Chapter 2 Cracks in the Portrait

# Chapter 2: Cracks in the Portrait

Morning light filtered through heavy curtains as I awoke in my new bedroom. For a moment, I forgot where I was until reality settled over me like the unfamiliar silk sheets—I was Isolde Marlowe now, wife to a stranger and part of a family that regarded me with equal measures of curiosity and suspicion.

I dressed carefully in one of the few decent dresses I'd brought from my former life, determined to make some sense of my new surroundings in daylight. The manor was eerily quiet as I descended the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing on the marble.

"You're an early riser," came a voice from the dining room entrance. Cyrus stood with a book tucked under his arm, regarding me with that same analytical gaze I'd noticed yesterday. "Most of the household is still asleep."

"Old habits," I explained. "At the orphanage, we were up before dawn."

Something in his expression shifted. "Gideon mentioned you worked there. Were you... were you raised there as well?"

I nodded. "Since I was five. I have few memories before St. Catherine's."

"How interesting," he murmured, though his tone suggested more than mere curiosity. "Come, have breakfast with me. The others won't be down for hours."

Over tea and toast, Cyrus proved to be unexpectedly good company, sharing stories of the brothers' childhood antics. It was the first glimpse I'd had of Gideon as anything other than the stern, controlled man I'd married.

"He was always the serious one," Cyrus said with a small smile. "Even as a boy, he carried the weight of the family on his shoulders."

"And what weight is that?" I asked, seizing the opportunity.

Cyrus's smile faded. "Every family has its burdens, Isolde. Ours are perhaps... heavier than most."

After breakfast, he offered to show me the music room, where a magnificent grand piano dominated the space. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced above the polished surface.

"Do you play?" he asked, taking a seat at the bench.

"I never had the opportunity to learn," I admitted.

"Would you like to?" When I nodded, he patted the space beside him. "Sit. I'll teach you something simple."

His fingers moved gracefully over the keys, producing a haunting melody that seemed to fill the empty corners of the house. I watched, mesmerized, as he demonstrated a basic exercise.

"Here, like this," he said, guiding my hands into position. "This piece is particularly lovely. It's called 'Moonlight Reverie.'"

As I attempted to mimic his movements, he nodded encouragingly. "Good. You have a natural touch, just like—" He stopped abruptly, his expression clouding.

"Like who?" I prompted.

He withdrew his hands from the keys. "Like the last girl who played this piece. She had a gift for it."

"Who was she?" I pressed, sensing I was approaching something significant.

Before he could answer, a voice interrupted from the doorway.

"Already claiming our new sister for yourself, Cyrus?" Ezekiel sauntered in, boyish charm in full display despite the early hour. "Hardly fair when we're all eager to know her better."

"I was simply providing company while the rest of you indulged your slothful habits," Cyrus replied dryly.

Ezekiel dropped into a nearby armchair, fixing me with an appreciative gaze that bordered on inappropriate. "And how are you finding married life, Mrs. Marlowe? Is my brother treating you well?"

"I've hardly had time to discover what married life entails," I answered carefully. "Your brother and I are still... becoming acquainted."

Ezekiel's laugh held a note of disbelief. "That's Gideon for you—brings home a beautiful bride and then retreats to his study. If you were my wife—"

"But she isn't," came Gideon's stern voice as he entered the room. "And you would do well to remember that, Ezekiel."

The tension that immediately filled the room was palpable. Gideon stood rigid in the doorway, his gaze cold as it moved from his youngest brother to me. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, though I'd done nothing wrong.

"Merely keeping Isolde company, brother," Ezekiel said, though his casual tone seemed forced now. "Someone ought to."

"I believe you have duties to attend to in town," Gideon replied, his voice leaving no room for argument.

With a dramatic sigh, Ezekiel rose. "As you wish." He paused beside me, lowering his voice though not enough to prevent Gideon from hearing. "If you ever tire of the ice prince's company, the rest of us are more than willing to entertain you."

The moment he left, Cyrus muttered an excuse about needing to return a book to the library and quickly departed, leaving me alone with my husband.

"I see you've been exploring," Gideon said after an uncomfortable silence.

"Is that not permitted?" I countered, standing from the piano bench. "Am I to remain in my room unless summoned?"

Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, at my boldness. "You misunderstand me. This is your home now. You're free to go wherever you wish."

"Except the attic," I reminded him.

"Except there," he agreed, his expression guarded once more.

"Why did you marry me, Gideon?" The question had been burning inside me since his proposal. "What possible reason could you have for bringing a penniless orphan into your family?"

He studied me for a long moment, as if measuring how much to reveal. "My reasons are my own."

"That's not good enough," I said, surprised by my own courage. "I left everything I knew to come here. I deserve the truth."

He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of him—cedar and something uniquely his own. "What if the truth is something you're not prepared to hear?"

My heart quickened at his proximity. "I'm stronger than you give me credit for."

"That," he said softly, "is becoming increasingly apparent."

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, I thought he might say more—might finally offer some explanation for the strangeness that surrounded this marriage and this family. Instead, he took a deliberate step back.

"I have business to attend to," he said, his formal tone returning. "Perhaps you'd like to join the family for dinner tonight. Seven o'clock in the main dining room."

After he left, I found myself wandering the long corridors of Thornfield Manor, trying to make sense of my enigmatic husband. Eventually, I found myself in the main dining room, drawn once more to the massive family portrait that had caught my attention the night before.

In daylight, the inconsistency was even more obvious—a section near the right edge where the paint was newer, the brushstrokes different. Standing on tiptoe, I examined it more closely. It appeared that a figure had been painted out of the scene, replaced with a shadowy bookcase that didn't quite match the rest of the composition.

"Curious, isn't it?" Theodore's voice startled me. The eldest Marlowe brother stood in the doorway, observing me with an unreadable expression.

"Someone was removed from the portrait," I said. It wasn't a question.

"Perceptive," he nodded, approaching to stand beside me. "Most visitors never notice."

"Who was it?" I asked.

He studied the painting rather than looking at me. "The past is a complicated thing, Isolde. Sometimes it's kinder to... revise it."

"Is that what your family does? Revise the past?"

His eyes finally met mine, filled with something that might have been regret. "We all have our ways of coping with loss."

Before I could press further, we were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. We both turned to see Malcolm in the doorway, a shattered water pitcher at his feet, his face pale as he stared at me.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, though whether he was apologizing for the broken glass or something else entirely, I couldn't tell. His eyes filled with tears as he continued to stare. "It's just—in that light, standing there—you look exactly like—"

"Malcolm," Theodore cut in sharply. "That's enough."

But Malcolm seemed unable to stop himself. He stepped forward, crunching over broken glass, and took my hands in his. "You've finally come back to us," he whispered, his eyes wild with a mixture of joy and grief. "After all these years."

"Malcolm!" Theodore's voice cracked like a whip. "She is Gideon's wife, not—"

"Not who?" I demanded, my heart pounding. "Who do you think I am?"

The moment hung suspended between us, Malcolm still clutching my hands, Theodore's face a mask of barely controlled alarm. And then, from the doorway:

"What's happening here?" Gideon's voice cut through the tension. He took in the scene—the broken glass, Malcolm's tears, my confusion—and his expression hardened. "Malcolm, go with Theodore. Now."

As Theodore led a still-mumbling Malcolm from the room, Gideon's eyes met mine. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever secrets this family kept, they revolved around someone I resembled—someone whose very memory caused Malcolm to weep and Jasper to rage. Someone whose existence had been literally painted out of the family history.

And somehow, I suspected that uncovering their identity was the key to understanding why Gideon Marlowe had really made me his wife.