Page 121 of Too Good to Be True

Earlier earls were all fair.

After Cuthbert, they were all dark.

That gave me a giggle.

Now I found Joan and Thomas easily, and not simply because all the portraits had little gold plaques screwed into the bottom of the frame to tell you who they were.

They were hanging together in one lasting form of control: him seated, turned slightly to the left, facing her, who, in her portrait, was seated, turned to the right, forced to face him.

She was pretty, she looked delicate, and the usual empty stare of people in older portraits was tinged with sadness.

His with condescension, and it might be what Ian told me, but his lechery clung to him like a cloak. Gazing at him gave me a shiver.

Thus, I didn’t do it for very long.

Adelaide and Augustus were also easy to spot: the only earl and countess who’d had their portrait painted together with their children. It was huge, by far the largest painting in the gallery, taking up one whole end of the room. She was seated, a babe in her arms. He standing at her side, his hand resting on her shoulder.

Also like very few of the others, they were smiling outright, and the artist had captured a toddler in baby hose and a ribboned cap scampering across the carpet while one of his sisters laughed.

I could see it with those two. He was straight and handsome, she was exquisite. Knowing their thirst for each other, knowing their undying love had created all that was in that portrait was not only beautiful, but titillating, and almost erotic.

I wanted to read his last letter to her.

And I loved that Ian told me that story about Duncroft, a happy one, a bedtime story that wouldn’t lead to nightmares.

I kept moving and came upon David and then Virginia.

But I moved by them swiftly until, not far down the line, I got to Richard and Jane.

He was in a hunting outfit, red coat and all, and I couldn’t help my lip curling, because of course he’d set out to chase down, exhaust and allow his dogs to tear apart a fox.

Jane’s portrait, like David’s, was painted when she was much younger. Probably late twenties. And although the bloom hadn’t gone off the rose to this day, when she was younger, she was astonishing. A goddess. An angel. Sitting, the skirt of her gown a sea of filmy pale pink wafting around her, the perfection of her face effortlessly composed, I felt myself start to get angry that Richard was the kind of man who would break her heart with impunity.

But I was glad to know he didn’t break her spirit.

There was space for more, the room was vast, so Ian would have his place, and I loved that for him. With all his stories, his knowledge of this house and the people in it, it was obvious he was proud of his home, and he deserved to be part of its legacy because of that, along with simply being born to it. And I hoped somewhere down the line, some ancestor told happy, and maybe even juicy stories of the love he created in this house.

Although it might seem weird, if I had more time in Duncroft, I could see myself coming up and spending it here, sitting on one of the six button-topped, cerulean velvet, Queen Anne benches lined down the middle of the room.

It was quiet. Peaceful. Like a museum that was closed and only you were there to breathe in the peace.

I was about to head out, thinking maybe I’d have a hot bath before I got in bed, when an odd-woman-out portrait, mounted away from the rest, caught my eye.

I’d noticed the Earls Alcott had good taste in spouses, and she was no different.

But she was openly haughty.

It was a common trait in others, but hers was explicit. Almost a dare. Even a threat.

I looked to the plaque.

Joan Katherine, 10th Countess Alcott

1920-1922

I stared at the plaque.

I then moved back to Virginia’s.

---