Chapter Sixteen

Meanwhile, Cassandra had sobbed herself to sleep. But she awoke around midnight, according to the clock in the hall, which loudly bonged out the hours one by one. She sat up and lit the lamp on the nightstand. With the sudden illumination she realized she was still wearing the gown she had worn at dinner, and her jewels had pressed into her skin where she had lain on them, leaving sore, red marks.

She took off the rumpled dress and hung it up, removed the jewelry and put it away, and let down her hair. It fell to her waist, and for several minutes, she stood before the looking glass, brushing it out, looking at the woman reflected there. Her eyes were large and dark, and the turn of her mouth hinted at a deep unhappiness.

When she had put down the hairbrush, she went to the wardrobe and put on a nightgown and a robe, belting it tightly around her waist. She pushed her feet into slippers. Then, she walked around the chamber, feeling restless.

She drank some water to refresh her dry throat, thinking over what had happened at dinner. Her anger with Malcom had dissipated, but a deep sense of confusion lingered. She wished Diana was there to talk to, but there was no one for her to confide in, no one to seek advice from. The burden was hers alone to carry. Only one thing would lighten it, she decided.

Taking the lamp from the nightstand with her, she left the room and made her way down the stairs and along the hallway, towards the east wing.

***

Malcom was in his study, sitting by the hearth in his well-worn chair, clad in only his shirt and trousers, his feet bare. His other clothes lay in a jumble on the chair where Terrence usually sat. He knew he had drunk just a little too much wine, for he had a slight headache. Maybe it was from the wine, maybe from thinking too much; he could not be sure which.

He tried to ignore the throbbing behind his eyes and got up, going to the sideboard and drinking some of the water from the seldom-used carafe that lived there. It was tepid and tasted stale, but it wetted his throat, and he felt a little better. He took a deep inhale, pulled himself up to his full height, and squared his shoulders as if about to go into battle.

Pull yourself together, man. You have a plan of action now, and you need waste no more time in putting it into action.

Taking a lamp from a side table, he left the study and padded silently down the long hallway leading to the east wing.

As soon as he shouldered his way through the connecting door, he heard the stumbling notes, muffled, yet clearly discernible to his ears. Alarmingly, his heart did a somersault, and his stomach tightened. She is there!

Overcome by confusion, he dithered in the hallway, turning this way and that, caught between the urge to flee and a force within commanding him to go forward. The force won. He went on down the hallway, the ragged notes getting progressively louder as he followed them to the door of the music room.

He paused, steeling himself. Then he knocked, and said immediately, "May I come in, Cassandra?" He did not want to scare her.

The sounds ceased abruptly. The seconds ticked by in agonizing silence. Then, suddenly, the door opened, and his wife was standing before him, looking up at him with her big hazel eyes. Malcom's heart seemed to cease beating as they stared at each other. It restarted slowly as he drank in her ethereal beauty, his eyes moving involuntarily over her from head to toe.

She was clad in a robe of Chinese silk with an intricate pattern of beautiful flowers, chrysanthemums, he thought. Small, embroidered slippers poked out from beneath it. The robe clung to her slender curves like a second skin. Her small, perfect figure was outlined in silhouette against the lamplight behind her. The pale symmetry of her face was framed by a dazzling halo of shining blonde hair that fell over her shoulders to her waist.

Malcom was dumbstruck. His mouth went dry, and his pulse began racing. She said nothing but turned away from him, going back into the room, to the piano. She turned to face him then, resting her hand on the instrument, looking at him almost defiantly, as if she expected him to berate her at any moment.

Coming slowly to himself, he repeated his request. "May I come in? "

"It is your house," she said curtly, lifting her chin, her round jaw set. Not expecting any concessions, he entered the room and went across to her, setting the lamp down next to hers on a small table near the piano. She moved away but remained facing him.

"I heard you playing again."

"So it would appear."

"I am familiar with that tune."

"It is a popular tune."

"It was my mother's favourite," he found himself telling her. Immediately, her expression softened.

"It is a beautiful tune," she said, looking at her hands.

"Yes, I am very fond of it too. Mother and I often used to play it together." It felt funny saying it aloud, but not as painful as he expected.

Cassandra suddenly sat down on the piano stool and looked up at him. "That's why it upset you so much to find me in here the other afternoon, playing, or trying to play, that very tune."

He was momentarily stunned by her perception. He was slowly beginning to understand there was much more to his young wife than he had at first assumed.

He nodded. "Yes. I am sorry I rushed off like that without explaining why." He paused to gesture about the room with his hands. "You see, this room, all the instruments you see around us, belonged to her. Being here brings back painful memories. That is why I shut it up. It was a big shock to hear someone in here, playing the piano."

