Chapter Nine

The first thing to hit her when she opened the connecting door was the musty smell, which she made a mental note to report to Hannah. She ventured farther into the main hall, which, she noticed, mirrored the layout of the west wing. To her right, an identical staircase swept upward to the floors above. It even had the same carpet as the other one. She glanced up at the landing, then quickly looked away, half expecting some apparition to emerge from the shadowy darkness beyond the bannisters.

In truth, the gloomy, silent atmosphere surrounding her gave the place an eerie, twilit air. Goosebumps broke out on her skin, making her shiver slightly. She rubbed her arms and looked about her. But it was so dim—the daylight was shut out by heavy drapes—it was hard to make out anything clearly, except blocky shapes that were obviously furniture swathed in dustsheets.

She was determined to throw some light on the mysterious place, for she was more wary of spiders than the supernatural and wanted to see if the empty rooms were infested with cobwebs, as Hannah feared. So, she crossed to the nearest window, her footsteps muffled by a thick area rug, and swept back the drapes. Light poured in, dazzling her, and clouds of dust erupted in a grey storm, filling her nose and setting her sneezing.

She dashed away from the worst of it, glad she had worn her old dress, and blew her nose on her handkerchief. After rubbing the dust from her eyes, she looked around. There were indeed several mighty webs up among the elaborate plaster cornicing, but no spiders were in sight.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she continued to explore. Even the paintings on the walls had been covered up, to protect them from the dust. Filled with curiosity, Cassandra peeked beneath one sheet and discovered a vast landscape in oils. Beneath another, she found an elegant, painted console table. Above it on the wall, when she lifted a corner of the sheet, was a splendid, gilded mirror, the twin of the one hanging in the hallway of the west wing.

"How strange," she muttered to herself as she went along. "If this house were a tree, it would be as though one huge branch has completely died off, while the rest of the tree continues to thrive." Her voice echoed eerily around her, raising the goosebumps once again. All the doors leading off the hall were closed. She hesitated to choose one, for she could not help wondering what lay behind them, hoping the spiders were not lying in wait for her.

"Oh, come on, you simpleton," she chided herself, "you are supposed to be exploring and looking for a music room. Get on with it!" Straightening her shoulders, she headed for the nearest door to her right, suspecting it would be the mirror image of the west wing's principal drawing room, in size and shape at least. She opened the door and looked inside. It was indeed a sad replica of the other, all evidence of its former luxury hidden away under the white dust sheets and resembling large, lumpy ghosts.

Over the next half an hour, she explored the airy salons on the first floor, but to her growing disappointment, none of them seemed to have anything to do with music. Eventually, she wandered into a huge and silent room that she realized with surprise was a ballroom.

This was an intriguing architectural departure from the west wing, and Cassandra debated opening the curtains to admire it properly. She decided against it, seeing how so much trouble someone had taken to protect everything from the ravages of sunlight, she thought better of it. But as she walked through it, she imagined all the parties and dancing, the music and lively chatter from the guests, which must once have filled the place.

So, once, there were happier times at Lindenhall …

She paused to take in the painted, moulded ceilings overhead. They were magnificent, depicting colourful scenes from myth and legend or religious tableaux fit to stir the soul. Left in this state, it seemed they were destined simply to rot away, their beauty lost forever. The idea made her feel sad and even a little angry, for it felt like a crime.

Why, she wondered, has Malcom eschewed all this magnificence in exchange for hiding in his study for half his life, cutting himself off from the outside world, becoming a confirmed recluse? It more than piqued her curiosity. Was it because of some tragedy, perhaps? A lost love? A bitter betrayal? Or revenge?

Her speculations ran wild as she walked slowly through the ballroom, which had a set of grand stairs leading up to a balustraded minstrel's gallery. Now long deserted, she imagined the musicians would once have sat up there and played for the numerous grand guests gathered below, with dancers filling the floor. She fancied she could almost hear the strains of lovely music even now.

