The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 5

Acough rattled through the studio, and Elinor straightened her back. She looked over her shoulder, her gaze snapping to her father. He cleared his throat a few times before meeting her eyes. Her father looked suddenly very old. “I know, Elinor. You told me weeks ago that you thought I might be falling ill.”

Elinor let out a low breath of air. “Shall I fetch the physician to help you? Or the apothecary?”

He sighed, looking contemplative. “His Grace is expecting me today.”

“You can’t go to him if you’re ill,” Elinor said.

“I know,” her father replied. “I think I’m well enough to fetch the physician myself, though. Instead, I think it would be better if you informed His Grace of my absence.”

Elinor nodded, setting aside her brushes and paints. It was a pity that she would have to interrupt her work. Her commission for Miss Young was coming along quite nicely. She’d applied most of the colors already, so now, only the minor details still remained. It was frustrating to cease work so close to the end, but she realized that His Grace was more important.

She knew that she would likely encounter only the Duke’s butler, but the thought of returning to the estate sent a peculiar shiver through her. Elinor kept thinking of his eyes and how brilliant they were. And she’d finally managed to decide what his scars reminded her of. They were fittingly like the ocean waves—short and choppy, raised in tiny peaks and furrows, like the sea on a rough day.

“I shall go at once,” Elinor announced. “Do I need to fetch anything from the estate for you?”

When her father sighed, the sound was uneven and rough. It seemed as though it had been ripped from his chest. Hopefully, his ailment was something small, which could be quickly recovered from, but they needed to be prepared just in case.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “No, actually—why don’t you bring the portrait with you if the snow isn’t falling too heavily? I’ll need to sit with His Grace again to complete most of it, but I may be able to do some work on the background while in the studio.”

“You shouldn’t be working while ill, Father.”

Her father shook his head. “This portrait is too important for delays. Already, I’ve been unable to work on it as quickly as I want. The air is so wet that it takes the paint much longer than usual to dry, and Her Grace wants this commission completed before Spring.”

Elinor bit the inside of her cheek. “I could work on it,” she offered.

Her father’s face grew serious. “I know you could, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable having you paint anything on it. Not without Her Grace’s consent. It would be deceitful.”

Elinor nodded. She understood, of course, but she wished that her father’s morals were just a little less firm. He worked tirelessly already. What would be the harm in her just adding a few highlights to the fabric hanging behind the Duke?

“I shall tell him that you are indisposed,” Elinor said, reaching for her cloak. “Shall I also tell him when he can expect to be informed again regarding your health?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. Tell His Grace that I will write to him in a few days’ time,” her father replied, before unleashing a torrent of dry, heaving coughs.

Elinor hesitated, her chest aching. “Are you sure that you want me to send a message at once to His Grace? I could fetch the physician and then go.”

“No. His Grace is more important. I’ll be fine,” her father said, smiling. “You act as though I have one foot in the grave already, Elinor. Go. I’ll be fine.”

I find that when most people say they’re fine, they don’t really mean it.

Unbidden, His Grace’s words came to mind. Elinor shivered, as they swirled around in her mind. She was being unreasonable. There was no reason for her to think that her father was anything other than what he said.

“I’ll return quickly,” Elinor said.

She opened the door, closing it quickly behind her. Snow had begun to fall. It wasn’t much yet—just some scattered, downy flakes—but it could worsen quickly. Elinor braced herself against the cold and hurried to the stables, where her black mare waited for her.

“Sorry for bringing you out in the cold,” Elinor murmured, as she put the saddle over her horse’s broad back.

The horse seemed unbothered by the cold, but Elinor still felt vaguely apologetic. Surely, the warmth of the stables and oats were preferable for the horse, in any case.

Elinor mounted quickly and coaxed the mare into a trot. It wasn’t far to the estate, but her father’s sickness seemed to make the journey much longer. What if he was badly ill, and they didn’t know it?

Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no reason to think that.

