Evie swallowed.
If she was caught… A hasty glance towards the door told her she was still alone, but time pressed, for the butler could return at any moment to pick up the tea tray.
She lifted the lid and peeked inside.
Some papers, as expected. They appeared to be deeds pertaining to property, nothing unexpected nor remarkable but exactly the sort of thing that would be in there.
A pouch with gold coins.
And this? What was this? Evie lifted out a small, velvet bag. It was a miniature.
Of a lady.
She lifted it closer to the candle.
It was a girl, rather, with auburn curls and merry eyes, her lips in an elusive smile.
It took a heartbeat for her to realise that it was a miniature of herself, considerably younger. So young, in fact, she must have still been in the schoolroom.
Why had he kept a portrait of her for so long? And such an unflattering one, as well. She supposed Julius must have given it tohim.
Somewhat confused, she set it aside, and turned back to the box, taking out the final item.
A single sheet of paper, covered with a painting. A watercolour.
She stared at it. It looked vaguely familiar. It was lopsided and not particularly well drawn, a drawing of, she gasped, Aldingbourne Hall.
It was her own work of art. She did not particularly enjoy watercolours, and she’d done it quickly and half-heartedly, only because it had been an assignment by Miss Smith, the governess. She hadn’t been satisfied by it at all and had left it on the table. It wasn’t something one showed to anyone, least of all presented as a gift.
Miss Smith had sniffed. “Do things properly, or not at all,” she’d scolded. “A Stafford-Hill never does anything by halves.”
Evie had hung her head in shame, knowing she was right, and she’d spent the entire next day re-doing the assignment. The second painting she’d produced as a result had been more satisfactory; as a matter of fact, it was now gracing the wall of the blue drawing room of Aldingbourne Hall.
But why was this awful draft here?
She turned the drawing over. There was some writing on it. She squinted at it, deciphering, ‘Evie made this especially for you.’ It was Julius’s handwriting.
The scoundrel!
Rifling through the remaining contents of the box, Evie saw that it was full of her creations. Horrible pencil sketches of Julius and herself, a misshapen embroidery of a handkerchief, another watercolour. Had Julius sent him all these, claiming she’d made them specifically for Hartenberg? They were all drafts and miscreations she’d cast aside.And what on earth had possessed the man to keep them all in his strongbox, as if they were precious jewellery?
Contradictory feelings washed through her.
Shame, because all those years it had never truly occurred to her to send him one of her watercolours. Surprise that Julius had thought of it. Annoyance that he hadn’t asked her directly. Maybe because he knew that she would have declined such a request? And then there was something else, something she could not quite name, that caught her off guard entirely: that Hartenberg appeared to truly treasure these creations of a gauche schoolgirl whom he’d never met.
Something warm spread through her chest.
What did that mean? Could their union have meant far more to him than he had ever let on? Could he have held her in some secret affection all those years, though he would deny it to his dying breath?
A fall of footsteps outside the door made her head snap up. Without thinking, she dropped to the ground, crouching in front of the desk, hoping it would shield her from whoever entered.
The door opened.
A pair of Hessians appeared in her line of sight. She repressed a curse.
Hartenberg.
“Evie?” The surprise in his voice was palpable. She held her breath. Then, as he took in the open box, he went on in distinctly colder, icier tones. “What the devil are you doing there?”
