“I don’t.”
“To hide a certain... condition?”
As the implication struck Margaret, she thought she might be sick.
“Not Margaret.” Emily frowned, then tilted her head to one side as she considered. “Though she was a bit of a flirt and might have got in over her head...”
“With Marcus Benton?”
“Not him.” Emily regarded the portraits once more. “But Lewis Upchurch is a notorious rake.”
“And the more time passes without word of marriage...”
Margaret longed to rush into the hall and set the two young women straight, but her appearance would cause more scandal than it alleviated.
Perhaps she ought to write to Emily. Did Sterling have his tentacles in the Lathrop post as he did in his own house? She had to do something. As it was, her quest to spare her virtue seemed to be laying ruin to her reputation.
When the tour moved on and the hall was empty once more, Margaret lingered, quietly crossing the marble floor. She stood before Lewis and Nathaniel Upchurch. Their portraits, at any rate. She first regarded Lewis. The artist had skillfully captured the mischievous light in his golden-brown eyes and the hint of a smirk about his full mouth, as though he possessed a secret he was eager to tell. His nose was perfect, his features so well formed that he was almost beautiful. And knew it.
She turned her head to study Nathaniel’s likeness. This was the Nathaniel of old. He did not wear spectacles in the portrait, but he did wear his somber expression. His face appeared pale and his thin mouth nearly prim. The artist had not treated kindly his long, pointed nose, but had painted it in bold, unforgiving strokes. His eyes—had she ever looked so closely at his eyes before?—were a stormy bluish green. His hair, darker than Lewis’s, was thick and straight, lacking the rich curl of his elder brother’s. Margaret thought, of the two, only Lewis’s portrait flattered its subject. Even so, Nathaniel did have a good face, she decided, agreeing with the earlier assessment of Emily’s cousin.Strong, serious, masculine.
Glimpsing a thin cobweb in the corner of the frame, she unconsciously lifted the portrait brush from the housemaid’s box still in her hand, a nearly natural extension of her arm. She flicked away the offending filament. The brush lingered, and she gently dusted Nathaniel’s portrait with a feathery touch—the firm cheek, the long nose, strong jaw, and stern mouth, wishing she might once again see him smile.
The echoing approach of footsteps on marble startled her. She swiftly turned, muscles tense, then relaxed to see it was only Mr. Hudson.
“How diligent you are. Even keeping Mr. Upchurch in shipshape.” His brown eyes glinted with humor. “What do you think, Nora. Does that old thing do him justice?”
She shook her head. “Not at all, sir.”
“Oh?” He reared back on his heels, clearly expecting nothing more than a smile or self-conscious assent. He considered the painting once more. “You are quite right, Nora. How dour he looks in that pose.”
“Mr. Upchurch rarely smiles, sir.”
Hudson’s brows rose as he regarded her, then he looked back at the portrait, his lower lip protruding in thought. “He used to smile more often. I particularly remember several happy occasions in Barbados....”
A throat cleared to their left. Both Margaret and Mr. Hudson turned their heads, and she was surprised and chagrined to find Nathaniel Upchurch standing in the library doorway.
Hudson winced. “Forgive us, sir. We meant no harm. Only deciding that this portrait doesn’t do you justice. Is that not right, Nora?”
Margaret ducked her head, nodding stiffly.
Nathaniel crossed his arms. “And what do you find lacking?”
She hoped he was addressing Mr. Hudson, but glancing up, she found Nathaniel’s piercing eyes riveted on her. She squirmed. “Na—nothing, sir. Only that, in reality, you are more... That is, you have changed.... In appearance, I mean, and...”
He said dryly, “Are you suggesting I have improved with age?”
She swallowed. “Yes, actually.” She dared add, “A smile might improve your looks all the more.”
He frowned. “I have had little cause to smile of late.”
Hudson looked from one to the other. “Well, we shall have to work on that, Nora, shan’t we.” He chuckled and blithely winked at her.
Under Nathaniel’s unwavering stare, Margaret’s cheeks heated. She murmured, “Yes, sir,” and excused herself, fleeing to safety belowstairs.
It was after midnight when Nathaniel walked through the upstairs sitting room on his way to the balcony. He could not sleep and hoped the crisp night air would help clear his head. His mind would not stop spinning with questions. What to do about his damaged ship, his brother, his sister, his housemaid...
Almighty God, make clear to me my path. Help me to do your will.