But she couldn’t entirely convince herself that she was being ridiculous. Her mother’s death had been described similarly. It began with tiredness and a few coughs, and it quickly became something much worse.

That doesn’t mean anything.

No matter how ardently she tried to assure herself that she was being ridiculous and irrational, she couldn’t quite manage to soothe her fears, however. Soon, the grand estate loomed before her. Elinor dismounted from her mare, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. As she walked her horse nearer, a footman emerged to take it from her.

The door to the manor opened, and a maid appeared, quickly taking her sodden cloak. It all happened so quickly and with such efficiency that it made her feel uneven, just like the Duke herself.

“Miss Thorebourne?”

Elinor’s head turned in the direction of that voice. It was the Duke himself, standing on the stairs and looking utterly baffled by her appearance. That made two of them, she supposed. She hadn’t truly thought she’d be able to find His Grace so quickly. Elinor had anticipated leaving her message with one of his staff.

“Your Grace,” she said. “I need to deliver a message from my father.”

The Duke of Worthwood descended the stairs quickly, his green eyes concerned. “Is something the matter?”

Although Elinor tried to force a reassuring smile, she wasn’t entirely sure she succeeded. “My father has fallen ill, and he knew you were expecting him. He sent me to inform you that he’ll be absent and to tell you that he’ll write to you about his health within the next few days.”

“Is he terribly sick? Do you know?”

His Grace halted at the bottom of the stairs, maintaining a respectable distance between them, but Elinor still felt her face grow warm at his closeness. Maybe it was because she was already so distressed with her father’s sickness that the Duke’s presence affected her more strongly. He was so genuinely concerned, though. His Grace scarcely even knew her father, but he seemed so worried about him.

Elinor wasn’t entirely sure why that caused her heart to flutter nervously. “I don’t. I dearly hope that it’s only a minor ailment, but I don’t know. When I came to you, my father said that he was going to the physician, but he—he’s a stubborn man. I think he’d say he was fine even if his hand was missing.”

The Duke smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My father was much the same,” he said softly. “To the very end, he was.”

Elinor rocked back on her heels. A hot sense of urgency rushed through her. “I’m going to take the painting with me. If my father is not too ill, he wishes to continue working on it at his studio.”

It was snowing, but still not heavily. She was confident that she could move the canvas safely and with minimal damage. Her father had transported paintings in worse conditions and had them arrive to their destinations unscathed.

Elinor expected that His Grace would leave her to it, but instead, he jerked his head in the direction of the parlor. “Let’s go, then.”

The Duke set a brisk pace to the room. Elinor quickened her steps to keep up with him, fixing her eyes on the fine material of his jacket. The garment was bright blue and made his hair seem all the darker. It was black like a starless night. Once she and His Grace reached the parlor, he stepped aside to allow her entrance first. A maid was present, carefully dusting. She cast a curious glance at Elinor and His Grace but said nothing, only continued her work around the room.

There was the painting, in the center of the room. Elinor halted at the sight of it, the roaring blood in her ears slowing as she gazed upon her father’s work. The background was mostly a wash of pale brown, save for the white outlines of draped fabric and the vague outline of the mantle. The Duke himself was black lines and streaks of flesh colors. His eyes and lips remained charcoal outlines.

Father hasn’t tried to paint His Grace’s scars yet.

“The resemblance is most certainly there,” His Grace said.

Elinor glanced at him and received a tentative smile in return. He was trying to make her feel better. “Do you combat all the difficulties in your life with humor?” she asked.

Elinor approached the canvas and gingerly pressed a nail against the Duke’s face. When her finger returned without the smallest bit of paint, she gave the painting a satisfied nod.

“Is your question a chastisement?” His Grace asked.

Elinor gingerly removed the painting from the easel, careful not to inadvertently puncture it or to scratch the surface of the paint. “I would never be so foolish as to chastise a Duke, Your Grace.”

She didn’t know anyone who would be that foolish, in fact.

“Because I can do no wrong?” the Duke asked.

“Because you are a Duke, Your Grace.”

