Chapter Eighteen

As before, as Malcom entered the east wing hallway, he could hear the familiar notes of The Last Rose of Summer being picked out on the keyboard. The memory of Cassandra singing it the night before sent a small jolt through him. The door to the music room was open this time, and Cassandra looked up at him when he hesitated in the doorway. She was wearing the same Chinese robe as before, her hair a bright halo.

"Hello," she said simply, seemingly unsurprised at seeing him there. She looked back at what she was doing, trying to read the music on the rack. The look of intense concentration he was coming to recognize was on her face. Once more, he could not help but find it endearing, and his pulse began to beat a little faster.

"Hello." He went over to the piano and set down his lamp next to hers on the table. "It's very late. I didn't expect you to be here."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Hmm," he murmured, knowing what she meant. His mind would not have entertained the idea of sleep either. "Shall I accompany you? Only if you would like, I mean. Perhaps you would rather be alone." Even though he had set out to find solace and some sort of guidance there by himself, he could not find it in him to resent her presence. On the contrary, in fact, now she was there.

"Only if you would like," she said, turning his own words back on him. She gazed up at him with uncertainty in her eyes. He knew she was searching his face to gauge his mood, as one looks at clouds gathering in the sky to see if a storm might be in the offing.

"I would be happy to," he answered, finding he meant it. He did not want her to be afraid of him.

"Very well, if you are sure." Gracefully, she moved away so he could sit at the instrument. He took his seat and flexed his hands over the keys, eager to play.

"What music would you like?" Cassandra asked. She was sorting through a pile of sheet music he realized she must have taken from the stool.

"You choose." He did not mind. She could have sung a laundry list, and he would have been enchanted.

"I should like to try this one. I believe it was originally a Russian a folk song, but someone has obligingly furnished lyrics in English."

"Ah, yes, that has a lovely melody, I seem to recall. Many of those old Russian folk tunes are very beautiful," Malcom said, looking at the music as she placed it in front of him, on top of the sheet for Fair Colleen, he noticed. He was touched that she had not removed it. "The tune is actually quite simple. I could teach you to play it if you would like," he said, looking up at her.

She gave a small smile and nodded. "I would like that. Thank you."

"But let's run through it first, since you picked it out to sing. Are you ready?"

She nodded again, her hands clasped at her chest once more. He began the introduction, and she came in in perfect time, her voice high and pure, floating above the melody. Goosebumps rose all over Malcom's body as the angelic tones washed over him thrillingly. Something shifted deep inside him, a stirring of something buried yet still not quite dead and eager to come out into the light again and live. In the battle going on inside him, it felt like Cassandra's voice had gained the ascendency over the guilt and self-recrimination that had almost consumed him.

He lost himself in the purity of her singing and the sad, lilting melody of the folk song. When the last note died away, deeply moved, he sat back and turned his head to smile at her. She was staring back at him, her eyes dark in the lamplight. There was a peculiar expression on her face. It struck him as a combination of fear and determination.

"What is it?" he asked, turning in his seat, concerned.

"Malcom?" she asked hesitantly, twisting her fingers before her as nervously as any schoolgirl.

"Yes?"

"Well," she began, her voice tremulous. "I was thinking that . . . since we seem to share a strong love for music, do you think . . . do you think that it would be possible to consider, I mean, would you consider, restoring the music room so that we could use it again?"

The last words came in a rush, and he could hear her sigh of relief once they were out. The request was not entirely unexpected. Even so, a wave of panic gripped Malcom as the demons from within rose up and battled to claw him back into lonely darkness. He breathed deeply to steady himself as he looked into Cassandra's eyes. In them, he recognized the same plea he had seen in his mother's eyes in his dream. He knew it was what his mother would have wanted.

"Yes," he said at last. "I think it would."

***

The following morning, the weather was fine, so Cassandra decided to take a stroll in the garden after her ride. The events of the night before were fresh in her mind, and she felt full of hope for the first time in weeks. She could hardly believe she had plucked up the courage to ask Malcom about restoring the music room—and he had agreed!

