Chapter Thirteen

Throughout the rest of the meal, she did not so much as look at him, but confined her attention to Terrence, whom she found to be entertaining company. There were times where she wished that if she had had to run into a gentleman by accident and then be made to marry him, it had been Terrence instead of Malcom.

Fortunately, following his strange outburst, he said little more before they all adjourned to the drawing room for drinks.

After Malcom served drinks, the evening went on in much the same vein, with him remaining mostly silent as she and Terrence chattered about all she was missing back in London. She tried to artfully needle Malcom at the same time.

"I believe the Royal Academy of Arts is due to open shortly," she said in his hearing. "I usually go with my family, although I think I am the only one who actually goes to see the paintings, not the people. This will be the first year in many years that I shall be missing it. Will you be attending, Terrence? I ask because I was wondering if you might obtain a catalogue for me. I shall at least be able to read about the paintings then, even if I cannot view them in person."

"Oh, yes, I expect I shall go. I'm not much of an art lover myself, but everybody is expected to show their face. I shall be happy to get a catalogue for you, Cassandra," Terrence replied. "Nothing simpler. But I do not see why you should not attend. Why, we could all go together." He turned to Malcom. "What do you say, Cousin. You like art and all that stuff, don't you? I am sure Cassandra would be delighted to have you escort her around the exhibition, wouldn't you, Cassandra?"

Cassandra could not speak. This was not the outcome she had intended at all. And it appeared that her husband was similarly struck dumb. Surprised to discover second-hand that he liked art, her eyes met his, and they stared at each other wordlessly for several long moments.

"I'll think about it," Malcom finally said, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

Very well, if that is how it is to be. "But it is not necessary for me to attend. Such events are always rather unpleasantly crowded anyway, and it would seem strange not to be with my family. Besides, I should not wish to put anyone to any trouble on my behalf. I shall be just as happy with a catalogue, I assure you, Terrence."

"Surely, we could arrange to meet your family there?" Terrence persisted. "We could make a day of it, have dinner together at Brown's and perhaps go to the theater afterwards."

Why would the man not listen? Of course, she wanted to attend, but not with a man who did not wish for her company. The thought of being dragged around in silence for hours by an unwilling Malcom was, frankly, frightening. She felt like screaming, wishing she had not begun the conversation. Things were getting wildly out of control, and she did not know how to put a stop to it. She desperately tried to think of any excuse as to why Terrence's actually very good suggestion would not suit. As she did so, she could have sworn she saw Malcom and his cousin exchange a meaningful glance when they thought she was not watching.

On seeing it, she bristled inwardly, immediately suspecting that something was going on between the two cousins, some sort of communication she was not privy to. She did not know what it could be, but she did not like it, and she blamed Malcom for whatever game they were playing.

"I shall have to consult my family," she said finally. "They did mention that they might be away at that time, so it may not be possible. As I say, it is of no great importance to me if I do not attend," she blatantly lied, feeling only mildly guilty for it.

"But you sounded so despondent when you said you would miss it," Terrence protested, looking genuinely puzzled. Good Lord, does the wretched man never give up? She realized she was frowning and immediately smoothed her features and summoned a false smile. She noticed that Malcom also appeared strained about the mouth, and his eyes seemed darker than usual.

"Well, you still have time to make your minds up," Terrence said at last, to her immense relief. But then, she saw Malcom breathe out too, and his forbidding expression softened a little. Was the notion of escorting her around the exhibition so horrible to him then? Even though she did not want to go with him, the thought he felt the same about her was vexing indeed.

In fact, she was so annoyed, she decided she would be better off retiring for the night and leaving the pair to their own devices. Let them enjoy their silly games if that is what they wanted.

"Well, gentlemen, it is getting late. I think I shall retire if you will excuse me." She rose from her seat with as much hauteur as she could summon.

"Of course," Malcom said, no doubt eager to be rid of her. "Sleep well."

Ha! As if you care!

