Page 23 of Duke of Storme
“Aye, she was over the moon about the bairn comin’.” Morag’s voice carried fond warmth. “Mother said she couldn’t wait to commission that portrait – wanted a proper record of carryin’ the next Duke of Storme. She’d stand in front of it for hours after it was finished, talkin’ to her belly about how someday she’d show the paintin’ to her son and tell him how much she loved him before they had even met.”
Diana’s eyes filled with tears as she imagined the scene – a young woman, glowing with the anticipation of impending motherhood, speaking to her unborn child with the kind of fierce, protective love that transcended even death. What stories had Lady Catherine whispered to her baby? What dreams had she shared? What promises had she made that would never be fulfilled?
“What happened to change everything?” Diana asked softly.
Morag hesitated, wringing her hands in her apron. Her usual cheerful demeanor had grown somber, and Diana could see the weight of family secrets pressing down upon the young woman’s shoulders. “Well, Your Grace, the birthin’ was… difficult. Lady Catherine fought hard, but…” She was unable to finish.
“And the Duke blamed his newborn son,” Diana said quietly, recalling what Mrs. Glenwright had told her.
“Aye,” Morag nodded sadly. “But it wasn’t just the grief that changed things,” she continued reluctantly. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper, and she kept glancing toward the door as though afraid they might be overheard. “The old Duke…he took to drinkin’ after Lady Catherine’s passing. And when he did, his temper was even worse than usual…” She trailed off while shooting worried glances toward the door.
“You can speak freely with me, Morag. What happened?”
The girl took a shaky breath. Her hands twisted in her apron as though the very words she was about to speak caused her physical pain. “Mother told me she caught sight of bruises on wee Lord Finn more than once, even when he was barely walkin’. Purple blots on his wee arms and back. When she tried to tend to them, he’d flinch away like a beaten cur, even as young as he was.”
Diana’s blood ran cold. The mental image of a tiny child, barely more than a toddler, learning to associate touch with pain rather than comfort, made her stomach lurch with revulsion and heartache. This was something Mrs. Glenwright hadn’t mentioned – or perhaps hadn’t known.
“Mother said it was heartbreakin’ to watch,” Morag continued, her voice thick with unshed tears. “The poor wee lad would go rigid whenever his father entered a room. His precious face would go blank like he was tryin’ to disappear into the very walls themselves. She said it was like watching a flower slowly wilting in darkness.”
Diana’s hands clenched to fists at her sides as rage and sorrow warred in her chest. How could anyone hurt a child? How could a father look at his son – his own flesh and blood – and see only blame rather than the innocent victim of tragic circumstances?
“The poor wee lad learned to make himself scarce when his father was in his cups,” Morag continued. “Mother said he’d hide for hours in the stables or up in the tower rooms, quiet as a mouse, poor thing, waitin’ for the storm to pass.”
“Dear God…” Diana whispered, pressing a hand to her throat.
“That’s when the old Duke decided he couldn’t bear the sight of his son any longer,” Morag said. “Wasn’t long after he was sent away. Packed off to live with relatives like unwanted baggage. Mother said it near broke her heart to see that wee laddie carted off with nothin’ but a single trunk.”
Diana closed her eyes, trying to block out the mental image of a young Finn, being sent away from the only home he’d ever known, carrying nothing but a few possessions and the wounds both visible and invisible that his father had inflicted. She felt her chest tighten with emotion. “Do you know how old he was?”
“Barely walkin’ steady, Your Grace. Just a babe, really.” Morag shook her head sadly. “That’s why this wing means so much to His Grace, I think,” she continued, gesturing around the room. “It’s the only place left where his mother’s memory truly lives. Where he can perhaps remember what it felt like to be loved before the world taught him it wasn’t safe.”
Diana studied the portrait with newfound understanding. No wonder Finn had sealed this wing away – it contained proof of who he’d been before life had broken him.
“Morag,” she said carefully, “does anyone else know about… the bruises?”
The girl shook her head quickly. “Och, no, Your Grace. Mother made me swear never to speak of it. Said it wouldn’t do the young Duke any good to have such stories spread about.”
“You’ve done well to protect his privacy,” Diana assured her. “But thank you for trusting me with the truth.”
Morag smiled shyly. “Mother always said ye could judge a person’s character by how they treat those beneath their station. You’ve been nothin’ but kind to all of us, Your Grace.”
They continued exploring the room. Morag pointed out details her mother had shared – the music stand where Lady Catherine had kept her sheet music, the small writing desk where she’d penned letters to friends in Edinburgh, and the rocking chair where she’d planned to nurse her infant son.
“She had such grand dreams for him,” Morag said wistfully, touching the windowsill gently. “Mother said she’d stand here, hands on her belly, talkin’ about all the wonderful things they’d do together. She wanted him to see the world, to find joy in art and music and books. She used to say that Highland men were taught to be hard, but that her son would be different.”
“If only she’d lived to see those dreams fulfilled,” Diana murmured.
“Aye. But perhaps…” Morag glanced around nervously before continuing. “Perhaps His Grace still carries some of her dreams inside him. Mother used to say that before the drinkin’ got bad, he’d sit for hours and hours with charcoal and parchment, drawin’ everything his wee eyes could see.”
“He was an artist then?” Diana asked, her pulse quickening.
“Och, aye! Mother said it was like Lady Catherine’s love of beauty lived on in his wee hands.” Morag lowered her voice even more. “I found some of his old sketchbooks tucked away in his study last month. Probably from when he was older, before he left for the Navy. Beautiful works, they were!”
Diana blinked. “Sketchbooks?”
“Hidden beneath some old blankets in a trunk. Drawings of the castle, the moors, even portraits of the staff. He had such talent, Your Grace!”
Before Diana could respond, the sound of boots on stone echoed from the corridor. Morag went rigid with terror in an instant.