She wandered happily through the rose garden, absently singing an old country ballad to herself as she admired the lovely blooms. Everything around her seemed to have suddenly sprung into vivid colour now she knew she was to have music in her life once more, without having to hide it away. She was so engrossed in her joyful thoughts of the future, for several moments, she did not notice Malcom standing a little way ahead. When she finally did, she was surprised to see he was staring at her. She stopped singing immediately and smiled as she drew level with him. He looked so handsome in the morning sunshine, her heart skipped a beat.

"Good morning. Is it not a lovely day?" she asked.

"Good morning, Cassandra. It is indeed," he replied, returning her smile. "Shall we walk?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love to."

They fell into step beside each other. "I know that song you were just singing. My mother used to sing it to me each night at bedtime when I was young, to help me go to sleep," he told her.

"I hope I have not brought back bad memories for you again," Cassandra said a little warily, worried he might storm off again and all her hopes would be dashed.

"No. Only good ones," he told her. "I had forgotten it, in fact. It is nice to be reminded." They came to a small arbour in the rose garden, with a stone bench set within it.

"Then I am glad," Cassandra said, deeply touched to hear him make such a vulnerable admission. It spurred her to make him an offer. "Would you like me to sing the whole thing?"

He seemed surprised, but then he smiled and said, "That would be nice."

"Why don't you take a seat," she said, gesturing to the bench, and I will sing it for you?"

"All right." He sat down and watched as she took a few deep breaths to warm up.

Cassandra clasped her hands before her and closed her eyes. Then she sang the whole piece through from memory. When she had finished, she opened her eyes and looked at Malcom. She was momentarily taken aback to see his eyes shining with what she realized had to be unshed tears. He looked younger somehow, the lines of care gone from his face.

"Are you all right? I haven't upset you, have I?" Anxiously, she hurried to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He shook his head. "No, I am all right. It was just that it took me back in time, that is all. You may think me silly, but your voice reminds me of my mother's, and while you were singing so beautifully, it was almost as though I was a little boy again, and she was tucking me into bed."

Touched, Cassandra took her hand from his shoulder and sat down beside him.

"I am honoured to think that my modest talent may provide a bridge to connect you to your cherished memories of your mother," she replied, gazing into his eyes, which in the sunshine, appeared more vividly blue than she had ever seen them. The expression in them as he looked back at her, and the unusual softening of his features when he smiled kindled a flash of hope in her breast that such a simple thing as her voice might be the key to opening the heavily guarded heart of her husband.

They walked for a little while longer, the first walk they had ever taken together, talking of the garden and a little of music. Cassandra was feeling so much lighter of heart that when Malcom finally said he had to go to meet his bailiff on estate business, she had to hide her disappointment .

But it is progress. I must not get too excited and remember to take one step at a time.

Later that same afternoon, she was in the music room, sorting through the many sheets of music she had discovered there when she suddenly came across a composition that was not printed like the other but written by hand in pencil, with numerous scribblings out and reinsertions.

She examined it with interest. At the bottom was a date but no name. However, she could not help wondering if it was Malcom who had composed it. She did some simple maths and decided if it was, then he would have been aged about seventeen when he wrote it. Intrigued and excited by the find, she decided to take it with her to dinner that evening and ask him if he was indeed the composer. Perhaps, she thought, I can get him to play it for me.

So, at dinner, she mustered her courage once again and presented it to him.

"I found this in the music room, and I wondered if it is your composition," she said.

Malcom looked at it and seemed lost in thought for a few moments as he scanned the complicated notations.

"Yes, I believe it is," he replied. "I hardly remember writing it though."

"Would you play it for me?" she asked eagerly. To her delight, he nodded.

"I don't see why not. By the way, I have asked the piano tuner to call in the next few days, since we are overhauling the room. It will be nice to be able to play properly."

"Oh, that is splendid news. I cannot wait to hear it!"

After dinner was over, they went together to the music room, to find Hannah had already made considerable inroads into banishing the dustsheets and the accompanying dust. The newly revealed surfaces of the instruments shone, especially the piano, and the place smelled of lemon polish.

"Oh, I am so excited to hear your composition," she told Malcom as he sat at the piano. She placed the music on the rack in front of him and stood beside him, eagerly awaiting the music he had written himself to flow forth.