Of course, that was pure imagination, she knew. And beautiful though the room was, there was still no pianoforte nor any sign of anything musical. So, amid the hushed silence, she continued exploring. The ballroom turned into a series of large salons made for entertaining, but none held what she sought.

By the time she came to another closed door off the last reception room, she was having trouble keeping her hopes alive. Please, let this be the one!

Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and pushed open the door. She peeped inside, and her heart leaped with joy. Despite everything being shrouded in semi-darkness and dust sheets, she knew immediately she had found it: the music room.

She rushed over to the windows and eagerly pulled the drapes aside, letting in the sunlight. Dust motes filled the air and tickled her nose. But she ignored all that and rushed over to the far corner, where the unmistakeable outlines of a piano forte were visible beneath its white swaddling. She tore the covering aside, and gasped aloud to see the beautiful instrument beneath, one of the finest she had ever seen. It was a deep, rich mahogany colour that still shone lustrously in the light. It was an instrument that Maggie would have loved to play, she had no doubt.

"I knew I would find you," she told it, stroking the silky wood with her fingertips, full of wonder. She pulled off the sheet entirely, to reveal it in all its gleaming glory. Then, unable to wait a moment longer, she sat down at the stool and opened the keyboard reverently. There was even some sheet music left in the rack. She imagined it was the last piece ever to be played upon the instrument. She looked at it more closely and recognized it as the old Irish ballad, Fair Colleen .

"I know that song!" she exclaimed excitedly into the silence. Well, she had sung it many times. In fact, it was quite a favourite with her when Maggie played for her. She doubted she could accompany herself to any great effect, but she was certainly going to try.

She tentatively played a few notes. The instrument had a mellow, rich tone, but it was only to be expected that the years of disuse had left it out of tune.

"Never mind. You will do until I can have you tuned," she told it, already regarding the piano as her saviour and friend. "I shall pluck up the courage to ask Malcom to organize that as soon as possible. If he will not speak to me, at least he can do that much for me, can he not?"

As she looked at the music and played the opening run of notes a little haltingly, she once more regretted her lack of skill. Nevertheless, having no alternative, she persevered, finally managing to wring a tune out of the thing.

"Granted, it is a little off key in parts, but good enough to accompany myself," she murmured, venturing to pick her way through the haunting melody that reflected the unhappiness of the said Fair Colleen after being torn from her true love and forcibly married to an old, cold-natured rich man.

***

Malcom had spent most of that day away from the house surveying the estate's tenant farms with his bailiff. The work had kept his mind busy, which largely meant free of thoughts of his domestic predicament. However, after leaving his horse at the stables, he could find no other excuse for staying away any longer, since the dinner hour was not far off. He began walking slowly back to the house, intent on avoiding his wife by entering through an obscure doorway and then hiding in his study until the meal was served at seven.

Rounding the rear of the property, he approached the back door adjacent to the unused east wing. As he stepped inside the small vestibule, he suddenly froze on the spot, and a shiver ran up his spine. He well knew the only pianoforte in the house was in the east wing, hidden away for years behind a closed door. Yet the distinct sounds of someone playing, or clumsily attempting to play, was unmistakeable.

The sound chilled his marrow, for it had a ghostly, uncanny quality to it that prompted his rational mind to briefly entertain the idea that the player was not of this world. Mother?

"Don't be such a blasted fool," he berated himself aloud, shrugging off the odd feeling by telling himself that someone of flesh and blood was trifling with him. His mood darkened at the idea some unknown person had dared to disobey his instructions never to venture into the wing. Annoyed at being forced to enter the place that held so many painful memories for him, he resolved to catch whoever was responsible and punish them accordingly. Squaring his shoulders, he moved silently into the main hallway of the supposedly deserted wing.

The halting music grew louder as he paused in the middle of the hallway, looking around him. He saw that the several doors leading off it, which had all been firmly shut on his last inspection, now stood wide open. His ire increasing with every stumbling, off-key note, he followed the sound, realizing it was as he suspected: Someone is in the music room!

