“We would be delighted, Mr. and Mrs. Neverberry,” Madeline said. “Wouldn’t we, Your Grace?”
Robert nodded and bit down on the corner of his mouth to keep from smiling. Mr. and Mrs. Neverberry bobbed their excitement that he and Madeline had accepted their invitation for tea. No doubt they would brag to their parishioners that the Duke of Conclarton and Miss Mercer had partaken of tea and lemon sponge cake during their visit. What the clergyman and his wife missed was the edge to Madeline’s voice. She wanted to strangle these people as much as he had for turning the Murphys away.
He leapt down from the wagon, and as he helped Madeline down also, he whispered, “You are, without a doubt, the most amazing woman I have ever met.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Madeline had been wandering aimlessly through the castle again since her return from bringing food to the village. She had been looking for her mother when she stumbled onto this room with its floor-to-ceiling windows. The windows were frosted and coated with snow now, but she envisioned that in the spring and summer months the view overlooking the gardens would be breathtaking.
The duchess sat in a pale shaft of light, her needlepoint in her lap and her cat, Mariah, at her feet.
“I apologize for intruding, but have you seen my mother?”
The cloud-white cat, with a tail that looked as though it had been dipped in ink, acknowledged Madeline’s presence by opening one eye. The duchess, however, kept to her task. “Your mother mentioned that she had business in town. Will you join me for tea?”
“That is most generous, Your Grace. Thank you.” Madeline’s mother hadn’t mentioned business in town and hadn’t left a note. “What are you up to, Mother?” Madeline said under her breath.
“Did you say something, dear?”
Madeline shook her head. Too restless to sit, she strolled about the room. “You have a beautiful collection of art in this room.”
“As with most objects we humans acquire, art has a story to tell. It was the late Lord Conclarton’s collection and was meant to vex me. He called this room the ‘women’s room.’ He went on a grand tour of the continent and brought back works by women artists: Rosalba Carriera, Angelica Kauffmann, and Marie-Louise-Élisabeth Vigée-Legrun.”
Madeline leaned forward. “Marie-Louise-Élisabeth painted portraits of Marie Antoinette. A painting by her must have cost a fortune.”
“Impressive.” The duchess returned to her needlework. “You know your art. The portrait of Marie Antoinette cost several fortunes, in fact.”
“Was that the reason it vexed you so? The expense?”
The duchess set her needlework aside and lifted Mariah onto her lap. “The expense was not what vexed me. He bought the paintings not to show support of the women artists but as a cautionary tale. He did not believe women should aspire to roles more suited to men. In displaying these paintings, he would use the opportunity to instruct our daughters of the tragedies that befell most of these women artists. It was far better, he preached, for a woman to be content with marriage and children. Men rule the world of art and women are not allowed in the British Royal Academy. We are allowed our little expressions through sewing and needlework, or the occasional sketches, as long as we do not aspire higher. He forbade Sophia and Lydia to sketch.”
“I draw,” Madeline said in a flat voice.
The duchess stroked Mariah as she purred contentedly. “Yes, I am aware. Do you find it curious that, of all the places in England, your mother thought to find your titled husband in this dreary part of England?”
Madeline sat as silent as a stone. A series of incidents, like the toppling of dominos, had brought her and her mother to England. But truth be told, she had never questioned why her mother had selected Conclarton Castle as their destination.
Madeline laced her hands in her lap to hide their trembling. “I assumed because you had invited an American heiress to your Christmas Ball.”
“Happy coincidence.” The duchess set Mariah gently on the ground and rose. “It is time for dinner. Did Robert tell you that his father and I met?”
“He did not.”
“Well, well, a story for another time, then.”
Madeline rose to examine a painting of a woman with dark hair, wearing a black cape over a cream-white dress, a pearl necklace, and pearls on her wrist. “I recognize these brush strokes and the technique of the artist.” She looked closer. “This is a self-portrait of Michaelina Wautier?”
“Good eye. How do you know the artist?”
“My mother has one of her paintings.Triumph of Bacchus.”
The duchess tilted her head. “I have heard of that portrait. Scandalous. And your mother displays it in her home?”
Madeline hesitated. Usually, women were scandalized when they learned her mother owned such a portrait.
But the amusement tucked around the corners of the duchess’s eyes gave way to laughter. “That is so like your mother,” she exclaimed.
Before Madeline could question the duchess’s odd comment, the duke’s sisters ran into the parlor, rosy cheeked and out of breath.
