heard through gossip over the years, and that the story had essentially taken on mythic proportions.

So when all her questions turned up no new information, she spent the evening in her studio, distracting herself from the stresses of her life by working on the painting of the waterfall.

She still could not seem to get the reflections in the water to look real, so she finally gave up, chocking it up to the fact that she was too anxious to concentrate.

That night, Annabelle went to bed feeling certain that she was wasting her time on this futile search. What was the point of it, after all, when Magnus said he didn’t care about the past? What difference would all this make once they got to America, if she went with him? What had happened to his father had nothing to do with their lives now. If she was going to give her whole heart to Magnus, she was going to have to do as he’d asked and somehow find the courage to take that blind leap of faith.

Just then a quiet knock sounded at her door, and she leaned up on both elbows. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and there stood her brother, holding a kerosene lamp. He was still wearing his dinner jacket, but his shirt was open at the collar, his tie loose around his neck.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he said.

“You didn’t. I wasn’t sleeping.”

He hesitated a moment. “I need to speak to you.”

Annabelle sat up.

He closed the door behind him, walked to the bed and set down the lamp, then pulled a chair up and took a seat.

“Today, after you told me that Magnus believed his father was wronged,” Whitby said, “I began thinking about it, and I remember whispers and gossip when I was growing up. Gossip about my grandfather.”

Annabelle’s pulse began to beat. “Pertaining to what?”

Whitby ran a hand through his hair. “Evidently, there was a parlor maid who worked here in the house, and she and my grandfather were intimate lovers, and they almost ran away together.”

“It sounds scandalous,” Annabelle remarked.

“This maid was let go after a few years, but I seem to recall hearing that she was sent away at the same time Magnus’s father was.”

A disturbing notion suddenly occurred to Annabelle. “Was she the mother?”

Whitby held up a hand and shook his head. “No, no. Nothing like that. Magnus’s father and my father were definitely twins, that is certain.”

Annabelle was not sure where her brother was heading with this, until he reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed her a folded note. “But perhaps this woman knows something and can give you some insight into what happened. If she’s still alive, that is. I have no idea.”

Annabelle unfolded the note and read the woman’s name, Rose Michaels, along with a London address.

“I don’t know if her family still lives there,” Whitby said, “but it was all I could find in the employment records.”

Annabelle tossed the covers aside and slid to the edge of the bed. “How can I ever thank you?”

He stood and took her hand. “Don’t be so grateful. I still don’t trust Magnus, and I’m hoping this woman will prove me right. I just want you to be sure of your decision, whatever it turns out to be.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and he held her briefly before he drew away. There was a note of warning in his voice when he spoke.

“All I ask is that you be careful, Annabelle. Don’t let your emotions rule your head. But God forbid, if you do, and you decide to go with Magnus, please know that you can always come home to us. We will be here for you no matter what.”

“Thank you, Whitby. It is good to know.”

He turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “You should also know that if that man ever hurts you again, I swear I will cross the ocean to make him pay. I promise you that, Annabelle.”

And she knew that if circumstances warranted it, her brother would make good on that promise.

HIS HEAD IN A FOG
, Magnus entered his hotel room and looked around.

The maids had been there. The bedclothes were in order, the drapes were open, and everything was tidy. It was almost as if Annabelle had never been there.

Closing the door behind him and dropping the hotel key on a table, he slowly walked to the bed and rested a hand on the brass frame. He rested the other hand on his stomach, because he felt ill, as if he’d been shot back there into those dark times when he wanted to crush Whitby, to blame him for his pain. He’d thought he was over that, but today had been very grim.

He was ashamed of himself—for his shocking, appalling behavior in Annabelle’s drawing room. He had tried to crush Whitby again. He had felt such intense bitterness toward him.

Why had he even bothered to come back to subject himself to this? He felt wretched, like that rejected boy who had been kicked and beaten and called the spawn of a madman.

He regretted coming back. He should not have come. Not even for Annabelle. She was too entrenched in that world. He wanted to leave right now, to go home to America.

