Faces of the Wind

Chapter 7

Irene sat in bed, stroking her long, golden curls as she wandered off into a magical world. She giggled to herself repeatedly until a knock on the door brought her back to the present moment.

"I hope you're still awake, Irene, my dear," Edith cried from behind the door.

"Come in, mama," cried Irene as she slid out of bed and put her feet in her soft slippers. She got up and headed to the door when Edith gently opened it and walked into the pink room. She sat on the vanity dresser's white and rose chair and faced Irene, who was now sitting on the edge of her bed.

"I've always known there was something going on between you and Adrian, but I did not interfere because I know my daughter would never disgrace herself nor her family," Edith said, her voice calm but austere, "now I want you to be truthful and tell me—"

"I am always truthful, mama," Irene interjected, stung by a sudden feeling of indignation.

"Yes, my dear, I trust you are," Edith sighed, "but your granny has been obsessing about these rumours," she rolled her eyes as she said the last word, making her daughter giggle briefly.

"I've always hated those Medleys!" Irene grimaced and crossed her arms in irritation, "I am as virtuous as ever; I assure you."

"I'm sure," Edith replied, "but is he going to propose?"

"Is it important?"

"Of course!" Edith got up and sat on the edge of the bed beside her daughter, "If he aspires to you then he must propose."

Irene looked down at her hands and her expression morphed into a sorrowful one. "I think he loves me, so maybe he will eventually propose."

"No man can ever find a wife better than you, but Adrian isn't mature enough to be married," Edith got up, leaned over her daughter and kissed her forehead. "Good night, my angel."

As she watched her mother reach the door, Irene said, "Mama."

Edith turned to look at her. "Yes, dear?"

"He's been sketching me... to paint me."

"That is wonderful, but why doesn't he ask for our permission and come paint you in the drawing room for instance?"

"Papa hates him."

Edith chuckled softly. "We can make a professional arrangement."

"He hasn't started with the painting yet—only a few pencil studies," Irene explained, "maybe once he starts working in oils?"

"I'll see to that."

***

It was past midnight and Adrian could not sleep. He knew Charles Longfeather must have quarreled with his father and upset him. What would he tell him now? He found no more excuses up his sleeve. Every time his father is in town, the world conspires to prove his son a disgrace. He couldn't make him proud.

He went downstairs and saw a light shine from inside the library. The door was half open. He drew closer and knocked on it before he stole inside, knowing who to find there.

"So we both couldn't sleep," said Jeffrey, holding his pipe in one hand and a brandy in the other. He did not turn to look at his son but continued to stare at the empty, dark fireplace instead.

"Papa—"

"What lie do you have for me now, Adrian?" His tone was filled with exasperation.

Adrian swallowed then slowly drew closer to his father's armchair. "I..." he stammered, "I... I was... I l-lost my way... and found myself on Windwith land."