Page 41 of Wager for a Wife

The portrait gallery, on the other hand, still displayed William’s ancestors, with the exception of his father and mother. A portrait of his mother as a young bride had originally hung in the sitting room opposite the Gainsborough when William was young, a matching portrait of his father next to it. He remembered it, remembered how beautiful his mother had looked in it. When he had returned home from Eton on his first school holiday, he had noticed her portrait had been moved to the gallery. When he’d arrived for his mother’s funeral, it had been missing entirely.

His father’s portrait had disappeared too. He assumed Grimshaw had removed it and put it in storage; William hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d simply been glad it was gone.

The east wing included the viscount and viscountess’s bedrooms. William had never been in his father’s room. He vaguely remembered a few occasions as a little boy when he’d been allowed into his mother’s room. A review of those rooms showed that the furniture was still there, and the bedclothes were still in relatively good condition. His father would have insisted that his room be kept up suitably for his occasional visits. William surmised that his mother’s room had been maintained by the staff out of respect. He already knew that his own room had been kept as it was when he’d left for school.

He hadn’t really observed anything in his assessment that could be used to improve the appearances of the main rooms of the house, however, and he had but one final place to look, and that was the attic. Perhaps it held secrets that could be put to good use.

The stairs that led to the attic were located at the back of the house. As William trudged up them, he thought he heard a slight scratching sound—faint, almost inaudible, and then it stopped. He paused on the stairs and listened.

“Hello?” he said.

Nothing.

Why he’d said hello, he wasn’t sure. He was behaving as if he’d heard a ghost, which was ludicrous. It was likely a mouse the stable-yard cats hadn’t bested yet scurrying between the walls. He shook his head at himself and continued up to the attic. He would mention it to Matthew when he saw him. Mrs. Holly hated mice with a passion, and she would want the problem dealt with posthaste.

There was a narrow landing at the top of the stairs with just enough room for an attic door. The door creaked loudly when William opened it. He stepped inside, ducking his head to fit through it, and then found himself having to crouch. The ceiling was low and angled due to the pitch of the room, with a single gable window to his left that allowed in a stream of dusty light. Cobwebs hung from every corner like lacy shrouds, and a layer of dust covered everything—including William now.

He could make out several large items draped in cloth near the back of the attic, along with a box of old toys. A single large trunk stood just inside the door. Next to it were a few paintings stacked vertically together against the wall.

Since the paintings might be put to immediate use and were near the door, he decided to start with them. He squatted and inspected them. The attic wasn’t very well lit, but even so, William could understand why these particular paintings had ended up in the attic. None of them stood out as being exceptional, and some were damaged. That being said, if they managed to fill in the empty spots on the walls of the main floor, it might be a marginal improvement.

He then turned his inspection to the trunk. It wasn’t locked, so William undid the latches and lifted the lid—and then shut it quickly, placing his forehead on his hands atop the trunk. Tears stung his eyes.

His mother’s dress had greeted him.

He’d been struck first by the scent that had filled his nostrils even before he’d realized what he was seeing. Bergamot and jasmine, his mother’s signature fragrance. Memories of times seated at her side while she read to him or when she’d hugged him good night came flooding back.

He recognized the dress in the trunk. It was a dark-green silk she’d worn the last Christmas holiday he’d been home, the winter before she’d died. She’d looked pale and thin; her skin had seemed almost translucent. If William had only known it would be the last time he’d see her alive . . .

He eventually got his emotions under control, and only then did he raise his head and reopen the trunk. He doubted he’d find anything that would be useful in it, but he would allow himself this brief moment to indulge.

Under the green silk was a matching cloak made of velvet, lined with satin, and trimmed with fur. William stroked the various fabrics of the cloak, recalling the last time she’d worn it. They’d gone to church, and then his father had mumbled something about “business in Town,” and he’d left—not that William had minded his absence. William suspected that even his mother had been relieved.

He and his mother had spent a few quiet days together conversing and taking walks when weather had permitted. He’d pulled out his oils and easel and painted while she’d sat nearby and done needlework. When William had returned to school, she’d appeared stronger. She’d smiled more.

A few months later, she was gone.

He carefully moved the gown and cloak to the side. Underneath them were a few more of her finest dresses, one or two he didn’t recognize. He was about to shut the trunk when he spied a bundle at the very bottom wrapped in linen and tied with string. He lifted it out, carefully untying the string and folding back the layers of cloth. “Ah, Mama,” he murmured. Within the rather large bundle were his mother’s needlework projects. Until this moment in the attic, he’d not even thought about what had happened to them or to the others that had graced Farleigh Manor.

The top piece was a pastoral scene worthy of pride of place on a duke or prince’s wall. He traced the details of it with his finger before setting it aside. Underneath it was a pair of woman’s kid gloves with delicate flowers embroidered on the cuffs.

There were other items of equal quality: monogrammed handkerchiefs, pillow covers, samplers. He took out a handkerchief that bore an elegant W, held it to his nose briefly, and put it in his pocket.

Eventually, he closed the trunk and left the attic with the bundle, then went in search of Mrs. Holly. He found her taking inventory of the linen closet.

“Mrs. Holly, look what I found in the attic,” he said. “Perhaps they can be put to use.”

“Good heavens, milord; here, let me help you.” She swiftly removed the bundle from his hands, setting it on a nearby chair, and then grabbed a cloth from a shelf in the linen closet. “I’m sorry to say it, but you’re a sight,” she said and proceeded to brush at his shoulders and arms. “So much dust!”

He nudged her hands away. “Never mind the dust; we can see to my clothing well enough later. But I have found something of value—my mother’s needlework. There are some old paintings in the attic as well. If the art itself isn’t up to snuff, at least the frames might be put to good use.

“Your mother always did such fine work with a needle,” Mrs. Holly said, already taking stock of what William had brought her. “So talented, she was. I remember her sewing this one, in particular.” She held up an exquisite rendering of the Madonna and Child. “She began it shortly after you left for Eton. I think it gave her comfort; she was the mother of a beautiful son too.” She set the piece aside, brushing her hand over it, and then inspected the next.

“There are gowns of hers in the attic,” he said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Holly said. “Your father insisted all of her remaining personal effects be put in storage. It didn’t stop him from selling off what he could get a price for though, did it?”

“I believe my mother would be pleased if we were to bring her things out of storage now and put them to good use making Farleigh Manor respectable again. If you can find a way to remake her gowns into something useful, you have my permission to do so.”

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