But God, oh, God. He could not. Because he still wanted Annabelle with every inch of his soul, even though the likelihood of his ever truly having her seemed slim, because she simply could not trust him.

Granted, she had said she wanted to fix things, but he didn’t want her to go poking around in the past, finding out things he might not even want to know.

What if she discovered something that would confirm what Whitby had always said, and it would make Annabelle fear and loathe him more than she ever had before—just as everyone else had all his life?

In all honesty, he was afraid of what she would find, because how well had he really known his father, after all? For all he knew, maybe his father had been a madman.

A nnabelle knocked firmly upon Rose Michaels’s door and was greeted by an attractive woman in gold spectacles. Her gray hair was swept up into a loose knot, and she appeared to be in her sixties.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

Annabelle smiled politely. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for someone who lived here quite a few years ago, and I’m wondering if you might know her. Her name is Rose Michaels.”

Annabelle saw recognition flash through the woman’s eyes before she gave a melancholy smile. “Rose was my mother. But she died seven years ago.”

Annabelle sighed and bit her lip.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” the woman asked.

Annabelle wondered again if it was possible for anyone to help her. She was standing at a stranger’s house, looking for answers about Magnus—a man who had no connection to these people. Rose Michaels was a ghost. She had never even met him.

“No,” Annabelle said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture as she turned to leave. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait, dear…” The woman took an anxious step forward. “How did you know my mother?”

Annabelle stopped on the front walk and turned around. “I didn’t. My brother—the Earl of Whitby—gave me her name, because she once worked as a maid at Century House in Bedfordshire, and I wanted to ask her some questions about that. But it was such a long time ago.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed curiously. “Your brother is the Earl of Whitby?”

“Yes. Well, actually, I was adopted, but he is like a true brother to me.”

The woman nodded her understanding. “I can guess what you wanted to speak to my mother about, but I am curious as to why, after all these years.”

Annabelle swallowed nervously. This was very awkward. A scandalous affair was not something one spoke about to a stranger.

At the same time, it was important that she learn the truth, and she sensed that this woman knew something.

“Would you like to come inside?” she asked.

Annabelle hesitated, then accepted the woman’s kindness.

“I’m Hannah Pascoe,” she said. “And you are…?”

“Annabelle Lawson.”

They shook hands, then went into the parlor and sat down.

“I’m looking for information about the former earl’s son, Robert Wallis,” Annabelle said. “He was the younger of twins, and he would have been just a boy when your mother worked at Century House. The older twin was the heir to—”

“I know who he is,” Mrs. Pascoe interjected. “He was the boy they sent away. The one they kept secret.”

Annabelle sucked in a breath. “So you do know about that.”

“Only what my mother told me, but she asked me never to speak of it.” She stood up, strolled to the mantel and took down a framed photograph, which she handed to Annabelle. “This is what she looked like a few years before she died. That’s when she spoke to me about what happened at Century House. I suppose she had begun to long for certain things in her past, or perhaps she just wanted someone to know.”

“Long for certain things?”

Mrs. Pascoe shrugged noncommittally. “She told me your brother’s grandfather was the great love of her life, and she never really recovered from the heartbreak of being sent away. She dreamed of him until the day she died.”

Annabelle stood up, reached for the picture, and looked at Rose’s face. She was an elderly woman, and it was difficult to imagine what she would have looked like so many years ago.

Annabelle handed the picture back. “I believe I understand how she must have felt, because the reason I am asking about this is that I have met the man who is Robert’s son, who has also been ostracized from the family.”

Mrs. Pascoe stared in silence at her for a moment, then turned and set the photograph back upon the mantel. “And you’re in love with him.”

Annabelle managed a smile. The woman was very astute. “Yes, I am. But I don’t know what to do, because no one trusts him, and I’m not sure that I should, either.” She paused and looked hopelessly at the picture of Rose, then cupped her forehead in a hand. “Oh, I don’t even know why I’m here and what I hope to accomplish. I’m the one who needs fixing, not him, and not this feud between him and my brother.”

