A Wedding In Springtime(20)

“Please forgive my outburst, which reveals so clearly why I am the only Rose sister to remain unmarried. I shall leave your house at once if you wish it,” said Penelope.

Marchford stopped, his back to her. Silence filled the hall and Pen waited on the duke’s timing for when he should next speak.

“You are also right about another thing. It was cowardly.” He turned back to her. “Stay her companion. She will need the company, and it is refreshing to have one not afraid to speak her mind. Perhaps she has not told you, but my grandmother has had many companions in the past. They often do not stay long. You, I am convinced, will not be so easily frightened.”

“I like your grandmother very well,” Pen said with a smile. “Though she can be most insistent when she wants her way.”

“Yes. Quite.” Marchford turned absently to the portraits before him.

“Is this family along the wall?” Pen asked, changing to a safer subject.

“Yes. A long line of Marchfords.”

“And does your portrait hang among them?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Do not, I beg you, put the idea into my grandmother’s head, or I shall find my time consumed with standing for the portrait maker.”

“Being a duke, I presume this fate will befall you sooner or later. I am surprised you have not been forced to sit for a portrait yet.”

“I have been away since my ascension to the title.”

“Is this a portrait of your father?” Pen guessed, motioning toward a man elegantly dressed in a powder blue coat with elaborate gold embroidery and a large, curled white wig.

“Yes, the seventh Duke of Marchford. And next to him his first wife, Sophia of Lincolnshire.” Marchford gestured toward a portrait of a delicate creature with a hint of a smile on her rosebud mouth.

“Charming,” pronounced Pen. “Was the portrait like her?”

“I am told so. I never met her.”

“Oh, did she die in childbirth?”

“Yes, but not giving birth to me.” Marchford pointed at the portrait next to hers of a young man. He resembled Marchford in his eyes, but he had a smaller, more delicate frame like his mother. “This is my elder brother, Frederick, the eighth Duke of Marchford.”

“I did not realize you had an elder brother,” said Pen.

“Yes, poor Frederick was never strong. He had scarlet fever as a boy and never entirely recovered. He died about three years ago.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Marchford stared at the portrait of his brother. “He had been close to death so many times, I never thought he would actually die.”

Despite her resolve to dislike this man, a lump developed in her throat. She remembered all too well the pain of losing her parents. “I felt the same when my parents passed away. They both contracted the fever and were gravely ill. Even after the doctor said there was no hope, I still thought they would recover.”

Silence again filled the hall. Pen expected Marchford to resume his rapid tour of the house, but he remained gazing at the portrait of his brother, his expression unreadable.

“Does your mother’s portrait hang here?” asked Pen, trying to move beyond the somber mood.

“No.” Instead of lightening the mood, Marchford’s face grew more solemn. “Grandmother would never allow it.”

Pen stared at him, surprised. “Your grandmother has chosen a more suitable place?”

Marchford glanced at her, a wry smile on his lips. “According to my grandmother, the most suitable place would have been the burn pile.”

Pen opened her mouth and closed it again. What could she possibly say to that pronouncement?

“If you are to best serve my grandmother, you should understand my father had two wives. One favored”—Marchford motioned toward the pretty picture of Sophia—“one not.” He motioned to himself.

“After his first wife died bringing Frederick into the world,” Marchford continued, “my father married again. Unlike his first marriage, it was not arranged by my grandmother, it was indeed a love match.” He whispered the words, as if revealing a shameful family secret. “My father died in a fire at his hunting box when I was five. My mother and grandmother…” Marchford’s voice trailed off and he exhaled slowly. “My mother’s portrait will never be hung as long as my grandmother lives under this roof.”

“I am sorry,” said Pen weakly. She had been convinced Marchford was heartless for his treatment of his grandmother, but she could see there was considerable family history driving his decisions.