The sound of playing increased in volume and speed if not skill as, silently, he went further down the long hall, towards the closed door concealing the music room. The place had, according to his decree, stood frozen in time for six long years. He reached it, wincing at the sounds coming from within. Who is in there?

Turning the knob soundlessly, he opened the door and pushed it open. Sunlight hit his eyes, blinding him a for a moment, while the horrible cacophony assaulted his ears as he peered inside. The sight that confronted him was so entirely unexpected and shocking, he froze on the spot, his hand still on the doorknob.

The drapes had been thrown open, and he could clearly make out Cassandra, clad in a simple blue gown, her hair wrapped up in a kerchief, sitting at the piano. She was oblivious to his presence, leaning forward with a look of concentration on her face, peering at a song sheet in the rack. As she tried to read the music, her fingers were at the keyboard, testing out notes and chords as she went along, apparently not caring that the instrument was wildly out of tune. Each note sent a shockwave through Malcom, belaying his instinctively angry reaction for the moment as he took in the tableau.

But it soon reinstated itself, and he was just about to enter the room and voice his disapproval when something astonishing happened: his wife suddenly opened her mouth and burst into song. A pure, sweet soprano cut through the stale air like a crystal knife and rang from the walls. Moreover, she was singing a ballad close to his heart, one he had himself sung many times, the beautiful and sad Irish air, Fair Colleen .

Transfixed in the doorway, a lump rose in Malcom's throat as he listened to his wife singing. What she lacked in talent as a piano player, he had to admit, she more than made up for with her beautiful voice. It was stunning. He had not heard such dulcet tones since his own beloved mother had filled that very room with her musical gifts so long ago.

He must have made a slight, involuntary movement, for there was a sudden loud creak from the floorboards. Cassandra stopped singing at once, the pure sound dying away mid-verse. He watched as her fingers paused on the keys as she glanced over her shoulder for the source of the sound.

Her eyes immediately found Malcom's, and their gazes locked. Hers were wide and full of surprise. He could only stare into them wordlessly, suddenly awash with the old pain of loss and guilt, the ache around the region of his heart so fresh, it robbed him of breath.

Unable to articulate a sound, unwilling to let her see him so affected, he could do nothing but turn on his heel and make off as quickly as possible down the shadowed corridor. He clenched his arm tightly across his chest in a vain attempt to suppress the swell of grief threatening to overwhelm him.

When he finally made it to his study, slamming the door behind him, he fell into an armchair in an agonized daze. Seeing his wife seated at the piano in the music room, singing so wondrously, had been just too much for him to bear. It had brought back vividly all the times when he and his mother had spent there once upon a time, seated side by side at the piano forte, making beautiful music together. And one of her favourite songs to sing while he accompanied on the pianoforte had been Fair Colleen.

***

"Did you find it, Your Grace?" Hannah asked that following morning, coming into Cassandra's chambers along with Anna to wish her a good morning. The maid brought a can of hot water for washing, while Hannah carried the tea tray.

"Mmm?" Cassandra replied, not long awake and sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes.

"The piano," the housekeeper supplied, placing the tea tray across her mistress's lap and pouring her a cup of tea.

"Thank you, Hannah. Oh, yes, I did. I found the music room actually. But it is all covered in dust sheets, and the piano is out of tune." It all came back to her in a flood, like a dream; Malcom staring in at her from the threshold of the room, his piercing eyes flashing a vivid blue in the encroaching sunlight, his expression a strange mixture of what she perceived as shock, then anger, and then . . . pain. Pain? Then, before either of them could say a word, he had left, seemingly in a hurry.

Perturbed, the pleasurable spell of her discovery rudely broken, Cassandra had frowned and declined to follow him. She would have no more pursued him and inquired about his peculiar reaction than she would a stranger in the street. Still, it had shaken her.

