Ones he pushed aside as he led her from the study and up the hallway for a glimpse into the life he now led. The life he knew could never include her.
Charlotte couldn’t control her gasp of delight as Ewan took her into the next room on their grand tour. Every time she thought she’d seen the most wonderful part, something else made her even happier. They’d seen several lovely parlors which looked out at the sea, returned to that library that made her heart skip a beat, and now they entered a huge music room with instruments strewn about, just waiting to be played.
She turned toward Ewan with a clap of her hands. “You saved this because you know how I love to play.”
His wry smile gave him away even before he nodded and signed, “Seeing you play is one of my greatest pleasures.”
Her heart leapt at the compliment, at the expression on his face when he said it. There was desire there, of course, but also something deeper. Something that she wanted so very, very badly.
She stepped toward him, the allure of the musical instruments muted by the allure of him. His eyes widened a fraction and he turned partially away as he signed, “Come, there’s much more to see.”
She frowned, but forced herself not to argue, to push as she followed him into the hallway. They were crossing from one wing of the house into another, and as he reached the double doors that made up the pass way, he let out a long breath. She stopped, staring as he opened them and revealed a portrait gallery.
These pictures weren’t like the happy ones he kept close to him in the master bedroom. These were of dukes past, a family that had rejected Ewan, and from the look on his face, he felt that as keenly as she did. He stayed stock still, staring into the room like just entering it might make those portraits come alive and the people within would begin to bully him.
She pushed past him gently and stepped into the room. Dozens of staring eyes looked down on her. It was eerie, but then she’d never liked a portrait gallery in any home, including her brother’s. For Ewan this experience had to be far worse.
“They’re always painted so sternly, aren’t they?” she said, a way to gently break the tension and unguarded pain that now flowed across his handsome face.
He nodded. “The ones I had the displeasure of knowingwerestern,” he signed swiftly. His fingers faltered and he shook them out before he continued, “There was no kindness in my father, nor in his brothers. Nor in my own.”
She was silent in the face of his admission. This was yet another topic they very rarely broached. She had always wanted to avoid paining him with a reminder of the past that had been so difficult, but now she moved toward him and took his hand.
“I remember how he spoke about you,” she said, “That terrible day when he abandoned you to Matthew’s family. I know that he was worse to you when you were alone with him. Will you tell me a little?”
Ewan squeezed his eyes shut at her soft question. Just the words brought back a cascade of memories that flowed over him, pushing him under, drowning him with their weight and the depth of the pain they stirred.
“I was damaged,” he signed slowly, using letters rather than signs for words so that the tide of the confession was slowed a bit. So that he was forced to focus on what he was spelling out rather than what those words meant. It didn’t help. His chest still hurt. “He saw me as a reflection on himself. He hated me for making him look…weak.”
He could see his father now. Tall, broad, red with anger. Screeching at him to speak. His mother, standing by impassively, watching it all with a rather bored expression. How he had tried, straining his throat until it felt raw, pushing air until there was none left in his lungs.
Failing. Always failing.
“He was weak because he hurt a child,” Charlotte said, her gentle voice drawing him from that vivid past and back into the present. “He was weak because he could not see past something that does not define you any more than your hair color or your eye color does.”
“How can you say that?” he signed, his heart throbbing as he stared at her.
She shrugged. “Because it’s true. Of course it is part of you. An important part. But you are Ewan because you are brilliant. You are Ewan because you are kind. You are Ewan because you are loyal.”
“I am the Silent Duke,” he jerked out, his hands shaking as he signed those terrible words. A nickname he hated.
“You are Ewan,” she whispered, and now she was moving toward him, tracing his cheek with her fingertip. Loving him with her eyes. Pretending the rest didn’t matter. “How he treated you was abominable. But I also saw how your uncle treated you. Doesn’t that count for something too?”
He thought of his uncle Aldous. Also tall, taller than his father. Broader than his father. The man who smiled and ruffled hair. The man who was stern only when Ewan didn’t try. The man who was proud of him.
“Of course it counts,” he signed. “Without Aldous and Mary, I would have been lost. Sent to that asylum to rot as my father wished.”
He heard her suck in her breath, saw her flinch at the thought. But she let him continue.
“That he loved me meant the world to me. But you must understand, Charlotte, it isn’t his voice that is in my head. And it isn’t his voice that matches most in Society when it comes to those who aren’t…” He faltered before his fingers slashed out one word. “Perfect.”
“And their voices matter more?” she asked. “More than Aldous and Mary, more than Matthew, more than Baldwin and all your friends? More than…more than mine?”
“If you had to live in my head, Charlotte, you would understand,” he signed. Then he stepped back, out of the dreaded, hated gallery, back into the brighter hall. “I’m sorry, I find myself tired after this morning. Why don’t you have your breakfast? Perhaps we can reconnect at midday.”
He didn’t wait for her answer, even though it was impolite not to. He just turned on his heel and walked away from her. From all she wanted. From all that he could not give.
He walked away, and it was almost impossible to do it.
