Chapter Ten

"Hannah," Cassandra said, putting the tea tray aside and swinging her legs out of bed, "would you have the music room cleaned, please. Today, if possible."

The housekeeper smiled. "Of course, Your Grace, with pleasure."

"And I shall take breakfast in the morning room after my ride, in about an hour," Cassandra added, placing herself in Anna's expert hands to get ready for the day.

"I shall see to it at once." The housekeeper, still smiling, bobbed a curtsey and hurried from the room, closing the door behind her.

"Oh, it will be wonderful to hear you sing again, milady," Anna breathed, reverting to her mistress's preferred informal title now that they were alone. "I have missed it so much. I can't help thinking it will do this old house some good to have some music in it again after such a long time," she added, helping Cassandra out of her nightdress.

"I am sure that if the old Duchess loved music so much, her poor spirit must be upset by the music room being left to rot like that, especially if she liked to play the piano."

"Do you know, Anna, I think you must be right," Cassandra answered, bolstered by the observation as she followed the maid to the washstand to begin her toilette. "I suppose His Grace is still grieving for her, in his own way. Grief does funny things to people, does it not?" she mused, guessing that a lot of Malcom's closed off demeanor and reclusiveness was connected to the loss of his mother. Her heart naturally softened a little towards him, realizing he had to feel her loss unusually deeply.

However, she quickly squashed the feeling, telling herself that since he had never deigned to tell her about the circumstances of his mother's death, nor his father's, come to that, he had forfeited any right to her sympathy.

"Oh, grief does indeed make people behave in very odd ways, milady," Anna confided knowingly, pouring hot water from the jug into the bowl. "When my granny died, my grandpa went into a decline. Refused to eat a crust, he did, and he died six weeks later, of a broken heart, they say."

"That is tragic, Anna. I am so sorry. How sad!" Cassandra exclaimed, feeling more sympathy for the unknown old couple than for her husband's loss. But that was his fault, for he had never stooped to ask his own wife anything about herself, nor share anything about his own history with her. As Cassandra reasoned it, in the circumstances, how could she be expected to care?

And in truth, she was more than a little distracted by the other thoughts racing through her head just then. As Anna helped her wash and dress, she could hardly wait to get out on horseback in the fresh air, to try to put them into some sort of order. A plan was slowly forming in her mind for staging a small rebellion. She would ride, take breakfast, and then, she would seek out her husband in his den and tell him, not ask him, that she wanted the music room and the piano restored.

I know now that he has no good reason to refuse me, except a sentimental one. And if he does refuse, I shall do it anyway!

***

Malcom too was out on his horse before breakfast, though he did not think he could eat anything anyway. He had had a restless night, the vision of Cassandra at the piano and her sweet, soaring voice refusing to leave him. The experience of finding her at the piano in the music room, his mother's favourite place, continued to plague him.

In addition, the strains of Fair Colleen had wormed their way into his brain and were going around and around like a persistent echo, threatening to drive him mad.

But what to do about it? He felt a fool for not simply ordering her out of the room, never to darken its doors again. His grief had made him weak, and he despised himself for it. How was he going to explain himself to her? But as master of the house, did he need to explain himself at all?

Despite being married and dining together each evening—always an excruciating experience—their conversation had hardly gone beyond that one might expect between slight acquaintances. The weather was so far just about their only reliable topic.

With an unhappy sigh, he directed his steed towards a serene woodland trail, troubled by questions and self-recriminations despite the tranquil surroundings. In his head, a small voice was nagging at him, saying, "You must admit, her voice is enchanting. Do you not long to hear it again? Her playing is inexpert, to be sure, and those off-key notes were offensive to the ear. To have the instrument tuned would be but a small thing.

He had half decided to arrange it when his instinct to preserve the past and go on torturing himself with guilt and pain, by way of atonement, gripped him again. It felt far more comfortable than the prospect of actually speaking to his wife and doing something to oblige the woman who had stolen his life. And so, he pushed the idea away.

