The Fairy Tale Bride

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The dowager’s method of touring seemed to consist of walking briskly through room after room while reciting capsule histories of the room’s flaws. The Elizabethan Parlor, a quite charmingly sunny room, was too warm in the summer. The formal drawing room, in which hung a beautiful tapestry in scarlets and bright greens and golds, possibly done by one of Simon’s ancestors, had a persistent leak on days with heavy rain.

As the dowager led her quickly through the various and sundry parlors and drawing rooms, Miranda abandoned all attempts to commit the lay of Simon’s home to her memory. There were rooms that would not be found again by any method other than an excellent memory.

Off the White Duchess’s parlor — so named for a three-generations-removed silver-haired virago — was a tiny, exquisitely designed reading room with a comfortable chaise lounge, a large sunlit window, and several shelves of books meant expressly for feminine tastes.

Miranda would have lingered, but the dowager had no such intention. The room’s flaw seemed to be that it encouraged an unhealthy degree of solitude.

She found herself able to concentrate on the whirlwind of information with only half her mind. The other half she was unable to pry from the study where Simon was undoubtedly cross-examining Katherine. She believed she could trust the healer not to spill the true reason she had been hired. Simon would be furious if he found out. Worse yet, he might refuse the remedies.

Hopefully, Katherine had said nothing to Betsy. The child had not yet learned to be discreet, as they all had well to remember. She smiled, remembering how easily Simon had swung her into his arms. It was heartening to see that he held true affection for the child, despite the way he had spoken of “urchins” in the loft. He would make a good father, if he were given the chance.

Miranda hastened her steps, in danger of losing her companion. Curious, she followed the dowager into a gallery with a high ceiling that arched overhead. Imposing portraits of men in heavy and ornate gold frames lined the left wall, while somewhat less imposing portraits of women hung opposite.

Although they had been painted hundreds of years apart, by different artists, the eyes in the portraits were all of such a compelling nature that Miranda felt as if she were being observed by every one of Simon’s ancestors. Their expressions were all so uniformly solemn she had no doubt that she had been found distinctly lacking.

For a moment, the two of them stood without speaking, as if the dowager recognized that the overwhelming watchfulness of the room was unnerving and was allowing her a moment to recover. And then her acerbic words made Miranda doubt that she could possibly have had such a kind motivation. “Impressive lot, aren’t they? I wonder if they cowed the portrait painters as effectively as they do anyone who enters this room.”

Miranda stopped at a portrait that held a strong resemblance to Simon, but seemed somehow wrong. “Is this one of Simon?”

“No, that is Peter, his older brother.” Oddly, Miranda noticed, the dowager deliberately did not look at the portrait before she answered.

“I never knew that he had an older brother.” The man in the portrait was young, but not a child. “They are very alike.”

As if drawn against her will, the duchess slowly turned her head to look full at the portrait. She moved closer. Her hand hovered near, but without touching the bottom of the gilded frame. Miranda noticed that the slender fingers shook ever so slightly. “Yes. They were indeed alike.”

The older woman gave herself a slight shake, as if it took great effort for her to remove her attention from the portrait and turn her gaze to Miranda. “At least in looks. They never had the opportunity to meet each other, since Peter died not long after Simon was born.”