"Oh, going already?" Terrence said, looking at her as if he was disappointed. "You won't stay a little longer? I have so much enjoyed our conversation. It has been nice spending some time getting to know you, Cassandra. I only wish I wasn't such an ignorant fellow and knew more about music and art. But I'm afraid I always was a bit of a simpleton. That's what my tutors always said anyway."

He sounded so genuine, she almost believed him. "I have enjoyed talking to you too, Terrence. It had been a lovely change to be able to converse at such length on such interesting topics. It feels like a long time since I was last able to do so." She threw a hard glance at Malcom then, to let him know the barb was aimed at him. His cheekbones flushed, and she was satisfied he had heard and understood. She turned to smile at Terrence again. "However, I am rather tired. I am sure we shall have the chance to talk again soon. Good night."

By that time she was at the door, and though she forced herself to make a graceful exit, she could not wait to escape and gain the privacy of her chambers, to perform an autopsy on the evening's events.

What a pity she did not pause to listen at the door and eavesdrop on the conversation that went on after she left. She would have been truly amazed to hear what was said.

***

"What do you think you were doing?" Malcom demanded, keeping his voice low in case she was listening outside the door. Not that he seriously thought she would stoop to such a thing, but one never knew .

"I don't know what you mean," Terrence said, all innocence. He took a cigarillo from his pocket and lit it from a spill from the fire. A grey cloud of smoke surrounded him at once.

"Well, after that performance, the least you can do is offer me one," Malcom told him, deeply disgruntled by what had gone on.

"Oh, sorry, old man. Here, have one."

Once Malcom was also filling the room with smoke, he repeated his question. "What did you mean with all that nonsense about taking her to visit the Royal Academy and art and music? Are you trying to make me look a fool?"

"You need no assistance on that score, Cousin. If you cannot see what I am trying to do, then you are beyond any help."

"There you go again speaking in riddles," Malcom complained. "You monopolise my wife all through dinner . . . why, you're even on first name terms, which is more than I am with her. Chattering away non-stop like a gossipy old dowager you were, having a wonderful time as far as I could see."

"Jealous, are you?" Terrence asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I certainly am not!" Malcom lied, his cheeks heating up.

"I was trying to get the conversation around to areas where you excel, you absolute idiot. Art, music, books . . . all things I despise, and you love. I gave you plenty of opportunities to speak up and make yourself shine in her eyes. Yet time and time again, you missed them completely by standing there like an ogre in silence. What is the matter with you?"

Malcom was taken aback at the genuine frustration in his cousin's voice. It was seldom that anything ruffled Terrence's feathers. His anger receded instantly, to be replaced by doubt, and a sense of failure.

"I-I did not realise," he muttered apologetically, slumping into an armchair.

"Clearly not," Terrence said tartly, pacing before the hearth, exhaling a huge plume of smoke. Malcom had never seen him look so agitated. Terrence paused in his pacing to glare sternly at Malcom.

"There are times, Malcom, when I really wonder if we can truly be related."

"What do you mean? "

His cousin pointed to the door as if trying to communicate with a lunatic.

"That little woman who has just left us." He shook his head despairingly. "Do you not realise that half the fellows in Town would pay their weight in gold to have her as their wife? Including myself."

"What?!"

"Yes, indeed," Terrence went on accusingly, pointing at Malcom with the glowing end of his cigarillo. "If I could but take her off your hands, I would leap at the chance. She is everything a man could desire in a woman, educated, clever, funny, interesting, with impeccable taste, and above all, she is stunningly attractive."

Malcom could only stare at him, his mouth hanging open in amazement. His cousin had never spoken to him like this before.

