Ellen nodded. “Not a satisfying tale at all.” She glanced over her shoulder as though checking to see if any of the servants were near enough to hear and whispered, “Have you read anything by Nathaniel Hawthorne?”
“I have.” Reese waited for Ellen to offer titles.
“I recently readA Scarlet Letter.” Her cheeks went a familiar pink. “Judith would have told my brother if she had caught me. I felt quite scandalous reading a book about an adulterous woman.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Reese said. “It was a very unforgiving society.”
“Yes. We are near the gallery. Would you like to see my brother?”
“Sure.” Reese was curious and Ellen pulled her into a room, similar to the picture gallery at Nellie’s house.
“Is he not handsome?” Her ladyship pointed at a large portrait above the fireplace. “It was painted after he reached his majority and a few months before he married.”
“A fine-looking man.” Reese studied the face on the canvas and wondered if it was accurate or if the painter had been instructed to make changes from the real man. The Earl looked like he might be tall. He had rugged good looks, and she could imagine that he preferred being outdoors. A sadness lurked behind his rather hard expression, perhaps because of the death of their father? Was it more pronounced now?
“And here is one of our family.” Ellen pointed to a smaller painting of four people, done before tragedy had struck and taken both her parents. She must have been about five, and her brother stood behind her with a hand resting on her shoulder.
“Is there a portrait of your sister-in-law?”
“Yes, but my brother had it put away, so he would not be constantly reminded of his loss.”
“That’s a shame,” Reese said.
“I have often thought that too, but I have not dared to broach it with him.”
Reese scanned the wall of paintings, taking in the different fashions. She laughed and pointed to one. “I can’t imagine Jem wearing one of those huge ruffled collars. Or those puffy breeches and tights.”
“Nor my brother.” Ellen laughed. “I much prefer the styles of today.”
Ellen led her back to the corridor, and Reese was struck again by its length.
“Did you ever run the hallways when you were children?” she asked.
“The boys did once.”
“The boys?” Reese asked.
“We have cousins who would visit for a few weeks each summer. One was a little older than Gareth, the other a little younger. They were quite mischievous. I recall one summer it rained almost the entire time of their visit. I was quite young yet, but it is one of my first memories. They decided to play a war game and sneaked the gatekeeper’s two sons inside to play the part of the French. They were going to beat Napoleon.”
“Where did they do it?” Reese asked.
“On the same floor as our father’s bedchamber,” Ellen said. “He had taken a chill and was trying to rest.”
“I’ll bet he wasn’t happy,” Reese said. Somehow the image of the present Earl being a little boy whose antics irritated his father made her like him a little better.
“Not in the least,” Ellen said. “They remembered not to be too enthusiastic while they fought Napoleon, but they completely forgot themselves when they decided to fight the red Indians. Oh, my. I recall the bloodcurdling screams. They gave me nightmares for days.” Ellen paused, watching Reese intently. “I have noticed whenever I mention the red Indians that you make a funny face.”
Reese shrugged, wondering how to explain things like civil rights, genocide, political correctness, diversity, and cultural appreciation.
“Where I come from—now—they’re usually referred to as Native Americans or just Natives, because they were there first. The government and the settlers treated them horribly, disrespecting their cultures and acting like they were inferior to the white man.”
“But are they not heathens?” Ellen seemed interested and trying to understand.
“Compared to people from an industrialized nation like England, the settlers considered them primitive. The government swept in and stole their lands,” Reese said. “In many ways, they had a progressive culture. I like that the Iroquois women had some power. Don’t you find it ironic that England has a queen running the show, but most women aren’t considered smart enough to choose their own husbands, that women in England are little more than chattel and belong to their husbands? The Iroquois were lightyears ahead of the English in that.”
“Lightyears?” Ellen asked.
“Sorry. It’s just another one of our expressions,” Reese said. “Recognition of the quality of people and their potential is important to me. One of my favorite charities helps people get a proper education and marketable skills. We provide a free education for everyone, but there are still many families who can’t or won’t take advantage of it.” She paused. “Am I boring you?”
