A Wife for the Billionaire
Chapter 125: RICHARD

Chapter 125: RICHARD

"About damn time" I gruffed, extending my hands backwards so the butler would rid me of my coat.

For people who almost went broke, the Blakes maintained opulence. At least more than most. Not in grandeur or anything, because this was nothing compared to the Ramsey Estate or the Wellington Estate, it was mediocre in fact compared to my residence at Tall Springs.

No wonder it was called the Blake Mansion, not an estate because they lacked grounds. Which was really fucked up because the late owner had been into real estate.

But then again, the building from the gothic moss-grown façade, it must’ve been a family heritage. Something passed from one generation to the next.

Standing in the entrance hall that felt cramped compared to those I was used to, was a sweeping staircase with intricately carved balusters, polished to a high shine. They might not be big on opulence and grandeur, but they maintained hygiene.

The walls were adorned with a few gold-painted frames consisting of a collection of artwork. Not too sparse to indicate lack and yet not really enough to suggest magnificence. Which led me to believe the gossip column that wrote of the dowager auctioning most of their artworks to pay off some of her late husband’s debt.

Tapestries and ornate mirrors, completed the adornment of the walls. The floor was of polished dark blue marble, complemented by plush area rugs in rich, jewel-toned colors.

Lanke flanking me, we followed Felix to the left leading to the formal living room. There she was, Sofia Blake.

Weirdly, she was the first person I saw. She stood dutifully, her hands piled in front of her in servitude, a most unconventional sight, beside a restored Louis XVI sofa, housing three women with identical features. Auburn hair. Brown eyes. Freckled faces.

Alicia and her twin daughters. Annabel and Mirabel. They were the twins in the selection, this whole thing was becoming an entanglement.

Before them on the antique table with intricate carvings in gold running round the circumference of it down to its legs, were magazines. Most lay open with hinting at bridal gowns and floral arrangements.

Above was a crystal chandelier, casting a golden glow over the room and its twinkling lights mirrored by the marble floors.

"Mr Wellington, welcome to my humble abode." The host said, almost bowing as she rose. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, we just weren’t expecting you"

I barely acknowledged her or her words as I slowly removed my shades, handing it to Lanke. She kept me waiting, a deed she was truly going to pay for.

Making sure that my face mirrored my emotions, I ignored the woman as I took another look around.

From the delicate patterns on the silk wallpaper to the intricately carved wooden paneling, to Alicia Blake’s millinery. Her famous works, most especially ’F&F’, was evident in the hat collection displayed in a glass case near the fireplace.

The air smelled of roses and a hint of rotting wood.

"Is anything amiss, Mr Wellington?" Alicia asked, still standing.

Abruptly I turned to her, smiling as she cowered under my gaze. Her daughters hid behind her, stealing affectionate glances at me.

Sofia standing beside them was trying very hard not to smile. She was enjoying it all, that glint and slight twitch of her lips betrayed her. It was the only thing that hinted at the girl who had challenged me hours ago. This one was a picture of servitude, her stance erect and her face betraying no expression apart from the glint in her eyes and the almost mistakable twitch of her lips.

The only thing that was missing was an apron, drape one across her waist and the girl would have been the perfect image and character of a serving girl.

Still ignoring the woman’s question, I walked to the fireplace. My motive had been to the glass case showcasing Alicia’s millinery, but as my eyes trailed from the antiques and pieces collected over the years laying on the mantel.

The miniature New City Statue of Freedom, that of the Effiel tower perhaps gotten from a trip to Paris or simply just collected from an antique store to spice up the decor. Pictures of the family in frames, the twins barely six on an ice rink with their father. Alicia and her late husband standing erect and tall like politicians, their hands on the shoulders of two little girls smiling broadly. That must’ve been at an official function, in those days when things were well.

None of that really captured my attention like the painting above the fireplace. Just a few inches above the mantel.

It was of a woman in a yellow dress with patches of flowery patterns, sitting and hugging her knees in a garden, surrounded by flowers, the sun blazing above and her face shadowed by the wide brim straw hat on her head.

At first, it looked simple, like one of those cliched nature paintings. But then, as I stared at it. I could see it was more. That there were layers to each stroke and a hidden note of melancholy in each choice of color.

The woman’s face was hidden by the wide brim of her hat, but one could tell, well not one, a fellow artist, one with a true eye for reading and deciphering messages in an artwork. I could tell that she was smiling. She was happy. It was evident in the slight tint of her head towards the sun. Her feet buried, under stalks of flowers, dandelions, daffodils, lilacs and roses.

It looked ageless and almost real, as if one could feel the whisper of the breeze ruffling the flowers and the thin brunette strands of the woman’s hair captured in mid air. Suspended forever by the painter’s brush strokes.

Or smell the scent of the flowers as the wind brushed them.

The color palette gave the flowers a surreal look, the painter even managed to capture the glow of the sun on the petals, bulbs and trumpets of the flowers. Even the woman’s skin seemed to be glowing in the sunlight.

Or maybe, it was just the glow of the chandelier.

But even at that, the painting, even with its bright colors and sunny features, the message was clear. It was never the painter’s intention to exert happiness from that piece.

It felt like he... no, it had to be a she. There was something about it that spoke of feminility. Mere looking at it, one could tell it was painted by a woman or lady. The flair. The color palette. The design of the dress. The straw hat. Not that men couldn’t achieve such, but this wasn’t a man’s work. Neither was it inspired by imagination.

It was like a memory. As if the painter was there at that very moment. As if she lived that memory. Like she was watching from a few paces, as if, if one could unframe the painting and spread it out, he/she could see the painter standing aside. Like she was folded out.

Nostalgia.

That was the central theme of the painting. The longing was predominant in the painter’s brushstrokes, as if each stroke was a beckoning. A reminiscence. A rue. A yearning.

Achieving such an emotion and theme using bright colors and sunny features, spoke of exceptionality. It was a feat that most can’t achieve.

Whoever painted this had talent. It was simple, original yet very expressional. I just couldn’t take my eyes off it, I almost felt myself reaching out to it. To touch and feel the paint.

In spite of the dowager’s cruel nature and her greed for power, she had an amazing taste in arts. This painting centered on the mantel was proof. Perhaps I would just ask her for the painting, or better, order her to relent it to me.

"Beautiful piece," I finally said, "melancholy and nostalgia expressed with bright colors. It’s simply genius"

"Yes, my daughters are geniuses. Annabel and Mirabel," she tugged them to stand beside her, "they collaborated on it"

Those girls looked like they’ve never held a paint brush before. Those hands were certainly not those of an artist. In fact those hands looked like they’ve never labored a day in their entire lives.

Perhaps that should disqualify them already from the selection, ladies who didn’t know hard work seldom make good wives. Their file might show aspiring actress and model, but it’s evident what they would end up as, wives and successors to their parents’ businesses.

But I was willing to give everyone on the list the benefit of doubt.

"I don’t doubt that," I surmised, my tone sarcastic.

Sofia snickered, earning her heated glares from the three women. Only God knows what they would do to her when I leave, well, that’s if they would be able to do anything. With the news I brought, the girl’s status in her family was about to change. And Alicia and her daughters will need to be in her good graces.

Her daughters were in the selection and Sofia was about to be the judge in the same selection. They need her. And they were about to realize that.

As if I could share that secret with her, I simply smiled.