Chapter 87: The Anonymous Portrait

The day after the letter and Nathaniel's quiet storm, Evelyn awoke to gray clouds blanketing the sky, the color of old parchment and rain. It was the sort of morning that begged for solitude for thinking, for hiding, for breathing outside the constraints of a ducal manor echoing with everything unsaid.

She dressed herself without calling for a maid. A modest walking gown, pale blue wool with a high collar and gloves. She braided her hair herself, not neatly. She wanted to look unremarkable, invisible even. Today she didn't wish to be Lady Wycliffe. She wanted to be Evelyn again.

The footman was startled when she asked for the carriage to take her to the town.

"Do I need the Duke's permission?" she asked, sharper than intended.

"Of course not, my lady. I'll have it ready."

The county of Wycliffe was quiet as ever, the streets glazed with damp. Children splashed in puddles while their mothers called after them. Smoke curled from chimneys, and signs creaked gently on iron hinges. The carriage rattled to a halt near the modest stone parish.

Evelyn stepped down and inhaled the clean scent of wet earth. For a moment, she stood frozen. A girl who'd read about churches as sanctuaries, not as places where she might ever run to.

The church door creaked open easily. Inside, sunlight filtered through narrow stained-glass windows, painting soft jewel-toned patterns across the worn wooden pews. She stepped lightly, as if not to disturb the silence.

"Lady Wycliffe," came a voice, low and calm.

She turned to see a man standing at the altar, tall, with a salt-and-pepper beard, his linen collar modest and his eyes calm with quiet intelligence.

"Reverend Linley," she said with a small nod.

They had met when he had come to the manor to ask for charity funds for the orphaned children in the parish.

He inclined his head. "A blessing to see you here. We rarely do, from Wycliffe Manor."

"I'm sorry to intrude," she said.

"There are no intrusions here."

Evelyn moved to a pew and sat. "I needed air. And somewhere... safe."

He studied her. Not unkindly. Not intrusively. But with a gentle assessment that made her feel, oddly, seen.

"Do you know what sanctum means, Lady Wycliffe?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"From the Latin. It means a sacred space. But more deeply, it means a place where no violence can follow."

Evelyn looked down. "Then perhaps I was meant to find it today."

Reverend Linley sat beside her. "You carry weight in your heart. Would you like to speak it?"

She hesitated. It wasn't proper. Was it safe? But perhaps that was the point. If this was a sanctum, she could speak without consequence.

"Do you believe people can change?" she asked.

"Yes. Though rarely without suffering."

Evelyn laughed softly, bitterly. "Then change must be near."

He didn't ask her to explain. Instead, he folded his hands.

"You are recently wed," he said.

She nodded.

"To a man many fear."

That surprised her. "Fear?"

Linley sighed. "There are stories. The Wycliffe name is powerful, and power is rarely gentle."

Evelyn turned her face away. "I don't think I fear him. Not exactly. But I don't know him either."

"Then learn. Ask. Observe." He looked at her. "And protect your own heart as fiercely as you protect others'."

The words struck deep.

She rose. "Thank you, Reverend. May I come again?"

He smiled. "The door is never locked. Especially not to those who seek the truth."

When Evelyn returned to the carriage, the clouds had parted just slightly, revealing a thin strip of blue.

Later, when she returned to the manor, Cora appeared in the doorway with a peculiar expression. "Your Grace, a package has arrived from London. Unmarked but urgent."

Evelyn frowned. Another parcel? She just received a letter last night.

She set the book aside and rose, smoothing her skirts. "Bring it in."

It was large almost too large for a typical parcel. Wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with coarse twine. No note. No return. Just… presence. A strange weight she felt even before she touched it.

Hands trembling slightly, Evelyn loosened the bindings and peeled back the paper. Inside was a painting, canvas still fresh with the scent of oils. And there she was rendered in bold, expressive strokes. Her eyes, her mouth, the slight furrow between her brows when she was deep in thought. She wore a dress she hadn't worn in years, a summer gown from their seaside days. Behind her in the painting: a bright sky and waves crashing against the cliffs of Devon.

She gasped. Not because she recognized herself.

But because she recognized him.

Julian's signature was not needed. His art was unmistakable. It struck her in the chest like a fist.

She hadn't seen him since his hurried departure to the continent. She avoided reading his letters because she wanted to forget. She'd convinced herself that he had forgotten her. That she'd imagined the depth of what they once shared.

But this...this image was not the work of a man who had forgotten. This was longing made visible.

A sharp knock at the door startled her, but it was only Juliana, entering with her usual cheerful stride. Evelyn quickly threw a sheet over the canvas.

"What was that?" Juliana asked with an arched brow.

"Nothing," Evelyn replied too fast.

Juliana looked at her, then at the veiled object. "Evelyn… your face. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Evelyn pressed a hand to her throat, heart pounding. "Not a ghost. A memory."

That night, sleep became an impossible endeavor.

Evelyn sat upright in her bed, the sheets twisted around her like vines. The portrait leaned against the far wall, still covered, and yet she could feel it watching her. Not with menace but with insistence. With intimacy.

She rose, barefoot and breathless, and approached it. Her hands were cold as she peeled back the sheet once more. The candlelight played upon her painted image, catching the gloss of her eyes, the softness of her cheek, the careful tenderness with which her form had been rendered. Julian had not painted her as she was now but as she had been. The girl he had loved.

Tears prickled at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she went to her writing desk, pulled out a leather-bound journal, and began to write.

" I thought I had buried You. I thought you would fade with the seasons, with duty and titles and vows. But you have returned. Not with words but with the truth of your heart in brush and color. Why now? Why this torment?

I am not who I once was. I am a duchess. I am a wife.

And yet you remind me I was once something more."

She closed the journal quickly, as though afraid of her own confessions.

Miles away in London, Julian leaned against the balustrade of his townhouse balcony, watching the fog roll like a slow tide over the rooftops. He lit a cigarette and stared up into the thick dark sky.

She would see it by now.

He imagined her face shock, recognition, the flush of memory. He could feel the tension of it in his chest. He had not sent a note. He had not needed to. The painting was a key. A door.

He would wait now.

Not long.

Just until her heart remembered.

The next morning, Evelyn walked the length of the east wing gallery, the long train of her dressing robe whispering over the marble. She paused before the tall windows overlooking the estate gardens, now glazed with dew.

Lady Ashcombe's voice echoed in her memory from a recent visit:

"A Lady ought to know when she is being watched, dear. London is a town of eyes."

She could still feel the scrutiny, even here, in the countryside. But what Lady Ashcombe didn't know, what no one knew was how close Evelyn was to falling apart at the seams.

She turned and stared at the painting once more, now displayed in the privacy of her boudoir. For a moment, she lifted a hand and touched the canvas.

"Julian…" she whispered.

A name she had not dared speak aloud in years.