Gabriel, on the other hand, had eaten half of his meal without saying a word.
The atmosphere brimmed with suppressed tension, as though he had stuffed his feelings into a chest and been forced to sit on the lid to stop them leaping out.
In mentioning his sister, had she roused painful memories of the past?
Or did he find her presence stifling?
The life of a recluse demanded peace and solitude; perhaps he struggled with the idea that someone else was invading his personal space. After all, his world had been turned on its head in the last few days, and he had a habit of withdrawing into himself, of putting up a blockade to prevent anyone from getting in. She had seen it at George Wellford’s house, and she could see it now.
Perhaps he wanted her in his bed but did not need her troubles and complications in his life.
With a heavy heart, she said, “Thank you, for letting me stay last night. But I think it best I go home after breakfast.”
When he looked up, she diverted her gaze, feigning interest in the eggs on her plate.
“I thought we had already established that is not possible.”
“Well, I cannot stay here,” she said, testing the theory that he would be pleased to have the house to himself again. When he failed to reply, he confirmed her suspicion and the thought reinforced the dull ache in her chest.
He put down his cutlery, wiped his mouth with his napkin and gave a deep sigh. “There is something I need to tell you. Something,” he paused and swallowed before speaking again. “Something did happen at your house last night.”
She felt the blood suddenly drain from her face, pooling in her throat, thick and heavy. Something terrible had happened, and he’d kept it from her. “What is it? What happened? Did you lie about my father’s things?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, I did not lie to you, Rebecca.” His tone suggested a disdain for lies and untruths, suggested the words were abhorrent, that the remark offended him. “An item has been damaged, ruined, but not one of the antiquities.”
Her hand flew to her chest desperate to ease the pounding. “Not one of the paintings in the lower gallery?” Heaven help her. She would have to sell her soul to cover the cost. “They are on loan, Gabriel, and I do not have the money to replace them.”
He pursed his lips, closed his eyes briefly. She knew that whatever he was going to say would hurt her in some way. “It’s the painting, the one of your mother. When I got there, I found it on the chair. The canvas had been slashed with a knife. Whoever defaced it wanted it to be the first thing you saw when you walked into the room.”
She repeated his words in her head, praying she’d misheard. But bile erupted in her stomach and threatened to rise up to burn the back of her throat. Who would do such a thing? Who despised her so much that they could rip out her heart for their own pleasure?
As she struggled to speak, only one word escaped from her lips. “Why?”
Gabriel brushed his hand through his hair: a sign of anger, frustration or guilt, she didn’t know. “I wanted to tell you last night. I should have told you last night.”
Her painting destroyed … her mother gone.
She stared straight through him, not really listening, his words one long mumbling sound. Rational thought tried to break through her chaotic emotions. It was only a painting. Yet the pain that choked her and robbed her of her breath felt as raw as the day her mother died.
Transported back to the gloomy room, she thought of the moment her mother took her last breath, the moment she felt the huge gaping hole open up in her chest. Now the hole had been torn open anew.
It’s only a painting.
The faint words drifted through her mind again. It was more than a painting to her. The angelic face acted as a constant reminder that the house had once been filled with love. It watched over her, providing comfort and companionship and the strength to strive forward each day.
Now, like all the other good things in her life, it was gone.
How long would it be before she lost Gabriel?
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the wooden floor and Gabriel stood, too.
“I’m sorry, Rebecca. I know what it means to you. I’m sure it can be repaired. There is an artist …”
He continued talking, but she stopped listening.
A few hours ago, she had experienced one moment of sheer bliss. A moment of freedom from all of the pain and disappointment. But the new day had brought with it the reality of the situation: she was one of those unfortunate people who attracted nothing but hurt and suffering. It was only a matter of time before the beauty of the man before her turned into something sour, before it turned into something that made her heart ache with sadness, not joy.
A sob caught in the back of her throat.