"A visitor?" Thea sat bolt upright, her mind racing ahead to the duke in the parlor, pacing back and forth, very much the handsome rogue in that dark blue coat that matched his eyes.
"Oh yes, sweetheart," said Aunt Hen. "A big brute of a fellow carrying the most enormous parcel."
Thea thrust off her covers and jumped out of bed.
Aunt Hen smiled indulgently. "Only he's not the duke, dearie."
"Oh no, not the duke. Says he's the duke's manservant," Aunt Emma said. "Though he doesn't much look like any manservant I've seen."
Thea strove to hide her disappointment. Why was Con here? Had Dalton sent him to talk to her? Her heart sped again as she quickly ran a soft-bristled brush through her curls.
She scrubbed her teeth at the washbasin as Aunt Emma and Aunt Hen fussed about, laying her gown out on the bed and fetching her stays.
"No time to waste, dearie," Aunt Hen said, clucking her tongue against her teeth when Thea was dressed. "Lace up those smart red boots now."
"Did you clean them? Oh, how kind of you." Thea gulped back a jag of emotion when she saw those brave boots, all the mud gone, glowing strong and red yet again.
Thea flew down the stairs. "Con!" Dear old Con, ducking his head and tugging on his gray beard, hiding his pleasure behind a gruff façade.
"Grand day, isn't it, my lady? I brought you something from the duke." He hoisted a large, flat package in his hands. "He said you've been looking for this."
It couldn't be . . . was it the self-portrait? It was wrapped in white linen. Tears pricked her eyes. Thea was fairly certain what lay beneath that linen and twine.
Con set it against the wall. "I told him he should come himself but he was that set on leaving for London today."
Her heart fell. "He's gone?"
"Afraid so, my lady. He left with Alec . . . Mr. O'Roarke . . . and his young nephew only an hour ago."
"With his brother? And his nephew? Are you sure?"
Con grinned. "Sure, and I'm sure. I don't know what you said to that duke, but he told me he turned right back around after he left Ballybrack and returned to the docks. Convinced that brother of his to go with him to London and meet their mother."
"Oh, Con, that's wonderful!"
Thea just knew that discovering her son was alive, and meeting her grandson, would heal the dowager duchess of her ailment and free her from her self-imposed prison.
"But . . . you didn't go with him, Con? Does that mean . . . Mrs. Barton . . ."
His whiskers retreated into his collar as he smiled shyly. "Well now, Bronagh didn't try to kill me with her bare hands. It's a start. And she did allow me to sleep on the sofa instead of putting me out to pasture with the cattle. A very hopeful sign, if you know Bronagh and her ways."
"And Molly? Is her mother very angry with her?"
"She came round. Even ate some mussels after I steamed them in beer the way she used to love."
Thea clasped her hands together. "I'm happy for you, Con."
He cleared his throat. "There's something else. Nearly unbelievable 'tis. The duke's appointed me landlord at Balfry House. Going to see about leaving it to me, permanent like. We're to restore the tenancy. And ensure rich lands for the farmers to till." He blinked rapidly. "And Molly's the proud owner of a library-full of books. She'll never read them all."
"Won't she love that?" It was Thea's turn to blink back tears.
"And this isn't the only gift for you, my lady. He said the entire contents of the attic were to come here, to Ballybrack." He glanced around the small room doubtfully. "But the Lord only knows where you'll put them."
"How magnanimous of the duke." A small voice in Thea's head couldn't help but wonder . . . were the paintings a parting gift?
Thea turned away from the concern in Con's kindly blue eyes.
"He only pushes you away because he cares for you," Con said. "Think back on your childhood. Did you ever have a lad pull on your plaits? He only did it because he fancied you."
Thea shook her head. "I never had any playmates."
Con frowned. "Well, trust me when I say we men are a heathen lot. Undeserving of your sweet smiles. And the duke more heathen than most. Don't give up on him, my lady."
"I told him to leave and never come back."
Con tugged at his beard. "And did you mean it?"
"I . . ." Thea closed her eyes. "No," she finally whispered.
"Well then, it'll all work out, I've no doubt. Just remember, my lady, sometimes the good Lord reveals his plan in his own time. To make life more interesting like."
"Will you stay for tea, Con?"
