Page 24 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“Shall we begin with the portrait gallery, Your Grace?” Mrs. Thatcher asked kindly.
The portrait gallery stretched the length of the east wing, with its high-ceilings and eerie silence, its mullioned windows casting slanting afternoon light across parquet floors.
Samantha walked slowly, her fingers lightly brushing the worn silk of her skirts as she took in the paintings that lined the walls: none recent, none familiar.
She had expected to see the looming visages of the late Duke and Duchess of Valemont somewhere along this stretch. But the faces looking down at her were strangers: long-dead men in powdered wigs, women in stiff brocade gowns, all rendered in that same solemn, painterly stillness.
“Mrs. Thatcher,” she asked quietly, pausing near a portrait of a young man in hunting attire, “are there no likenesses of His Grace’s parents in the house?”
The housekeeper hesitated. “No, Your Grace.”
Samantha glanced once more at the wall. Empty spaces where newer frames might have hung, but none now. “I see.”
So much silence around the subject. The duke had rarely spoken of his family. And she could not deny that she was curious.
Samantha looked once more at the blank stretches of wall between the ancestral portraits. No trace of the people who had raised her husband. No lingering presence of the voices that must have once echoed through this house.
She thought of the duke’s silences, his guardedness. The way he sometimes stood very still after she touched him, as though trying to determine whether to lean in or flinch.
She had assumed it was the weight of the title.
But maybe it was the house itself.
“Shall we move further, Your Grace?” the housekeeper offered.
Samantha nodded, and they moved on to more pleasant subjects; portraits of the late Lord Stonehall, and the duke as young men, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders in easy camaraderie. The difference in the duke’s expression was striking; with his cousin, he looked relaxed, genuinely happy.
“The late Lord Stonehall was His Grace’s cousin and his closest friend,” Mrs. Thatcher explained. “More like a brother, really. His death was a terrible blow to His Grace.”
“And this must be the current Lord Stonehall as a child,” Samantha said, pausing before a portrait of the late Lord Stonehall with his wife and a young boy who possessed Percy’s animated features.
“Yes, Your Grace. Such a sweet child, and Lord and Lady Stonehall doted on him. His Grace has been very good to the boy since …”
“Since he became his guardian,” Samantha finished.
Something about the way Mrs. Thatcher spoke suggested there was more to the story, but she didn’t press.
As they reached the far end of the gallery, Samantha noticed several portraits had been turned to face the wall, as if prepared for removal.
“What are those?” she asked.
The woman’s expression grew uncomfortable. “His Grace has requested that certain portraits be relocated to the attic. Family members he prefers not to be reminded of.”
“His parents?”
“Among others, yes.” The housekeeper’s tone suggested the subject was closed.
But Samantha found herself curious. “Why now? Surely they’ve hung here for years.”
“His Grace has his reasons, I’m sure,” Mrs. Thatcher said, her tone edged with diplomacy. “Perhaps it’s time for a fresh start. New beginnings, and all that.”
New beginnings. Like his marriage to her.
Was he truly trying to distance himself from his family’s legacy, or was there something more sinister in his past that he was desperate to hide?
Over the following week, Samantha threw herself into learning the routines of Valemont Hall. She met with the cook to discuss menus, reviewed the household accounts with Mrs. Thatcher, and even ventured into the gardens to speak with the head gardener about the winter preparations.
It was a pleasant enough existence, she told herself. Certainly more engaging than the quiet spinsterhood she’d resigned herself to at Norfeld Hall.