He was deep in such thoughts, walking the horse along the track, resenting Cassandra afresh, when he was startled by a pigeon taking noisy flight. He looked around for whatever had spooked it.

"It's all right, Brownie," he heard his wife's voice say from the other side of the copse. "It was only a pigeon, you silly thing." She laughed, a sweet, musical sound that sent a strange thrill through him even as he froze, desperate for her not to see him. To his relief, she did not and rode slowly on, humming a little tune to herself as she passed further down the track.

Malcom waited until he thought she was out of earshot, letting his horse nibble on the grass, before pressing his heels into the beast's flanks, anxious to get as far away as he could in quick time undetected. But the horse had other ideas and protested with a loud huffing sound, stamping its hooves, and setting its harness jingling loudly in the quiet air. He cursed under his breath as he gripped the reins and brought it under control. But it was too late.

"Who is there?" he heard Cassandra ask a little nervously, making his heart drop to his boots. Spurred by rising panic, Malcom did not try to reply. He kicked up his mount and took off at a gallop over the meadow in the opposite direction.

"Malcom! Malcom, come back!" He heard her calling him but chose to ignore her, pretending he had not heard. Dammit! Was she following him? What did she want? Surely, she had done enough damage, hadn't she? As he sped away, it did not occur to him that she could have no idea why or what damage she had supposedly caused .

He neither guessed nor cared that his impenetrable coldness towards her was hurting her. They were but married strangers, and he did not care. He only nursed his resentment against her for ruining his safe, lonely life.

When he got back to the house, hurrying through a rear entrance, hoping Cassandra was still out, he fled to his study. On his desk, he found note from Terrence waiting for him. His cousin had invited himself for dinner that evening. Malcom poured himself a stiff drink and stood frowning by the hearth, filled with indignation and a sense of creeping dread.

Blast! It's bad enough having to dine with her , but with Terrence meddling—which he undoubtedly will—things could get so much worse!

***

Cassandra watched through the tree branches as her husband galloped away from her, supposing he had not heard her calling to him. She was disappointed not to have been able to speak to him, as the chance encounter had seemed to present an ideal opportunity to tackle him about the music room. On realizing it was him on the other side of the copse, she had quickly figured out that if the discussion degenerated into shouting, they were at least out in the open, far away from the prying ears and eyes of the servants.

Feeling rather frustrated to have failed to grasp the chance to confront him, she rode slowly home, making a fresh resolution to track him down as soon as she could. She took off her boots in the small vestibule at the back of the house, swapping them for house slippers before walking through to the main hall. The one thought on her mind was to find Malcom and speak to him about the music room before her resolution failed her.

However, in the main hall, she bumped into Hannah. The housekeeper's cheeks were glowing, and her eyes sparkled with obvious excitement.

"Oh, there you are, Your Grace," she greeted Cassandra, bobbing a neat curtsey.

"Yes, I have finished my ride. Were you looking for me for something?" Cassandra asked, stopping to talk, curious as to Hannah's animated expression.

"No, Your Grace. I was just on my way to collect the flowers the gardener has left for me. But since you are here, I may tell you the exciting news that we have a guest coming for dinner this evening."

Cassandra was suddenly all ears. "Oh? Who might that be?" Some dull, dreary acquaintance of Malcom's, she supposed, likely with similarly poor conversational skills.

"The Viscount Lavington," Hannah told her, with a dreamy look. "He is such a pleasant gentleman. We servants always like it when he comes to dine, especially the cook. She is making a special effort with dinner tonight. Unlike his Grace, Lord Terrence—that is how he likes to be addressed — always has such a good appetite and appreciates a good dinner."

Cassandra could not hide her surprise. "I met the Viscount at my wedding," she said, recalling with affection the friendly, rather lanky young man who bore a resemblance to her husband, though he was not so striking in looks. "He was very kind. I look forward to seeing him again."