"Now then, let me see. I barely recall writing this," he admitted, testing out a few tentative chords. Then, he launched into the piece, his fingers expertly moving smoothly over the keys. Cassandra listened raptly, immediately caught up in the soulful melody emerging from beneath Malcom's hands. Despite the few technical flaws which she detected, and the out of tune instrument, the unpolished but sweet, swooping refrains of the sonata revealed to her a vision of the young Malcom, pouring out his secret yearnings onto the page and turning them into beautiful music.

In the days that followed, it seemed to Cassandra that, from that moment onwards, their relationship underwent a profound change. As the music room was brought back to life, and the piano was tuned for the first time in over six years, so their connection seemed to flourish daily. Instead of awkward silences and stilted conversation, dinner times were taken up by passionate discussions about music. And instead of immediately parting after the meal, they would repair together to the music room and play and sing duets at the pianoforte, singing and debating favourite songs and composers.

Thrillingly for Cassandra, under Malcom's patient and skilled tuition, her keyboard skills began to radically improve. She gained in confidence, and they were soon playing quite complicated duets together and singing along. Each day, she felt them drawing closer to each other, and she could not help feeling she was at last getting to know the man beneath the cold facade whom she had been married to for almost two months.

Then one evening, they were playing a duet, sitting side by side at the piano, when they both reached up at the same time to turn the page of the music. The shock that went through Cassandra as their fingers brushed together set her entire body tingling.

Of course, they snatched their hands back at once, but at that feather-light contact, the notes faltered, and their gazes locked. Feeling her cheeks flaring with heat, she saw Malcom was equally shocked, for his eyes were wide, and his cheekbones had turned pink. She could not help wondering if he had felt it too. Suddenly, she sensed a new tension that seemed to sizzle in the air between them, charging the air with an electric awareness that had not been there before.

Shaken to her core, knowing her cheeks must be crimson, she lowered her eyes. Malcom cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted in his seat, clearly feeling the same tension. The happy mood of just moments before departed, and she physically felt Malcom withdrawing into a brooding silence.

"It is late. I think I shall retire," he said after a few minutes, rising from the piano and making rapidly for the door. "Good night," he added as he left, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Good night," she called after him, feeling strangely bereft. She packed up and went to her chambers, hoping that he was not going to revert to his former cold ways and all the progress they had made would be lost.

***

She awoke the next morning after a restless night, feeling quite despondent as Anna helped her to prepare for her ride. She was, therefore, very surprised to find Malcom waiting for her in the hall when she went downstairs. She noticed he too was in riding gear. She was even more surprised when he gave her a lop-sided smile and spoke to her.

"Would you like some company on your ride this morning? I thought I could show you some of the estate you might not have seen. There are some lovely views," he said.

Taken aback but pleased by his change in mood, wanting to do nothing to spoil it, she instantly smiled back. "Thank you, I would love that."

On their way to the stables, Malcom said, "I have a couple of new horses to show you."

These turned out to be a magnificent stallion called Zeus and a beautiful chestnut Arabian mare called Sheba.

"They are very beautiful," Cassandra said, admiring the glossy, rippling flanks of the powerful beasts, who whinnied and snorted and stamped in their stalls.

"They are, but Sheba is a little wild. She has not been well broken, and so she's not suitable for riding just yet," Malcom told her, stroking Zeus's velvety muzzle. "We shan't be taking them out today."

"What a shame. I hope we can do so soon. It will be exhilarating to ride such a horse as Sheba. But today, I am happy to stick to reliable old Brownie," Cassandra replied with a laugh .

"And I shall be on my faithful Brave," Malcom said. "He knows his way around this place without my help. I think I could fall asleep on his back, and he would still bring me safely home."

Relieved that their former connection seemed to have been restored, Cassandra's despondency lifted as they set out at a walking pace, with Malcom leading the way out over the meadows, to explore the picturesque Lindenhall landscape in the bright morning sunshine. They spent several exhilarating hours exploring the rolling, flower-filled meadows and woodlands, and even rode around the lake which Cassandra had not yet seen. She realized the estate was much more extensive that she had initially thought, and it was all so much more enjoyable exploring it with Malcom to proudly show her all the best parts of his domain.