He paused again and gave her a lopsided smile, half afraid she would laugh at him for what he was about to say. "It sounds foolish, I know, but at first I thought it must be her ghost playing."

She did not laugh. She nodded. "That is quite understandable. I would have thought exactly the same, I'm sure."

"So, you do not think I am mad for thinking such a thing?" He thought so himself, so why should she not?

But she shook her head, the movement of her hair creating a dazzling nimbus of golden haze around her head as she did so.

"As I said, I would have thought the same thing. So, no, I do not think you mad for imagining that." There was a short silence where they simply looked at each other. Malcom was struck by the innocent sincerity in her eyes. There was no doubt she was being truthful.

She suddenly looked away, down at the keyboard. "At any rate, it is I who am sorry for causing you such pain. It was certainly not my intention. I did not know the history of the room. I hope you will forgive me for troubling you in that way. I was merely looking for a pianoforte. I needed music." Her voice was soft, like feathers brushing against his skin.

"I know. I understand. It doesn't matter now. You found it. The music, I mean. The piano." He gestured at the instrument. It glowed richly in the lamplight as though it were something dead coming back to life.

"Well, yes, I suppose you could say that," she replied, her expression a mixture of humor and regret. "Except, as you must be well aware by now, I do not play well enough to get it out. I know what notes I should be playing, but alas, I can never seem to get them to flow together as I know they should. Sadly, although I have a passion for music, I do not share my sister's talent at the piano forte."

Once again, her self-deprecating honesty impressed him. "That may be so, but it does not help that the instrument is badly out of tune. Apart from you, it has not been played in six years," he confessed, finding it surprisingly easy to talk to her about these things so long hidden.

"Is that so? That seems a terrible shame, for it is truly a beautiful specimen, one of the best I have ever seen. Maggie would love it." As she spoke, he saw her caress the piano gently with her fingertips, a look of awe on her face. It touched him deeply. It was plain to see her passion for music ran as deeply as his. A strange warm feeling pooled in his chest, in the area of his heart.

"Perhaps I can help you out. I can play a little," he offered, surprising himself. Her face lit up. She clasped her hands in front of her like an excited child. Her enthusiasm was endearing.

"Would you? Oh, that would be wonderful. I like to sing, you see, but I am not very good at accompanying myself, as you know." She gave a small laugh. The sound sent a tingle running up Malcom's spine like an arpeggio. "Would you really not mind?"

He looked at the piano, deciding to be honest with her since she was being so forthright with him. He flexed his hands .

"I have not sat on that stool for so long. Mother was the last to play, you see. That is why you found the sheet music for Fair Colleen in the rack. I did not have the heart to take it down. It has been there ever since . . ." He trailed off, a hint of the old grief returning. He tamped it down. He owed it to her to play for her. Besides, he wanted to hear that soaring voice again.

"Do not play if it is too painful. I could not ask that of you. I completely understand how you must feel about it. It is clear you loved your mother very much. She must have been a remarkable woman," Cassandra said softly, her eyes full of sympathy. "Love is not something that simply dies away. It continues on, even after we are gone. I am certain of it. I am sure I would be the same if I were you."

The lump in his throat made it hard for him to frame a response, and he had to swallow hard to eventually be able to say, "Thank you for trying to understand. Cassandra, I-I know I should have told you all this before, but I just find it too hard to talk about, with anybody, I mean. Even Terrence, who knows me best of all. It is not just you."

To his surprise, she got up from the stool and came over to him, placing her hand on his arm as she looked up at him. He noticed for the first time the flecks of gold in her irises. They glinted in the wavering lamplight like stars.

"It is quite all right. But let me say this; I believe that one way our lost loved ones can live on for us is in music. The music we shared with them can comfort as well as pain us, do you not think so?"

The lump in his throat swelled once more as grief threatened to overwhelm him. he clenched his fists, needing a few moments to steady himself and answer her question.

"That can be so, yes, I agree. But I also think it also depends on the circumstances of the loss." The truth of his guilt over the part he had played in his parents' terrible demise was on the tip of his tongue, threatening to pour out. But it was as though if he uttered them, they would burn him. So, with a supreme effort of will, he held them back.

Cassandra stared up at him a for a few moments as if she would see into his soul, her hand still on his arm, her warmth seeping through his thin shirt to his skin beneath and making it tingle.

Suddenly, she nodded. "You are right, of course. That must be so. I lack the experience not to concede. But I do believe what I said just then, about our lost loved ones living on in music. But I also wanted to comfort you by telling you that. Now I see that my words were perhaps inappropriate. For some reason, you blame yourself for the loss you have suffered. Please, do not play if you do not wish to."