It was indeed exciting news. She hoped the Viscount would come with news from the Season, hopefully bringing gossip and some amusing tales of all she was missing out on in her beloved London. She felt a pang of sadness at the thought, but then told herself to be optimistic and grateful for the unexpected company.

"Your breakfast is laid out in the morning room for you, Your Grace, as you asked," Hannah said, breaking into her thoughts.

"Thank you. I shall just go and change, and I shall be down," Cassandra told her, starting up the stairs.

"Very good, Your Grace," the housekeeper said, bobbing a curtsey and flashing Cassandra another warm smile as she went off about her errand.

Cassandra sped up the stairs with renewed enthusiasm, eager to tell Anna that she would be taking extra care with her appearance when dressing for dinner that evening. The Viscount must not suspect how rocky the situation was between Malcom and her, so she resolved to look her best and try to appear to be cheerful, the better to present at least an impression that they were getting on.

I hope he is fond of music and that we can perhaps converse on the subject. Anything but having to put up with Malcom's cold, unending silence !

After breakfast, Cassandra spent some time composing letters home to her family, and then rather longer writing to Diana back in London. The letter to Diana was much more informal than that to her family. They would not wish to hear how difficult she was finding the adjustment to her new life as the Duchess of Lindenhall. But to Diana, she could pour out her heart without fear of censure or judgement.

. . . we dine together each night but speak only of the weather or perhaps the inexplicable loss of a sick cow. Other than that, we do not speak and seldom meet. It seems he will do almost anything to avoid me. He practically lives in his study, while I am left to amuse myself. Even Anna is complaining of how boring it is here. Honestly, Di, I feel as if I have been buried alive! Pray, do come and visit me as soon as you can. If you cannot, I am sure I shall quite fade away with ennui.

However, let me cease my complaints and tell you what happened yesterday. You recall that the last time I wrote, I mentioned the curious lack of a music room here at Lindenhall, with not so much of a pianoforte to help me pass the long hours of solitude? I cannot tell you how much I miss hearing Maggie play and all the wonderful music London provides so freely! I have been feeling the loss terribly, as you can imagine. However, I hope all that is soon about to change . . .

She then related in great detail the story of her adventure in the east wing and finding the music room. She confided in her friend the strange encounter there with her husband and all she had learned in the meantime about his past.

. . . So, I am presently plucking up my courage to beard the lion in his den, so to speak, and persuade him to oblige me for once. You may think me weak for being afraid of him, but Diana, he is so forbidding! I tremble when I think of confronting him, for I fear he may think I am overstepping the boundaries of my position. But am I not his duchess? So, I am presently steeling myself to the task, in order to achieve my desire. It is, after all, a harmless thing I ask of him . . .

After finishing her letters and preparing them for the mail, she took a walk down to the nearby village of Lindenhall, a quaint, rural place that one might miss if one blinked when passing through it in a carriage. But to Cassandra, at this point in her life, the hamlet seemed a bustling metropolis in comparison to the mausoleum that was her home.

The villagers she passed stared at her as she made her way to the post office, which she supposed had to be because they seldom saw anyone new in the vicinity. She smiled at them as she passed and was taken aback when they appeared awe-struck and bowed or curtseyed with varying ability.

These greetings were accompanied by awkward mutterings of "Yer Grace," causing her to remember with sinking heart just who she was to them: the wife of the man who ruled them and held their lives in his hands. Immediately, she felt a kinship with them.

That was until, to her horror, she heard a man's voice say, "She's wed the Beast, the foolish wench." After that, her cheeks hot with embarrassment, she quickly mailed her letters and retreated from the village. She walked home, feeling lonelier than ever. But as she spied through the trees the towering roofs of her luxurious prison, as she had come to think of the manor, she gave herself a mental shake.

Do not give in to these feelings of helpless doom, Cassandra. You have a mind and a tongue. Use them to claim some sort of life for yourself from this iceberg you are chained to. You will speak to him as soon as possible about the music room and the piano. But perhaps not this evening, not while we have a guest. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I shall face him down.