"And what do you do, you oaf? You treat her worse than one of your hunting dogs. Yes, I've seen how you fuss over them, patting and kissing them, whispering sweet words in their ears. But a lovely, outstanding woman—a catch, Malcom, a catch—whom Madame Fate has kindly thrown in your path, and you act like an absolute ill-mannered person. It is not right, it is not fair, and it is utterly ungentlemanly what you are doing to that poor girl. And I must tell you, if you do not do something to mend your ways very quickly, I shall not forgive you, and you shall lose another friend through your appalling behaviour. Me!" Terrence was breathing so heavily, and his face was so red, Malcom became concerned for his well-being.

"Terrence," he said, "calm down. This is not like you."

Terrence rounded on him. "Oh, but it is like me, dear Cousin. Only I hide my frustration with your antics most of the time. I have grown so used to your anti-social ways; I have even begun to collude in them. When I think how many times I have defended you to Madeleine, and to others, protected you, lied for you. It is no wonder they call you the Beast of Lindenhall."

"Terrence, do stop, please, I am sorry if—"

"Sorry? I am not interested in your paltry sorry. Now, I am going to bed. If you care about our friendship, I suggest you act quickly to repair things with your wife. That is if it is not already too late."

He viciously threw his cigarillo butt into the fire and stalked from the room. This time, he slammed the door.

Stunned by the display of fury from his usually mild-mannered cousin, Malcom leaned back in his chair and uttered a surprised, "Well I never." His mind reeled from all that Terrence had accused him of. His thoughts were in such a whirl, he was forced to go and get himself a large brandy to calm his nerves. He resumed his seat and sipped it, replaying the evening in his mind. Had he not set out with good intentions? Where had it all gone so horribly wrong?

You were jealous, the small voice in his head told him mockingly, because Terrence and Cassandra got on so well. You have been married to her for the best part of a month, and yet you are hardly even on first name terms! How could you be when you never speak to her? Yet Terrence managed to achieve such intimacy in less than a minute!

Malcom realized he had found out more about his wife's thoughts and opinions by listening to her converse with his cousin than he had in all the time they had been married.

Terrence is right; I have acted shamefully. And now he's threatening to abandon me. I cannot lose him. He is more than a cousin to me, he is my friend, my lifeline. I must somehow find the strength to do as he says, to overcome the ghosts of the past and make things work with Cassandra. But wait, did I not decide that before? Why is it so hard? Why do I keep failing?

He drank his brandy, searching his mind for the answers, but none came. Eventually, emotionally exhausted, he fell asleep in the chair.

He woke up in the early hours, his limbs stiff, with a painful crick in his neck. The house was gloomy and heavy with silence as he made his way up to his chamber to go to bed. It reflected his low mood perfectly. As he fell asleep once more, he could have sworn he could hear the strains of a nocturne being played fluidly on a pianoforte. Its beauty was soothing to his soul, and it made his heart clench in his chest with a strange longing, though he knew not what for.

But then, disturbingly, a wrong note resounded in his head, then another, and another, until the exquisite melody degenerated into a horrible cacophony.

"Oh, stop, will you? Stop!" he groaned, putting his hands to his ears to shut it out. That did no good as it was inside his head. However, as he willed it, the din slowly faded.

That night, for the first time in six years, he dreamt of his mother at the piano. He was watching her play, listening with rapt attention. She was playing of all things Fair Colleen . Then, she opened her mouth and began singing. But to Malcom's astonishment, the voice that came out of her mouth was not hers but Cassandra's, a sound as liquid and pure as that of dawn's first skylark.

Even in his dream, tremors of pleasure shot through him as the sweet notes seemed to pierce his soul. But when his mother finished the song and ceased her playing, she turned to him and gave him one of her looks. Her beautiful eyes brimmed with disappointment and sadness, yet at the same time were beseeching.

"What is it, Mother?" he tried to say, but the words stuck in his throat, and a feeling of panic seized him. Suddenly, he was back in his bed, awake, sweating and panting a little.

"Calm yourself, you fool," he muttered, turning over to go back to sleep. Eventually, he did sleep again, but the vision of his mother's beseeching eyes lingered stubbornly in his mind, along with the faint melody of Fair Colleen .