Page 54 of The Phantom Duke
She glanced back along the hallway. Only shadows looked back. There was no sound from within the room. She knocked again, louder. Then she cleared her throat.
“Damien. I am sorry for the intrusion, but I must speak to you.”
The dark silence mocked her with its emptiness. She thought of the forbidden wing that Mrs. Whitby had warned her of. The locked door on the floor below was in the same position as the doors at the other end of Damien’s hallway. Those doors must also lead to the south wing. Her mouth was dry, but she pushed through her nerves and strode the length of the hall once more.
Forgoing knocking, she turned the doorknob of one of the pair of doors, expecting to find it locked. It was not. The door swungopen at a push, soundlessly. Beyond was a corridor lit by lamps spaced at intervals along its length. More paintings hung on both walls, and the carpet was a plush green.
At the far end, was an open door and the welcoming glow of firelight. She advanced, stopping at one of the pictures. She was no judge of art, but could see there was a distinct stylistic similarity with the others. A collection of paintings by the same artist?
I did not have Damien labelled as a lover of art. The man is an onion, layers upon layers.
At the far end of the corridor, she stopped, gazing at the room beyond in wonder. It was bedecked with paintings from floor to ceiling. Above the fireplace was a life-size portrait of a beautiful young woman holding a babe-in-arms.
Maria recognized Winterleigh in the background. It looked bright and new. The woman was extraordinarily beautiful with a joyful light in her eyes. She gazed down at the baby she held with the adoration of a religious devotee.
“Come in and close the door,” Damien said.
Maria jumped. He rose from a wing-backed armchair facing the fire. It had completely hidden him until he stood.
“There is a draught. I was about to close it myself. You have saved me the trouble.”
Maria did as she had asked, a shiver tracing the path of her spine as she turned her back to him.
“You are not angry?” she asked.
“Exceedingly. You have broken the prime commandment of Winterleigh that all are expected to abide by,” Damien said.
“You do not sound it.”
“Do I not? Should I shout?” Damien said, coming closer.
“Please do not. I have a headache from straining my eyes to find my way around this dark warren.”
“There is a simple solution. Find a house elsewhere whose owner does not suffer my affliction.”
“I don’t want to find another house. Or another husband,” Maria said.
Damien stood close now, towering over her. Her breath came in quick gasps. Her lips parted. She felt drawn to him, wanting to close the gap and melt into his embrace. But she held her ground.
“That is well. I do not wish you to either. Welcome to the south wing.”
He waved an arm at the room.
“It is remarkable,” Maria said. “All these pictures crammed into this space. Why not have them on display all over the house?”
“I am selfish. I want them all for myself,” Damien said, walking around the room.
Maria followed, beginning to limp more after her activity. She leaned heavily on the stick.
“Who is the woman in the portrait? That is the only picture I have seen that is not a landscape,” Maria asked.
“My mother. With me in her arms,” Damien replied, “and it is the only portrait she ever painted. She was a landscape master.”
Were all these paintings his mother’s? Maria gazed at the in wonder. She knew nothing about Damien’s mother, but it seemed as though she was an uncommonly talented artist. Damien’s mother’s brushstrokes could only be described as beyond reproach.
“She certainly was, though I am no judge,” Maria said. “I must confess that I have little knowledge of what constitutes good art.”
She winced as her ankle warned her that rest was needed.
