The thought of it made Tess cry. She cried often now…silently, without emotion, as if the tears were the slow upwelling of blood from a wound. In the dark gallery, in the fingers of sunlight that crept under the doors, she could just see the malevolent, pale stares of the huge portraits of Ashland’s ancestors as she huddled in a corner and wept. Only in that one corner of the hated room could she sleep, because whatever portrait had hung above it once had been removed, leaving only an outline against the faded wall. Only in that one corner had Stephen not had a bizarre story to tell, a sick fancy to act out, a new and brutal way to punish her for what he had failed to accomplish himself. Until she was a proper wife, until she would do what pleased him and no longer fought, he would see that she suffered the consequences. “Lady Tess,” Mr. Taylor said gently, bringing her back to present reality, to the library at Morrow House instead of Ashland’s gallery. She slid too easily into the dreams—the mental scars had not healed as quickly as the chilblains on her hands and feet, the reddened swelling from too many winter weeks without a bed, without even a blanket, in a room so cold that she had to break the ice in the basin before she could drink and wash herself.
