Page 43 of The Fearless Miss Dinah

Chapter Fifteen

Dinah tried, truly tried, to shake the blue-devilment of that morning. But it wouldn’t leave; it was like a small lap dog that trailed everywhere after her, nipping at her heels and barking throughout the day.

Nonetheless, she wasn’t any less committed to making the most of her situation. It was a single moment of doubt and uncertainty. She would rise above it and do as her family had encouraged—she would show Henry exactly how lucky he was to be married to her. She would be kind and loving and supportive and everything any man could wish for.

Feeling eyes staring down at her, Dinah pulled herself from her reverie and looked about. She’d wandered into the portrait gallery. Faces from ever so many generations looked down on her. Aunt Beatrice had given her the full history, complete with stories and dates she was undoubtedly expected to memorize, last week.

Dinah turned and faced a portly man whose eyes reminded her of Little John’s. Maybe it was the shade of blue that was the same, or that they held no small amount of mischief.

Dinah sighed and looked across the room at the many other paintings. For all Aunt Beatrice’s lecturing, Dinah couldn’t recall a single name or date, and only a few of the stories. But this family was her family now, too. She truly ought to have someone tell her all the information again and again until it finally stuck. But not Aunt Beatrice. Dinah shuddered slightly. She wasn’t about to inflict torture on herself.

Perhaps she could ask Henry. The thought of strolling from painting to painting with him, listening to his deep voice tell of his family, was quite appealing. For all that they didn’t have between them, Dinah could not deny that she cherished what theydidhave. Their friendship may be platonic. But they were friends all the same.

She reached the end of the gallery, and her brow creased. Something was missing.

It took her only a minute to figure out what. It wasn’t a somethingbut a someone.

Henry’s mother was not hanging here with the other Stantons.

Dinah listed her head. That was strange. If she’d passed away, then surely the family would have wanted to memorialize her with a painting among other deceased members.

“A place as intimidating as it is beautiful, is it not?”

Dinah turned to find Mr. Thrup walking toward her.

“I suppose,” she said, once more looking over the many faces of the gallery.

“Seeing all these paintings reminds me of a time long ago,” he said, reaching her and extending his arm.

Dinah took it and together they began walking back the way she’d just come.

“It was shortly after I married my dear wife.” He pointed to one of the smaller paintings near eye level which depicted a dark-haired beauty. “That’s her there.”

“She is quite lovely.”

Mr. Thrup swelled with pride. “She was more beautiful than a sunset over the grand ocean. And sweeter than honey cake. And her goodness could surpass a preacher on the Sabbath.” His smile turned sad, but then he shook himself. “As I was saying. One day, not too long before Miles and Oliver first arrived in the world, my dear wife desperately wished for blueberries. At first, I told her there was nothing to be done—it was the wrong time of year, you see? But she quite wanted them, so,” he shrugged, “I put on my hat and headed into the woods nearby. I searched and searched andsearched. Then, just as the sun was starting to set, I took a wrong step and tumbled down a ravine.”

“I hope you were not hurt.”

He shook his head. “No more than a bruise or two. But, as luck would have it”—that seemed to be where all his stories led, to the man declaring, ‘as luck would have it’—“when I pulled myself back up and looked around, there, right in front of me, was a whole bush full of the plumpest blueberries.”

It was a sweet story, but one Dinah was struggling to believe. “Blueberries don’t grow near streams, usually. Don’t they prefer a bit more shade, beneath evergreen trees and the like?” That’s where she’d always found the best bushes.

“I know. And remember, this wasn’t even the right time of year,” he said, as though surprised all over again. “Yet, there they were. Big and blue and exactly what my wife wanted.” His gaze moved yet again to the small portrait. “I was never happier than I was those few years with her.”

Speaking of beloved ones now gone...

“Actually, Mr. Thrup,” Dinah said slowly.

“Uncle Jeffrey, please.”

“Uncle Jeffrey, I was hoping to hear one story in particular.”

“Oh? Well, you’ve asked the right person. There’s no one better at telling tales in all of London.”

Of that, she had no doubt. The truthfulness of said tales, however, was another matter entirely.

“I was rather wondering about the late Lady Stanton.”

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