The physician arrived, and after checking her ribs, he declared, “You are recovering very well, Your Grace.”
“I am pleased to hear that. Will you inform the Duke?” Anna asked.
“Yes, I will. He is most anxious to know that your condition is improving.” Dr. Quentin rose. “You must continue to rest, and you may not ride a horse for a while.”
“Yes, Dr. Quentin. Thank you.”
He picked up his bag and bowed. “Have a good day, Your Grace.”
Anna’s smile remained when he left, and she decided what she was going to do that afternoon.
“Dr. Quentin was most pleased with Her Grace’s recovery,” Mrs. Willis said. Colin had returned from his ride moments ago, and she had come to give him the physician’s message. He was relieved to hear that, and riding with Nathaniel had done him a lot of good. So much so that he no longer felt the restless urge to be away from Anna. “She also ordered to have some furniture moved to one of the empty rooms near your workroom. Are you aware of that?”
“Yes, she has my permission. I—" A familiar sound cut him off, and his heart began to pound. “What is that?” he asked Mrs. Willis.
She looked very uncomfortable as she answered. “It is the violin, Your Grace.”
“I know it is a violin. Who is playing?”
“Her Grace.”
Colin’s heart beat faster and he rose abruptly. “I thought every violin in the manor was put away.”
“This violin was acquired from the village, Your Grace. I could not refuse her request, you see.”
“Yes, hardly anyone is capable of refusing her,” Colin muttered, his heart twisting with every sound that reached his ears. He marched to the door and opened it, then followed the sound to the drawing room past the great hall.
He found Anna sitting in a chair with her eyes closed as she played, the tune a combination of joy and longing. On another seat was her lady’s maid, while Chalker stood near the door, a beatific look on their faces.
Colin was both shattered and amazed. His mother played the violin. When he had not been old enough to understand the emotions music carried, he thought it joyful, but as he grew, he came to learn of the grief every strain carried. Anna’s tune held no grief, but his heart did. She opened her eyes and smiled when she saw him but she did not stop playing. When her gaze dropped again, he turned on his heel and walked away.
He could still hear the strains of the violin when he returned to his study and sat, and he covered his ears and placed his head on his desk, endeavoring to block out every sound and thought that was associated with his mother. He clenched his teeth and tried to breathe.
Anna innocently played what would make her happy. I cannot blame her. I am not my father.He repeated these lines over and over. It calmed him, but a wound had been reopened this afternoon that might take a while to close again.
A very long while later, probably an hour after the music had died, he returned to his work, which was to respond to the correspondences waiting for him. When the sun began to set, he rose and walked out of his study. It would be dinner time soon, and he should prepare for it.
As he passed the gallery, he caught sight of Anna’s willowy figure and stopped. She seemed to be wandering about the room. Curious, he entered the gallery. She turned the instant she heard him enter, and her dark eyes brightened.
“Just the man I was hoping to see. I cannot find your portrait anywhere here. In fact, the only one I saw is the one in the drawing room.”
She never ceased to surprise him. Most people would allow their pasts to control them—especially him—but Anna smiled easily, and one would never suspect the darkness she had left behind.
“You will not find it,” he said, going to stand in front of her. She was already dressed for dinner in a dark blue satin dress that flattered her complexion.
“Why not?” She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. He meant what he had told Mrs. Willis. She could not be refused. His hands went to her waist, and he drew her to him.
“I do not care for baseless representations of my person on canvas,” he answered her question. His father had been obsessed with having his portraits painted, and Colin made sure he allowed himself only one portrait, and that was so his descendants could know him after he had departed the world.
“Baseless representations?” Anna echoed with a crooked brow. “It is art, Colin.” She looked as though she could not believe he had said that. “They keep memories, too. Do you not wish to store your memories in a painting?”
“I have already done that.”
“In the single portrait you have.”
“Where isyourportrait?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “How clever. It is in my father’s house.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “Oh, we should have a portrait together.”
