26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Cassandra spent the next day paying a long overdue visit to her old nurse. Age and infirmity were catching up with the dear woman, and seeing her cheerful, even in her suffering, helped Cassandra put her own problems into perspective.

She had no right to feel sorry for herself. It was the marriage of convenience she’d agreed to, and if she craved affection that Jethro would not—or could not—give her, that was her problem, not his. In future, she must place his needs before her own.

Determined to be a dutiful wife, she returned to the house in time to welcome her husband when he came home for dinner.

It was while she was awaiting his arrival that she spotted the intricately inlaid bureau in one corner of the drawing room.

How strange. Why would Jethro move his mother’s desk out of his study? She recalled the way he had snapped at her when she had asked if she might use it, and resolved not to touch it, lest she incur his displeasure again.

Cassandra returned to her embroidery, but found her eyes flitting over to the bureau every time she lifted her gaze. A smile crept onto her lips. At least she could enjoy looking at it now, even if she couldn’t use it.

To her surprise, Jethro joined her in the drawing room earlier than usual—a full fifteen minutes before dinner was due to be served .

Cassandra laid down her embroidery at once, concerned at this variation in his routine. Why had he come home early? She examined his visage. His forehead was creased, as if he were worried about something.

She was just about to ask if all was well when her husband spoke.

“I’ve moved my mother’s desk in here. You may use it, if you wish.”

Cassandra stared at him, lost for words. What had brought about this change?

“Would you like to?” he asked, walking over to the bureau and idly stroking the top of it with his hand. “I know you admired it. I’m afraid the drawer is locked, and I’ve mislaid the key, but you could use it to write letters and…”

His voice trailed off, and he gazed at her uncertainly, as if her answer was important.

“Are you sure? I thought the desk was precious to you—because it was your mother’s.”

“It is, but I’d like you to have it. I wasn’t using it anyway, and I want to share it with you.”

Warmth flooded Cassandra’s being. This was not some expensive piece of jewellery for her to flaunt in public. This was different. A gift that cost him, not in money, but in personal sacrifice. And for that reason alone, it meant something special to her.

“Thank you. It’s beautiful,” she said, standing beside him and running her hand over the front of the desk, tracing the marquetry with her fingers.

Jethro smiled, and the lines on his forehead relaxed.

“My earliest recollections are of my mother sitting here, writing. It was a gift from my father, and she always said she felt closest to him here. Sometimes it made her cry. I don’t think she ever got over losing him.”

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra said.

“She moved to Weymouth after he died, because London held too many memories for her, though she went back alone every spring. Her melancholy never left her, and it was always worse after her visits to town. She never married again. Never even considered the possibility, as far as I know.”

“That may have been a blessing. My father remarried after only a year, and his second choice was not as wise as his first.”

Cassandra wondered what had wrought this change in her husband. He’d never been so open with her before. Dare she take advantage of his sunny mood and broach the subject she had avoided for weeks—the dismal state of the drawing room ?

Once they were seated at the dining table and the servants had left the room, Cassandra spoke before her courage fled.

“Jethro, do you remember Mrs Frampton’s comments about drawing rooms?”

He frowned. “I do. She was poking fun at my wife in a most unpleasant way. Some nonsensical notion about the decorations in our drawing room reflecting poorly on you.”

“Do you think she had a point?”

He stared at her, the frown growing more pronounced the longer he held her gaze. “What do you mean?”

“You are doing your duty to me, providing much more than a roof over my head. I would be failing my responsibilities to you if I did not tell you that our drawing room is not fashionable.”

“What do you want me to do about it? I haven’t got the time for such things, even if I knew what was appropriate, which I most assuredly do not.”

He was not taking her criticism well. Why had she spoiled the evening by bringing the subject up?

She wished she’d kept her mouth shut, but having started, she had to keep going. “I know you’re busy, Jethro. I’m not asking for your time, just for your permission. This is a project I can undertake to help you. It’s something we need to do to stop Mr Wade from seeing us as woefully unfashionable. May I?”

He let out a sigh. “This is your home, Cassandra. If you wish to make a few changes, you are at liberty to do so. Send me the bills. It will keep you occupied while I’m away.”

Her eyes jerked up to meet his. “Away?”

“I must visit my agent in Guernsey. I leave first thing in the morning.”

Cassandra’s spirits plummeted. Now, the evening was well and truly ruined. Didn’t it occur to Jethro that his wife might want to know his plans in advance, rather than springing them on her like that, without notice? How could he offer her his mother’s desk as though he cared and then treat her with so little consideration?

“I see. How long will you be away?”

“A week. Maybe longer.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes as she stared at him. Was he annoyed with her for asking?

“When will you be back?”

“Does it matter? ”

What was he getting at? His face was a mask. Did he want to know if she would miss him, or was he angry with her for wanting him to account for his movements?

Yes. She would miss him. Though she had lived on her own in the rectory after her father had died and her stepsister had gone, the prospect of living here, alone, filled her with heaviness.

Their life together was far from ideal, but she was growing accustomed to it. It would be strange to live here without him.

If she had discerned the slightest tenderness around his eyes, any softening of his features, she might have dared to tell him, but there was none.

Jethro was a man who did not care to have his decisions questioned. Clearly, he did not feel the need to account for his actions—even to his wife.

His question still hung in the air. Did it matter when he returned?

No. She would not let it.

Cassandra forced her lips into a smile. “Not at all. May God give you travelling mercies. The household will be waiting for you when you return.”

Just for a moment, Jethro’s mask cracked, and something flickered in the back of his eyes.

Was that a touch of sadness she saw? It was gone as fast as it had come, and his face was as impassive as ever.

She must have been mistaken. Jethro could not want her to miss him—could he?