‘I wonder what your parents would think of this marriage?’ she asked.
He huffed out a breath and poked the fire with a stick. ‘I believe their marriage was an arranged one, so I suspect they would see nothing wrong with people being made to marry against their will. Apart from that, I have no idea what they would think and care even less.’
Margaret picked up a stick of her own and joined him in poking the fire.
‘My father certainly disapproved of the man I grew into,’ he continued, as if talking to the fire. ‘And I have to admit that upsetting him gave me enormous pleasure. While he was alive, every time my name appeared in the gutter press I could picture him storming around his empty house in a state of apoplexy. Even after he died, I could still imagine him turning over in his grave in self-righteous fury at the way I was disgracing the precious family name.’
‘But who were you really hurting?’ she asked in a barely audible voice.
He stopped poking the fire but said nothing in response and they both sank into a thoughtful silence.
‘I think the rain has stopped,’ he said a few moments later, looking upwards.
She followed his glance. The patter on the roof had indeed stopped.
He pushed the remaining pieces of wood apart so they would quickly burn out, then stood up and reached out his hand to help her to her feet. ‘We should make a move in case it starts again. We wouldn’t want to be trapped here all night.’
He sent her another of those devastating smiles that always caused her to quiver inside. ‘Although it would provide me with the opportunity to show you my skills in catching and cooking game.’
‘It’s tempting, but I think I’d rather see what Cook has prepared for us.’
‘Very sensible. I have to admit my cooking skills never got much better than my poetry writing.’
They emerged from the hut to a world made fresh by the rain. The canopy of trees had kept the ground almost dry, but water still dripped from the leaves and a lovely clean scent filled the air.
He took her arm and they retraced their path back through the woodland towards the open lawns and past the ornamental garden towards the house, chatting amicably about the gardens and the surrounding countryside.
Margaret was pleased the tense posture he’d adopted when they’d first begun their walk had left him and, rather than moving at a cracking pace, his stride was now more relaxed, his manner more in keeping with a stroll around the tranquil grounds of a country estate.
When they entered the house, they both stopped and looked up at the stern man who had caused Jacob such grief during his childhood. The portrait dominated the entrance and managed to exert an unpleasant influence, as if he was still present in the house and still terrifying his young son.
‘You know what we should do?’ she said, still staring up at the portrait. ‘We should banish your father from this house.’
‘What an excellent idea. I should take down that eyesore and put my boot through the old tyrant’s face.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Margaret gasped out in shock, causing him to frown in surprise. ‘An artist toiled over that painting and, despite the subject matter, it really is quite a masterpiece. It would be a sin to destroy it.’
‘All right, let’s just send him off to the attic, where he can join my mother.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Don’t worry, I haven’t imprisoned her in the attic. Father put all her things up there, along with her portrait, after she died, and they’ve never seen the light of day since.’
He stopped a passing footman and asked him to bring a stepladder. When it arrived, she expected Jacob to give instructions to the servant, but instead he climbed the ladder, removed the portrait and handed it down to the waiting footman.
‘Right, to the attic,’ he said, taking the portrait from the servant. She followed along behind, up two flights of the grand sweeping staircase, then to the narrow uncarpeted stairs that led past the servants’ bedrooms, up another even narrower flight and through a small door that led to the attic.
‘Right, let’s put the two portraits together so they can continue to torment each other for an eternity,’ he said, looking around the dusty room, with its boxes, trunks and piles of old ledgers piled against the sloping walls.
‘Where is she hiding herself?’ He crossed the creaking wooden floorboards, lifted several boxes and moved them aside, then turned around a portrait.
‘Here she is.’
He lifted up the painting so Margaret could see. She crossed the room to join him, surprised by what she saw. It was obviously the work of the same artist who had painted his father, but instead of depicting a morose subject, as Margaret had expected, the woman in the picture appeared gentle and reserved. Wearing a ruffled pale pink dress, her hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun, she was the epitome of a fashionably dressed mid-century woman. The only ornamentation, apart from her wedding ring, was a gold locket around her neck.
Margaret gazed at her, finding it hard to reconcile what Jacob had said about her being a cold, unloving woman who’d never wanted her only child with the woman who was looking out from the canvas in such a pensive, wistful manner.
One hand was placed protectively over her stomach and Margaret wondered if she’d been pregnant at the time. If so, her gesture was not that of a woman who did not want her child, but that of a woman guarding something precious.
