Summer waned, the year turned, and spring came again. Gerrard sat on the shaded terrace overlooking his gardens, and watched Jacqueline, his wife, stroll amid the flowers. She stopped here and there, admiring this bloom, then that. In his eyes, none could match her beauty.
He wasn’t the only one who thought so. Her portrait, shown at his hugely successful winter exhibition, had garnered not just praise, but awe. He’d been credited with setting a new standard for portraiture; while the accolades had been sweet, the secret smiles they’d shared had been his nectar.
The true meaning of the portrait, the reason it had been painted, had been shared with few. There’d been no need, in the end, to make a point of it.
Jordan was dead, Eleanor locked away. Lord and Lady Fritham had disappeared, too shattered to remain in the area that had for so long welcomed them. Months later, Barnaby had traced them to a village outside Hull; they were settling in there. All sincerely pitied them and wished them well; they had known nothing of their offsprings’ aspirations, let alone their perversions.
Marcus had emerged from his seclusion to give away both Jacqueline and, a month later, Millicent. Now he knew the truth of the deaths at Hellebore Hall, and all his neighbors did, too, the shadow of darkness, of lingering evil, had lifted from him, and from the house and the gardens, too. That little corner of Cornwall was emerging into sunshine once more.
There’d been considerable discussion over what to do about the Garden of Night. Jacqueline and their children would ultimately inherit the estate; she loved it and most of the gardens, but couldn’t bear to go into the Garden of Night. Quite aside from having seen her dead mother and then Millicent there, like him, she’d guessed that Jordan and Eleanor had used the bower for their frequent trysts. Hardly surprising she couldn’t stomach the garden as it was, yet it was an integral part of the whole.
Driven to slay every last dragon that plagued her, he’d unearthed the original plans for the gardens in the Hall library. He’d shown them to Wilcox, who’d agreed with his suggestions. Over the winter, the garden had been remodeled and replanted; he’d stuck with the original design, but by changing species, the new garden would be a celebration of love in the brightest and best sense, no longer steeped in the darker shades of passion.
Jacqueline’s birthday was in May. She didn’t yet know of the work on the garden; they were all planning it as a surprise gift when he and she traveled down to spend a week with her father.
And Millicent; she and Sir Godfrey had taken up residence at the Hall to keep Marcus company. The household was now relaxed, more easygoing and happy than any could have imagined it might be.
Gerrard watched as Jacqueline stooped to sniff a crimson rose. As she straightened, her hand drifted to her belly, to the slight, very slight mound there. Her face was that of a happy madonna, her expression one of wonder, of joyful anticipation.
The exact opposite of the expression he’d painted in the portrait to free her.
He stared, drank in the sight, his hand reaching for his sketch pad and pencil, as ever by his side.
Without taking his eyes from Jacqueline’s face, he started to sketch.
Poured all he saw into the lines. Let his eyes see, acknowledge, let his fingers faithfully record.
In the months since they’d wed-by ducal command at Somersham Place during the Cynster summer gathering- the connection between them had developed and evolved, until it was more than tangible, until the link was so solid it would, they both knew, withstand any test on the physical plane.
They both counted themselves blessed.
And he’d finally fully understood what Timms had meant.
Love wasn’t a happening one decided on-to indulge or not, to partake or not. To feel or not. When it came, when it struck, the only decision left to make was how to respond-whether you embraced it, took it in, and made it a part of you, or whether you turned your back and let it die.
Love was something humans experienced, not made happen. It wasn’t in anyone’s control.
Beneath his fingers, his sketch came to life. His next portrait, better, more revealing, than any he’d done before.
He already knew its title, what it would show, what he would paint into it.
About the Author
Visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com for more information on the Cynster novels.