“If you really love this man,” Mrs. Pascoe said, “your heart should know whether or not you can trust him. What happened to his father should have nothing to do with it.”

Annabelle smiled wretchedly. “You’re not the first person to tell me that, and I know you’re right. The real problem is that I still fear that his love is not real, and that he is lying to me about everything and I’m going to end up with my heart broken again.”

Mrs. Pascoe inclined her head.

Annabelle swallowed hard, and felt a need to shift her focus back toward something she could sink her teeth into, something that could provide answers, because all the rest of it was still so muddy in her brain.

“The last person I asked,” she said, “told me that Robert had the devil inside of him.”

Mrs. Pascoe sat down again, and her voice was sullen, but sympathetic. “The devil? No, that’s not true.”

Annabelle faced her. “What do you know about it, Mrs. Pascoe?”

For a long, tense moment, the woman was quiet, then at last she spoke. “Perhaps you had better sit down. This might take a while, and I don’t think it will be easy for you to hear.”

Despite all her attempts to convince herself that none of this really mattered because it was in the past, Annabelle was overcome with curiosity, so she returned to her chair and sat down to listen.

Dear Magnus,

I have just returned from a most fascinating meeting with a woman who knew of your father, and I have much to tell you. Could you come to the house in Mayfair as soon as you receive this letter? I will be waiting for you.

Annabelle

M agnus stood next to his coach on the street outside Whitby’s London residence, gazing up at the large stone mansion. He had stood here in this spot many times as a boy and later as a young man, always an outsider wondering what the house looked like on the inside. He had longed for acceptance then, and wanted what Whitby had been blessed with—a family who wanted him.

He felt a dim flicker of the old familiar feeling of isolation and loneliness, but knew it was merely the memory of those days, for he no longer cared that he was an outsider. In fact, he preferred it this way. He had no interest in being accepted by the people of this world, and no longer cared what this house looked like on the inside. All he cared about was Annabelle.

Besides, he had two homes in America that were just as fine. Finer even, for he’d worked hard to attain them. He had earned them.

But Magnus was not here to revisit his difficult youth. He was here to see Annabelle, because she’d asked him to come.

He would listen to what she had to say about his father. If the information was damning, he would ask her not to judge him by his father’s deeds.

Magnus hoped she would be able to do that, and come away with him regardless, though after what happened the other day, he doubted that would be possible for her. She was not likely to take a risk with him. She’d become far too cautious and guarded.

But that was his fault, he supposed, and perhaps he deserved this. He was now reaping what he had sown.

He closed his eyes and stood listening to the wind in the trees. Deciding that he’d done enough speculating, he stepped away from his coach and started off across the street.

He reached the door and knocked, and was more than a little surprised when the butler greeted him warmly. “Good afternoon, sir. Please come in.”

Magnus crossed the threshold, and while the butler took his coat, he glanced across the main entrance hall and found himself looking at the large portrait of Whitby and his wife and children.

Then unexpectedly, despite his reflections about not wanting what Whitby had, Magnus experienced a stabbing sensation in his gut. Maybe he didn’t need Whitby’s possessions, but he did need Annabelle at his side. He wanted a portrait just like that one in his own home back in America.

“Allow me to show you to the drawing room, Mr. Wallis,” the butler said. “Miss Lawson has been waiting for you.”

Magnus followed the butler up the stairs to the second floor and was shown into the room. He stopped just inside, his gaze falling upon Annabelle as the doors closed behind him. She was standing in front of the window, wearing a sky blue gown with white lace at the collar, and she was smiling at him.

No—more than smiling. She was beaming. Her eyes were glimmering with happiness; she looked like she could barely contain the joy that was bursting within her.

Instantly, he felt joyous as well. How could he not? She looked more beautiful than ever, smiling at him in that way, and he felt certain that she was going to say yes. That she had missed him the past few days just as desperately as he had missed her, and that she was ecstatic just to see him.

He took an anxious step forward. He wanted to close the distance between them and take her into his arms and promise her the world if she would let him give it to her…

But all at once something stopped him. A movement to his left.Another presence in the room.

