It was true, damn it. Colin dipped his head in reluctant agreement. Nothing else would have ever put him in the same room as Beatrice. And even if it had, the only reason she had given him even a moment’s notice was because of her fascination with his father.
The irony was rich indeed. His father was single-handedly responsible for both Colin’s love and heartache. He had simultaneously brought Beatrice to Colin and torn her from him.
Impressive, really.
“Oh, Colin, what’s an old woman ta do whit ye? Go. Walk the trails leading to the west. Frederick set out every morning for the foothills, no matter the rain or chill. I think ye need a different perspective, and sometimes that’s only ta be had among the forest. Ye never know when the fairies will whisper to ye.”
He doubted a trek through the estate in the dead of winter was going to bring anything more than frostbite. But he had been pacing like a caged lion in the house for days. There was not a room unsearched, no cupboard unopened. He was out of ideas, out of patience, and almost out of time.
“Perhaps I will.” Offering her a perfunctory kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek, he strode to the front door, retrieved his greatcoat and hat, and set off toward the tree line where a narrow trail split the vegetation. The wind was vicious, but at least it had stopped raining last night, leaving the rocky path muddy but passable.
The cold was invigorating, clearing the muddled cobwebs from his mind. He took Gran’s advice, following the path to the west, away from the small loch and toward the foothills rising upward into the mist. He used to come this way when they first moved in, a young adolescent exploring his new domain. From the rolling meadow filled with wildflowers in the spring to the old gamekeeper’s cottage with its dilapidated thatched roof and river-rock chimney, to the crystal clear stream that swept through the property before dumping into the small loch not far from the house.
He might not have been born here, and he might not have even lived here for much of the past two years, but it was a part of him. It was home, more than any other place on earth. He loved it here and could scarce imagine anyone but his family calling it home.
The trail sloped up and to the left, delving deeper into the towering trees. He kept a steady pace, his boots hitting the rocky earth at an almost rhythmic pace. The bare, spindly branches extended over him in a weblike canopy, shielding him from the worst of the wind, but the bitterness of the day still chilled the exposed skin of his face.
His father had taken this walk nearly every day, Gran had said. Why? What had the land held for him? Perhaps he had been soaking it in. Enjoying the last of his time as master of the hard-won estate and the prosperity that he had earned and lost in the space of a decade and a half.
Before anyone else knew the dire state of their finances, he had already been saying good-bye.
Colin kicked a stone, sending it flying through the underbrush. A warning might have been nice. The selfishness of it all was hard to comprehend and impossible to forgive. Damn it all. This walk wasn’t having the intended effect. His breath came out in abbreviated puffs, and despite the cold, sweat trickled down his back.
He was about to turn around to head back when the stone chimney of the gamekeeper’s cottage came into view, its gray rock nearly blending in with the clouded skies behind it. It was probably best that he stop to rest before he soaked through his clothes and caught his death.
Slowing as he approached the tiny cabin, the barest hint of a smile lifted the corner of his lip. It looked exactly the same as it had a decade ago, with its squat walls covered in ivy and its uneven, thatched roof looking like an overgrown mop of hair. It sat right on the edge of the meadow, with a view to the mountains beyond through its two back windows. Perhaps “windows” wasn’t the right word—they were just open portals, covered by sturdy shutters that swung out on ancient hinges.
He’d spent many an afternoon in the place, exploring, reading, pretending to live alone in the woods. His pulse settled as he walked up the gravel path and stomped his feet on the flagstone stoop. It was like stepping back in time, standing here again. An icy blast of wind assailed him, and he quickly lifted the latch and let himself in.
Almost instantly, he came to an abrupt stop.
He stood in the doorway, frozen in a way that had nothing to do with the frigid air buffeting his back. Breathing deeply, he looked around the dim interior. The exact essence of his father was here—the scent of linseed oils and earthy pigments, the Spartan furnishings and bare windows, the open painter’s box set upon the single small table in the back of the room.
But the most significant of all was a simple easel set up beside the window near the back corner. On it a single canvas waited, tauntingly averted from where he stood.
Dear God.
Colin swallowed, his eyes riveted on the open frame of the back of the canvas. His heart beat so hard, the pounding seemed to ricochet through his head. Rioting hope propelled him forward, like sails catching wind for the first time in days. Please, please. He kicked the door shut behind him before rushing forward, the anticipation stealing the air from his anxious lungs. This could be it—everything he had hoped for. Everything that he had come here seeking.
Coming upon it, he paused, pressing his eyes closed. Sucking in a strangled breath, he sent up a quick prayer and stepped around the easel.
Blinking, he stared in astonishment at the sight before him, unable to fully absorb what he was seeing. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be. He rubbed his gloved hands over his eyes, pressing hard. Dragging in a deep breath, he opened his eyes, only to confirm what he already knew he would see.
The canvas was blank.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Colin dropped to the stool beside the easel, his body seeming to lose all rigidity in the face of the discovery. He shook his head, staring at the canvas. Nothing. Emptiness. The words described the canvas, the day, and the suddenly absent emotions within him.
Logically, he knew the anger would come later. He knew he’d fight fury as he stood in front of Beatrice and told her that all he had to offer was his word. There was no doubt he’d be consumed with resentment when he was forced to move his family to God only knew where and went begging to his aunt to sponsor his last year at the Inns of Court.
But not now.
He reached out, running his hand over the blank canvas, primed as if only moments from being used. The painter’s box stood open, with brushes lined up and pig bladders full of premixed paint, everything ready to start fresh. It was as if his father had just stepped away, fully intent on returning to begin his next work.
Only . . . he hadn’t. And he never would again. And despite it all, Colin missed him. He was unreliable, infuriating, and at times neglectful, but he was still Colin’s father, and damn if he didn’t miss him.
He bowed his head, rubbing his hands up and down the tops of his legs. He was gone, and Colin would never see his face again. Never shake his hand, or argue with him, or see him across the table at supper.
With a long, deep sigh, he came to his feet. It was too cold to linger in a place that couldn’t help him, especially with the day dipping toward evening. He had taken two steps toward the door when he looked up and saw a figure. He jumped back in surprise, his body tensing as his mind ran a second behind his instincts.
His father was staring him right in the face.
Colin’s heart, his lungs, his brain—all of them stopped in an instant, and then everything came roaring back to life all at once. Not his father—a portrait of his father. Perched on a low shelf beside the door, a large canvas leaned against the wall. He rushed toward it, soaking in the sight of his father, perfectly rendered by the man’s own hand.