He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at her and offered a tight smile. “I’m sorry. I’m used to pleasing only myself, you see. For example, I can’t stand having the servants around after supper, so I send them all to bed so I can prowl around my house. Hence the less-than-warm welcome.”
“I don’t mind. I am not used to servants.”
He said nothing to that and slowed his pace only a little.
Amelia was beginning to feel uneasy. They had kept up an easy stream of conversation on the walk here, and it had almost—almost!—felt as though she were talking to an ordinary man, not her brother. Not the man who’d forced them out of their home and driven Mama to her grave. The same man who bore a striking resemblance to many of the portraits hanging on the walls.
Harsh, austere gazes rained down on her as she trotted underneath them, generations of viscounts, viscountesses, and their relations branching away down the hall. Many of them had the same red-gold hair that she and Marjory had, and her own long nose and mud-brown eyes peered down at her, made black by the darkness of the hall.
At the end of the hall was a large portrait of her father, about a decade younger than she remembered him, with a faint, nervous smile on his lips and his hair combed forward to hide his receding hairline. A portrait of Harry hung beside him.Hedid not smile, but stared sullenly out of the frame at the viewer.
“Don’t fall behind, Amelia,” Harry called, from further up the hall.
She trotted after him, glad to leave the accusatory painted eyes behind. Harry waited for her in a doorway, gesturing for her to step inside. She was relieved to get out of the cavernous space.
“They all seemed to be glaring at me,” she murmured.
Harry snorted. He didn’t even ask what she meant, seeming to understand at once that she meant the endless portraits.
“It’s a rite of passage,” he explained. “A Holt must have their portrait painted and hung on the wall. That’s just how it is. Did you notice mine there at the end?”
“I did.”
He smiled at her. “Perhaps we can paint you and your sisters. The three of you in one frame. We can hang you all.”
Amelia swallowed. She didn’t like the idea of her likeness hung in one of those complicated gilt frames, the three of themcrammed together, stuck up on that wall for eternity with the rest of her miserable ancestors.
“No, thank you,” she said.
Harry chuckled. “It’s an honor. Oh, you’ll come round, sooner or later. Now, in you go, and I’ll fetch us some tea.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Amelia answered.
It was a lie. She was thirsty, hungry,andcold. But somehow she did not want to be alone in that drafty, cavernous drawing room.
It wasn’t at all like Stephen and Letitia’s drawing room, which was warm and cozy, with plenty of inviting seats. There were books, plenty of convenient tables, and even blankets and rugs for when one got cold.
This room was designed for style,notcomfort. A pair of high-back armchairs stood before an empty fireplace, an ornate mantelpiece looming over it. There were a few chaises here and there, overstuffed and uninviting. Aside from that, there was only one hard-looking window seat and a few straight-back chairs.
Amelia stepped inside, glancing around and wondering if she really could see her breath in the room. There were plenty of windows, massive panes of glass looking out onto the green lawn outside. The windows dripped with condensation, the water seeping into the half-rotted wooden sills.
“Wait here. I shan’t be long,” Harry promised, and slipped out of the room without another word.
“No, don’t—” Amelia began, but the door closed, cutting her off.
She bit her lip, staring at the impersonal rectangle of wood. Unease had settled over her the second she stepped over the threshold. It had not dissipated.
No wonder Father hated this place.
No, this house could never be her home. She’d never want to bring Marjory and Nancy here, certainly not. Amelia had always assumed that nobles’ houses were all the same. Occasionally, she and Emmeline would visit the houses of grand ladies and gentlemen, sneaking in through the back door to deliver boxes of dresses and accessories. The places reminded her of this—large, designed to impress, and without any homely comforts at all.
Stephen’s home was different. It wasn’t like this place.
Harry had left the candle, at least. It was too much; she couldn’t stay here. Letting out a ragged sigh, Amelia snatched it up and hurried over to the door. He couldn’t have gone far, and she guessed that she could find the kitchens alone.
I’ll tell him that I’m leaving. Or better yet, that he can come and talk to Stephen. Surely he can make Stephen understand. He’s a rational man, and if Letitia speaks to her grandson too, then surely?—
The door did not budge.