Magnus turned his gaze and saw Whitby rising slowly from the chair in front of the fireplace.

The elation Magnus had just experienced seemed to fall flat on the floor at his feet, and his whole body stiffened defensively.

“Magnus,” Whitby said, his tone cool.

Magnus glanced uncertainly at Annabelle, not sure what he was facing here.

Perhaps she recognized his unease, for she came forward to welcome him. “Magnus, I’m so glad you’re here.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”

So much for taking her into his arms, he thought, with a hint of annoyance at having his desires so swiftly curtailed. This was to be a formal meeting, evidently.

Whitby crossed the room to sit in a chair opposite the sofa, while Annabelle sat down beside Magnus. She smiled again, which caused him to look questioningly at Whitby, who was not smiling. Not in the slightest. He looked as somber as ever, which was why Magnus did not know what to expect.

When Annabelle finally spoke, her voice was quiet and shaky. “As you know,” she said, “I’ve been asking questions about your father and why he was sent away, as I felt a need to understand this feud between you and my brother.”

Magnus glanced at Whitby. His cousin merely stared back at him, revealing nothing.

“This may be difficult for you to hear, Magnus,” she continued, “and I apologize in advance.”

Difficult to hear?

He felt as if the air in the room were getting thinner. He turned to Whitby. “Do you already know what she is about to tell me?”

“Yes,” he replied flatly, and Magnus clenched his jaw. He hated this. He hated being at a disadvantage.

Annabelle sat forward and continued. “I found a woman who is the daughter of a maid who was employed by your grandfather at Century House seventy-five years ago, when your father was born. She was intimate with your grandfather for five years, before she was forced to leave for that reason.”

Perhaps he was overly skeptical, but Magnus couldn’t help doubting the credibility of the source. “You found one of my grandfather’s jilted lovers, and you’re going to believe what she says?”

Annabelle squeezed her hands together on her lap, and Magnus instantly regretted his tone. But how could he help it? He had been accused of everything nasty and disagreeable all his life, and it was almost impossible not to become defensive. Especially with Whitby listening to all this in noteworthy silence.

“She couldn’t say anything,” Annabelle said shakily, “because she died seven years ago. It was her daughter I spoke to, but she knew a great deal about what happened to your father. May I describe it to you?”

He gazed into Annabelle’s eyes and recognized her discomfort. Her brow was furrowed, her face flushed. She wished to tell him something that was obviously going to be unpleasant, and she was dreading it.

“Yes, Annabelle,” he said, more gently this time. “You may certainly tell me.”

The tension in her body diminished slightly. “This woman, Rose Michaels, was deeply in love with your grandfather, and she knew why he sent his son away.”

Magnus braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Your father was not dangerous,” Annabelle said. “You were right about that. What happened was tragic and disturbing, and he was indeed greatly wronged, just as you have been. You’ve been right all along, and Whitby knows it.”

Magnus’s gaze darted to his cousin, who was still sitting at his ease in the chair. He simply nodded at Magnus, then gestured with a hand toward Annabelle.

Magnus returned his attention to her, feeling oddly disconnected from his body while he waited for the rest of the story.

“According to Rose Michaels,” Annabelle said, “your father was in fact your grandfather’s favorite son. He was the gentler of the two boys, and perhaps because he was the younger one and would not have the advantages of his older brother—the heir—your grandfather doted on him. He spent more time with him, and he loved him very much.”

Annabelle’s gentle expression darkened, however, with sadness and regret. “But there was an accident when he was four. Your grandfather had taken him into the stables one afternoon, and he was kicked by a horse.”

Magnus felt his brows draw together with horror over hearing such a thing. “Kicked?”

Annabelle glanced uncertainly at Whitby, who said, “Tell him the rest, Annabelle.”

She slid closer to Magnus. “Your father’s skull was cracked and he was never the same after that. He had seizures, and this is where the tragedy occurred. Rose Michaels said that your grandfather was so disturbed by the sight of the seizures that he kept your father hidden most of the time, so no one would know. Perhaps he feared an asylum, or perhaps he was ashamed. It’s difficult to know.”