Hannah stood by the bed, her hands folded across her stomach, a look of curiosity on her plump, matronly features. Cassandra realized she was waiting for her to elaborate.

"I walked through the rooms, and I can report that all seemed in order, except for the large amount of dust, of course. But everything, even the paintings on the walls, have been covered up. I looked at some of the furniture while I was searching, and it seems to be in good condition."

"No mold?"

Cassandra shook her head, detecting a hint of disappointment in the housekeeper's tone.

"I'm afraid not. Did you know there is an entire ballroom there?"

"I did not, Your Grace," Hannah said with obvious surprise.

"A ballroom?" Anna put in over her shoulder from the wardrobe, where she was busy gathering the day's fresh linen for Cassandra. "All shut up, like that? What a shame. But I suppose His Grace is not fond of such things as balls and parties." She sounded disappointed as she turned back to her task.

"Indeed," Hannah said somewhat glumly. "The only guests who come to stay occasionally are Lady Madeleine and Lord Terrence. I mean, the Viscount Lavington. And then they only have a quiet dinner with His Grace. Oh, it would be lovely to have a party to cater for, with all the music and dancing and the ladies all in their lovely gowns."

"That would be exciting, Mrs. Brown," Anna burst out. "Just like living in London. It's very pretty country hereabouts, but it's so quiet. In London, there is always something interesting going on. I miss the excitement of dressing Lady Cass-I mean, Her Grace, for the Season.

"It was always such fun, going shopping for new gowns and the like," she added a little winsomely, laying the fresh linen on the end of the bed and going back to the wardrobe to select a dark-blue riding habit for Cassandra to wear on her morning ride.

Cassandra realized her maid was already missing the entertaining bustle of the capital, just as she was. She felt a wave of guilt; as the duchess and, supposedly, mistress of her household, was she not responsible for her servants' happiness? She was failing them!

But the thought of striking up a conversation with her husband to broach the topic of having guests to stay—she was thinking of Diana as well as her own family—was daunting. Especially as she was already digging deep inside herself to find the courage to ask him to have the music room restored and the piano tuned so she could make use of them.

What has happened to me? When did I become so fearful? Where has the bold intrepid woman I fancied myself to be gone?

A small voice in her head answered her: She is paying for her bold, intrepid ways by being incarcerated with a cold-hearted man in this mausoleum of a house for the rest of her life.

Well, are you simply going to lay down and die, or are you going to do something about it?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Hannah drew a little closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, "After our conversation about the east wing yesterday, Your Grace, I took the liberty of asking Mr. Carlton if he knows any more about it than what he initially told me."

Cassandra's ears perked up. "Oh? And did he say anything?" Anna, who was laying out the riding habit on the bed, also paused, her pretty face filled with curiosity .

"It seems the music room was the beloved sanctuary of the former Duchess," the housekeeper confided in hushed tones. "Apparently, she had a passion for music and was very accomplished on the pianoforte as well as the harp. She was supposed to have had a lovely voice too,"

"Is that so?" Cassandra exclaimed softly, her teacup pausing in midair on its way to her lips.

"It seems so. But since her tragic passing, the Master banned entry to all and closed off the east wing entirely. Apparently, according to Mr. Carlton, none have dared disturb the music room in six long years."

"Good Lord!" Cassandra breathed, remembering Malcom's strange, pained expression when he had caught her in the music room and then hurried away without a word. It hit her like a shower of cold water.

That was why he looked so upset! He found me in his mother's sanctuary, occupying her seat at the piano and singing, just as she probably used to do. It must have brought back a lot of memories for him. No wonder he looked so grief-stricken.

If he had been a warmer man who showed the slightest interest in her, she might have felt more sympathetic beyond the normal, polite amount one ought to feel for another's pain. She might have been driven to apologize.

But as things stood between them, this new, tantalizing information—indicating there was chink in Malcom's icy armor—coupled with her disappointment in her own cowardice, resulted in a resolution to tackle him on the matter of reinstating the music room and the piano for her use.