Page 51 of Cottage in the Mist
The parlor was both elegant and comfortable, a combination not always easy to achieve. A graceful marble fireplace was centered on the far wall, a cheerful blaze in the grate. Ceramic figurines, Wedgewood and Limoges, were displayed at either end of the mantel, and a large oil painting that looked very much to be an original Gainsborough hung above it. Two wingbacks sat to one side of the fire with a graceful sofa across from them.
It was from the sofa that the lady of the manor, Mrs. Comyn, rose, her welcoming smile fading as Lily and Mrs. Abernathy stepped into the light.
“Oh my,” she whispered, her hand rising to her throat in the same manner as her housekeeper’s. “I had no idea. I mean… dear God.” For a moment she too seemed to be held in thrall, and then on the quick release of a breath, she forced a smile. “Please forgive my manners. I didn’t mean to stare.” She moved her gaze to Mrs. Abernathy. “It’s just that when you called, you didn’t say that your friend was… well, I wasn’t expecting her to be... well, to be… family.”
“I don’t understand,” Lily said, frowning at the woman and her obvious distress. “We’re not related.”
“Well, no of course not. At least not by blood. But you’re most definitely related to my husband.” She nodded, her smile more genuine now. “Come, I’d thought to visit with you on my own. I know a fair bit about the family lore. But under the circumstances, you’ll want to meet Reginald. And I’ve no doubt that he’ll want to meet you.”
Lily turned to Mrs. Abernathy, tilting her head in silent question as Mrs. Comyn led the way from the room.
“I’ve no idea,” Mrs. Abernathy said with a shrug. “But I’ve a feeling we’re about to find out.”
Mrs. Comyn led them farther down the hallway, pausing to rap on a door to the left of the staircase. After a murmured “Come,” she ushered the two of them through the doors.
This room was larger than the parlor, more elegant and slightly more daunting. Like the parlor, there was an ornate fireplace with a fire burning in the grate. But unlike the smaller, more intimate room, this one boasted a mural on the high ceiling and portraits displayed in clusters on almost every inch of wall space.
Settees and chairs were arranged artfully throughout. And to Lily’s eye, the room held an essence of time gone by, of elegance and artfulness that were often missing from today’s more relaxed existence.
In the far corner, a large gentleman strode around the end of a desk that had been placed to take advantage of both the grandeur of the room and the beauty of the gardens on the other side of the windows that lined the far wall.
The light held him in silhouette for a moment, and then he stepped forward, brows raised in obvious question.
It was Lily’s turn to gasp. Although his dark hair was peppered with gray, he walked with an assured grace that belied his age. And his eyes glittered green as his gaze slowly raked her from head to toe.
“Good God,” he said, his shock echoing both his wife and his housekeeper’s. “You look just like her.”
“Her who?” Lily managed, her gaze still captured by Mr. Comyn’s. “I look just like you.”
“Aye, that you do.” The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But then I suppose that comes as no surprise. With us both being Comyns.”
“But I’m not…” Lily began.
“Oh, but you most assuredly are,” the man informed her, taking her arm and leading her across the room to one of the groupings of portraits. “See for yourself.” He gestured at a small painting in the center of the group. “If that’s not the spitting image of you, then Bonnie Prince Charlie won his war and his kin are now sitting on the throne of England.”
“Merciful heaven,” Mrs. Abernathy croaked as she moved to study the painting. “Except for the difference in your dress, the thing could be a mirror.”
The woman in the painting smiled at them from her canvas. From across time. Her green eyes were glittering and bright—her gaze strong and direct. Her dark hair was woven into an intricate braid, but even with the attempt to tame it, her curls had escaped confinement, twining around her neck and shoulders.
Lily touched her own rioting curls, her gaze riveted on the woman in the gilded frame. This was a strong woman. A true lady. And Mrs. Abernathy was right; the portraitwaslike a mirror. The lines of her nose, the curve of her lips, even the tilt of her eyes was the same. And even if all of that could have been ignored, there was the finely wrought chain around the woman’s neck, the filigreed links dropping to reveal the intricate silver of the ring strung upon it.
A wedding ring. The same as Lily’s father’s.
The same as the one that she too wore around her neck.
17
“Who is she?” Lily asked as she whirled around to face the Comyns.
“We don’t know actually,” Reginald Comyn said, gesturing toward a group of chairs and a small sofa.
“But we think we do,” Mrs. Comyn put in helpfully. “At least the painting has been dated to the right time.”
“Aye,” Reginald acknowledged. “But we canna be certain. It isn’t much more than a legend, really. And for me at least, I think the more pertinent question is who are you?”
The silver of the ring seemed to burn the skin between her breasts, but Lily wasn’t ready to share her treasure with the Comyns. At least not yet. There were too many other questions. Questions she hoped they could answer. “My name is Lily Chastain. My father was an entrepreneur. A quite infamous one, actually. You might have heard of him.”
She waited for a moment, watching the Comyns as they settled in the chairs across from the sofa she and Mrs. Abernathy were seated upon.