“That’s why he sent him away?” Magnus asked, barely able to believe what he was hearing.

“Yes. And it’s very likely he was having a seizure the night he knocked over the lamp that caused the fire.”

Shock held Magnus immobile. “But why would he be cut off in every way? Why did my grandfather not at least take care of him financially?”

“He did provide for him somewhat. He paid for the cottage where he was raised, and the woman who cared for him.”

“But he received nothing after that, when he moved to London.”

Annabelle’s eyes glistened with tears and an unspoken apology. “I’m sorry. I know it was not enough. It was unfair, and I wish I could change how your father was treated. I was heartbroken to hear it, and there is nothing I can say to make it right.”

“But why would he do that to the son he doted on?” Magnus asked, still shaken by all of it. “How could he have been so callous?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was guilt. He couldn’t bear to watch him suffer.”

“It sounds to me like he was worried about appearances. He didn’t want a lunatic in the family.”

A flood of memories came at Magnus suddenly—all the times his father had locked himself in a room and hid himself away. No wonder he had been ashamed and afraid to let anyone see the truth. He had been banished from his family because of it.

Magnus sat forward and dropped his forehead to the heels of his hands. It was an unforgivable injustice. His father had been abandoned for no fault of his own and removed from his home, torn from his family and made out to be something he was not. He was never cruel or violent. The only cruelty had been in the heart of Magnus’s grandfather, who had valued appearances over the love of his son.

Magnus lifted his head and looked at his cousin. “Did you know about this?”

“Of course not. Not before today.”

They continued to sit in silence for a moment, until Whitby finally spoke. “You and your father were indeed wronged, Magnus, and I offer my most sincere apologies. I have every intention of making it right.”

“Making it right?” Magnus ground out. “How can anyone make it right? My father is dead, and he lived a miserable life. So pardon me for pointing out that there is no way in hell you—or anyone else—can fix that.”

Whitby dropped his gaze, his face drawn and pale. “I cannot argue. All I can offer is my deepest regrets for the way you have been treated. If I had known…”

Magnus stood up. “You should have known, Whitby. If Annabelle could find out the truth so easily, why couldn’t you? Or your brother, John?”

“We had no reason to doubt what we’d always been told, and from what I had seen of your behavior—”

“My behavior? Fighting with your brother? Did you ever stop to think that he picked the fights with me?”

Just then he felt Annabelle’s hand curl around his. “Magnus, I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. This must be a shock to you, but please sit down. There is so much more to say.”

He labored to control his breathing, then slowly did as she asked.

Annabelle was quiet for a moment, presumably to let the news settle in. Then she reached for his hand. “Magnus, I called you here today to tell you the truth about your father, but also to inform you that Whitby is now open to the possibility that you may not have been at fault regarding John’s death.”

“And what, pray tell, changed his mind about that?” Magnus asked.

Whitby sighed. “Because I trust Annabelle. I trust her instincts. She was right about you telling the truth about your father, wasn’t she?”

Annabelle shared an affectionate smile with her brother.

“Magnus,” she said, “let us now tell you how Whitby wishes to make amends for everything. I know that no one can change the past, but we can at least affect the future.”

She looked toward her brother, as if they had rehearsed this speech and it was his turn to speak.

“There is a property near Peterborough,” Whitby said. “It’s been in our family for five generations, and it’s an impressive country house with a number of prosperous tenant farmers. I would like you to have it.”

Magnus turned his gaze back to Annabelle, who appeared pleased and proud.

Whitby continued. “I would also be honored if you would allow me to introduce you into society. I can put in a word for you at my club, and I can arrange a full social calendar for you, and you will likely receive a number of the very best invitations before the week is out. It is my wish to see you fully restored to your rightful position, Magnus. It’s the least I can do.”

Magnus felt Annabelle squeeze his hand, and looked into her eyes. He had never seen her look so happy. She wanted this for him. She wanted him to take the house and join Whitby in his club.

Feeling almost numb, he shook his head in dismay. “Do you even know me at all?”