She placed the canvas into an open wooden box, the same one which had been used to transport the canvas safely to the estate. Its lid was a slat of wood. She found it easily and placed it on top of the box, nailing the two together with practiced ease.

“I do use humor in that way,” His Grace said at last. “I find it helpful, but I know others might call it distasteful. Do you find that it helps you?”

Elinor paused. In a small way, it seemed as though it might. At least, her heart no longer pounded so quickly that it hurt. Her head was clearer. “I—I think you might be right,” she said. “It does make everything seem a little less frightening.”

The Duke smiled, the scars stretching. It was only an illusion, but they seemed to move like the same waves they resembled. Elinor thought of telling him. She suspected he’d appreciate the sentiment, but she also knew that would be an odd observation to make. An improper one, too. “I’m sure that your father will be fine, but if there’s anything I do can, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The offer was kind, but she knew that she could never ask a Duke for a favor. Even if he acted as though such a thing was permissible, she knew it wasn’t.

“How do you intend to return home?” His Grace asked.

“My mare,” Elinor replied.

The Duke made a move as if to leave the room, and Elinor followed, carrying the canvas in its wooden box with her. It wasn’t a heavy item, just very bulky.

“With that?” the Duke asked, casting a doubtful expression at the canvas.

“I’ve carried many of these on horseback.”

His Grace narrowed his eyes and surveyed the box, as if he felt that he might not be seeing it properly. “How do you manage that?”

“Very carefully.”

His Grace’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “I could send the canvas to you, so you won’t be burdened with it. I could send it in my carriage even, so it isn’t exposed to the elements. Surely, you’d be able to return home more quickly if you didn’t need to ride with it.”

The Duke’s words made sense. Elinor held her arms more tightly around the canvas, pressing the wood against her chest. “That would be so much effort. I can’t possibly—”

“Surely, I should be allowed some consideration in how my painting is being treated. It would be nothing, Miss Thorebourne. Just agree, and I’ll send the carriage for you. Why, you can ride in the carriage, and I’ll send someone to return your mare if you prefer.”

Elinor swallowed, unsure what to do in the face of this unexpected kindness. She supposed that she ought to refuse. Elinor knew that one was never supposed to take advantage of an aristocrat’s generosity. They made offers out of politeness and obligation, and it was equally polite to refuse. But…

This would be a quicker way for her to return home, and it would be a safer way to transport the canvas. Elinor bit her lip. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I—I mean, you don’t have to. You shouldn’t feel obligated to help me.”

The Duke halted abruptly in the middle of a corridor. A few servants moved past. Elinor and His Grace weren’t alone, but she still felt as though there was an undeniable intimacy in the moment. His green eyes were so intense and earnest that she felt as if she could scarcely breathe.

“I don’t feel obligated to help you,” His Grace said softly. “I want to help you. And your father, Miss Thorebourne. If you’ll let me.”

Elinor slowly nodded. “I will ride home like I planned,” she said, “but if you truly do not mind, I do think it would be best if you sent the portrait in a carriage.”

“I don’t mind in the least.”

He extended his arms, and her face flushing with heat, Elinor handed the portrait to His Grace. In other circumstances, he might’ve presented a comical picture—holding a rough wooden boxed-up canvas while wearing his expensive, elegant clothing.

“I shall take excellent care of your father’s work,” His Grace said. “I promise that no harm shall come to it.”

Elinor clasped her hands before her and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Your Grace. I—I can’t thank you enough for this.”

“It’s nothing,” His Grace replied.

It might be nothing to him, but it meant everything to her. They returned to the entryway, His Grace still carrying the portrait. Even though they’d since passed several members of the staff, he had yet to pass the object to anyone else.

The maid retrieved Elinor’s cloak, and she donned it once more. Her eyes kept flitting towards His Grace’s face. He remained still, watching her as she prepared to leave. “Thank you,” Elinor said again.

“Of course,” he replied.

As she walked through the doors and into the winter air, Elinor felt the Duke’s haunting green eyes still staring into her.