Chapter 497: The Portraits of the Forgotten

Chapter 496: The Portraits of the Forgotten

Content Warning: This Chapter contains references to sexual abuse of children, the killing of children under the guise of tradition, abuse of power, and the forced separation of families. These subjects are discussed but not depicted graphically.

Lyria’s POV

"I have it," Duke Thorncrest said at once.

He reached for the parchment and passed it to me.

I accepted it with both hands, my eyes widening as I beheld the contents. There were several portraits, each accompanied by written records, and I found myself examining them with an apprehension I could not wholly account for. I recognised Ursula among the likenesses, though she appeared considerably younger than I had ever seen her.

Beside her was the portrait of another girl, whose resemblance to Ursula was so striking that their relationship required no explanation. Next to the girl was a portrait of Obadiah.

There was also a gentleman whose likeness I did not know. He was light of complexion, with a countenance that revealed very little of his disposition, and I studied it a moment, wondering what part he had played in the lives of the women whose faces occupied the page.

Duke Valenridge drew a slow breath before speaking.

"Ursula gave birth to the girl whose portrait you see there. That girl, in turn, gave birth to Obadiah."

He fell silent a moment, as though he weighed whether the words that must follow ought to be spoken at all.

"But she did not survive. She was but ten years old when she died. She had endured abuse from the age of eight, despite every effort her mother made to protect her."

The cavern seemed to grow colder, though the spring continued to send its warmth into the air. I stared at the portrait, scarcely able to reconcile the face before me with the fate that had been described.

Eight years of age.

I swallowed, but the tightness in my throat remained.

"S-she w-was s-so y-young," I whispered.

The words came haltingly, and I could think of nothing more worthy of utterance. What reply could possibly suffice? What expression of grief could make sense of a life so brief, so grievously used, and extinguished before it had scarcely begun?

Duke Valenridge inclined his head.

"Yes."

I lowered my gaze to the parchment, though the writing had become difficult to follow. My eyes had grown blurred, and I blinked several times in the hope of clearing them. Beside me, I felt rather than saw Lucian go very still, and I heard Duke Thorncrest draw a breath through his teeth. None of us spoke. There are griefs which make a hush of their own, and no gentleman present was so poor in feeling as to break it.

There were cruelties in this world that I had long struggled to comprehend. I had suffered ill-treatment myself, and I knew better than most that a person might endure misery behind walls where others supposed them fortunate. Yet I had hoped, foolishly, that such wickedness was rarer than it now appeared.

The parchments in my hands suggested otherwise.

"It is much the same for many of the women in this town," Duke Valenridge continued softly. "Several were abused by men whose standing afforded them protection from every consequence of their actions. They were compelled to bear children before they had even reached womanhood, only to be discarded when those responsible no longer found them useful."

His voice remained measured, though I observed the tension in his jaw.

"Others were sent here for reasons altogether different. Some were unwanted on account of their family connexions, or because their very existence threatened matters that certain persons preferred to keep concealed. There are also those whose circumstances arose from a combination of such causes."

I looked down at the portraits once more.

The likenesses had seemed a curious puzzle when first I examined them. Now they appeared to be evidence of a deliberate concealment. Faces that might have belonged within noble households had instead been conveyed to Gallowshill, where their owners were left to contend with poverty, neglect, and whatever misfortune had driven them hither. And the people of this town, who had been so hostile, so proud, so unwilling to accept a single loaf at our hands, now appeared to me in an altogether different light. I thought of Jim, and Baldwin, and Ursula, and the wall of pride they had raised against us, and understood at last that it had been built stone by stone, out of every wrong they had suffered at the hands of such as ourselves.

Whatever their origins, they had all been gathered into a place that those with influence seemed content to forget.

"And there are those whose circumstances are wholly different from what we should expect, for—"

"Jim," Duke Thorncrest supplied.

I turned towards him at once.

"W-what does J-Jim have to do w-with t-this?"

For a moment, Duke Thorncrest did not answer. His gaze had settled upon one of the parchments, and there was a heaviness in his countenance that I had not observed when first he spoke of the matter.

"Truthfully," he began, "part of the reason I approached Evander concerning the likenesses in this town was Jim himself."

He exhaled slowly.

"One thing you should understand, Your Highness, is that all the territories of this kingdom are remarkably diverse. At times, one might suppose each to be a kingdom in its own right, so great are the differences in their customs and their laws. There are also practices in certain territories which most others abandoned generations ago. Highmoor, regrettably, retains some of the worst of them."

He paused, his fingers resting against the edge of the parchment, and I perceived that they were not quite steady.

"Jim is related to a nobleman of my territory. A Baron: Baron Ingelram. The Crown granted Jim an official position in this town in an attempt to preserve his life, for he was born of a twin."

"I d-do not u-understand the c-connexion," I told him.