Again, he was floored by her prescience, her honesty, her delicate sensibility. She had no idea of the dreadful truth about his parents' deaths, but she sensed his guilt and accepted it. He felt a little part of the weight he had been shouldering for so long lift from him.

"I will play for you, Cassandra. I want to," he said, going to sit on the stool and flexing his hands over the piano keyboard.

"Let us play something different to Fair Colleen ," she suggested. "It is too sad, I think. What about The Last Rose of Summer ? Do you know that one?"

In answer, he held her gaze as he placed his fingers on the keys and, without looking, played the simple melody, wincing slightly to hear how out of tune the instrument was. The vibrations under his hands felt so strange yet so familiar at the same time. They flowed through his fingers, his hands, and up his arms, infusing his whole body. The sensation was oddly rejuvenating. He felt as though he was back in a familiar place from which he had been absent for a long time and was very glad to be returning to. It was like coming home.

"Lord, it is out of tune," he murmured, a smile coming unbidden to his lips before he went on. "That was another of mother's and my favorites to play and sing together."

"You know it by heart, I see." She was smiling at him again, looking quietly amazed. For some unknown reason, his heart squeezed in his chest to see she was impressed.

"Yes, I know it by heart." He played the melody through again, more boldly this time, his fingers gliding over the keys as though he had played the tune only yesterday.

Cassandra gave a small gasp. "That is lovely. You play so well. All this time, and I never guessed! Why, you are even better than Maggie, I do believe. "

"That is a great compliment," he said, his smile growing.

"May I sing?" she asked, her cheeks glowing in the warm lamplight.

"I am here to accompany you, am I not?"

Her smile broadened as he watched, mesmerized, for it was like the sun coming over the horizon, signaling the start of a new day.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his fingers poised to play.

She nodded, still smiling as she clasped her hands before her chest and took a few deep breaths. "Yes."

Malcom played the lead in and looked up at Cassandra standing next to him just a few seconds before she was due to come in, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was encouragement as he hit the chord.

She opened her mouth and let out the clear, ringing tones of her voice, which glided above the tune he was playing in perfect time as she enunciated the lyrics of the sentimental ballad. Malcom soon became lost in the soaring beauty of the music they were creating together. He closed his eyes, feeling as though he were being transported back in time, to the last occasion when he had accompanied his mother, and her dulcet tones had transported him to a place of transcendent beauty.

He opened his eyes, and saw that Cassandra was also in a state of bliss, her eyes shining as they went on in complete synchronized harmony to the end of the song. They smiled at each other as the last reverberating notes finally died away.

"Oh, that was so wonderful!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands like a child at Christmastide. "Can we do another?"

"Why not? You have a lovely voice, Cassandra. It is a great pleasure to hear you sing," he told her sincerely. "It reminds me of Mother's."

"I take that as a great compliment, Malcom, thank you. I tried my best to do your playing justice."

They spent another half and hour working their way through a short catalog of similar, well-known ballads, some sad, some more lively and cheerful. By the time they had finished, Malcom found himself smiling, even laughing at times, his whole being buzzing with a peculiar energy. It took him a few moments to recognize it as happiness .

But as soon as he identified it, the doubts set in, and the old, familiar guilt began to seep back in like icicles piercing his heart.

I should not be doing this, I have no right to be feeling this way. This is an insult to Mother.

Overcome, he suddenly shut the lid of the piano. Cassandra's bright expression turned to one of dismay. That too pained him, but the grief and guilt was too strong and overpowered any urge he might have had to see her happy.

"It is getting late. I think it is time we retired," he said in a low voice, feeling himself frown. His heart clenched when Cassandra looked at him with obvious disappointment, and puzzlement, for a small frown formed between her arching brows. He hated himself for putting it there, but he could not seem to control the guilt that was gripping him.

Thankfully, Cassandra did not argue but only nodded and said in her soft voice, "Very well. If that is what you wish. I am very grateful for the time you have spent accompanying me. I enjoyed it very much. Goodnight. I hope you sleep well." Before Malcom could say or do anything, she fetched the lamp she had brought with her from the table, dropped him a small curtsey, and left the room.

Malcom remained at the piano for quite a while, leaning his head in his hands, once again awash with guilt. But now, it was joined by all sorts of strange, new, conflicting emotions he could not fathom. When the lamp burned low, he sighed and finally rose from the piano stool to fetch it. He paused to replace the dustsheet over the instrument and made his way out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

As he made his way back to the west wing, despair mingled with the storm of feelings already battling inside him, and he could not help wondering why he seemed incapable of stopping the past from dragging him back and preventing him from behaving properly towards his kind, beautiful, and talented wife. He could only hope she would be patient with him, and that he could conquer his demons before either Terrence or Madeleine arrived at his door.