"Nah, I've got to get back to Bronagh before she changes her mind." He set his cap back on his head. "I'll be seeing you soon, my lady."
"Goodbye, Con."
Watching him leave, Thea realized the journey was truly over. Dalton had gone back to London and she was here, where she'd wanted to be, with Aunt Emma in Ireland. She should be happy.
Aunt Hen and Aunt Emma hurried into the room.
"What did he want?"
"Did he give you a message from the duke?"
They fluttered around Thea, fluffing her hair and guiding her toward the package.
"Unwrap it, dearie!" Aunt Hen said.
"It's a love token." Aunt Emma sighed. "Oh, this is all so romantic."
A love token . . . or a parting gift, to assuage his conscience. Thea hesitated in front of the package, reluctant to unwrap it.
"Where's my mother?" she asked her aunts.
"Abed with a headache. I still can't believe what she said to the dowager," Aunt Emma breathed.
"I know," Aunt Hen agreed. "It was magnificent."
"Wasn't it, though?" Thea had been very proud of her mother for taking a stand . . . and for defending Thea.
"I've scissors for that twine somewhere," said Aunt Emma, eyeing the linen-wrapped parcel. She searched through the sewing basket that perched on a table near her favorite armchair by the fire. "Ah-ha!"
With a swiftly pounding heart, Thea cut the twine and Aunt Hen helped her remove the linen.
"Careful now," Thea breathed when her suspicions were confirmed by the sight of a gold frame and cracked oil paint. "She's two hundred years old."
"Oh my," her aunts exclaimed in unison.
Oh my, indeed.
A shaft of sunlight from the mullioned windows illuminated the emerald green of full sleeves and the rich brown of an artist's smock.
Artemisia stood, black hair glowing, her head tilted at an angle, one arm poised, brush in hand, the other arm braced on a stone surface, holding her palette.
From her letters, Thea knew that in its day the painting had sparked an outcry of controversy.
A woman portraying herself as the epitome of the arts.
A bold, fierce statement to make.
"Why, she's lovely," Aunt Hen exclaimed. "So full of . . . strength, somehow. As if she might leap off that canvas and cross the span of time to be with us here in this room."
A fall of soft light, deftly portrayed, illuminated half of Artemisia's face, the contrast of light and dark imparting a sense of pathos . . . as if she were waiting to be fully lit.
Like Thea. Waiting for her day to shine.
That day had come. An idea occurred to Thea and she nodded her head. "I'm going to hold an exhibition of all female works of art. And if I can find enough, the paintings will all be self-portraits." It was perfect. A fitting way to reintroduce Artemisia to the world.
"What a wonderful idea, dearie," murmured Aunt Hen. "And so you must go back to London, mustn't you? For you can't have such a grand event here in Cork."
Go back to London. She'd only just run away from there.
"What does this mean?" Aunt Emma asked, peering closely at Artemisia's neck. "This pendant she's wearing."
The gold pendant around her neck shimmered in the sunlight.
Thea bent closer. "It appears to be a mask. Which would symbolize the arts."
"A mask. How clever," Aunt Emma said.
The mask symbolized art, but it held another meaning for Thea.
Artemisia was trying to tell her something. The mask Dalton wore had slipped and shattered. She knew the real man now.
And her own mask wasn't needed anymore. The timidity. The nervous giggle.
The fear of failure.
In such a short space of time she'd become something wholly different.
And by giving her this gift, Dalton was trying to tell her something as well.
He believed in her dreams and her goals . . . and he wanted to be part of them.
"Oh, my dear." Aunt Emma reached behind the painting. "There's a letter here! It was nearly lost behind the painting." She handed a folded sheet of paper to Thea.
With suddenly trembling fingers, Thea unfolded the paper. She recognized the sprawling, confident hand immediately.
"I think I'll take a walk down to the shore," she said abruptly.
Aunt Emma smiled warmly. "Of course, sweetheart. I'll fetch your cloak."
Balfry House, County Cork, Ireland
Dear Self-Portrait,
I see now why Thea wanted to unveil you. You are, quite simply, breathtaking. Gloriously female. Uncompromisingly powerful.
You don't suffer any nonsense from difficult beasts who don't know how to speak the things they truly wish to say.
Can you forgive me for allowing you to molder in my attic so long?