Chapter Fifteen #2
“Don’t try to blame your father. He, at least, was all civility when he delivered your note.”
“My note,” he repeated.
“The letter you wrote explaining how, after realizing the shame you would bring to your name, you could not go through with our elopement.”
He stared at her in consternation. He’d never written any such words.
“You may stop glaring at me in an accusing fashion,” she continued. “Three generations of my family protected the wealth of yours. I had no reservations taking your money.”
My God.
All this time, she thought he’d cast her off, the same way he thought she’d cast him off.
His father had lied to her, and his father had lied to him.
His fine, upstanding, morally perfect father had lied in order to separate two people who were, at the time, sincerely attached to one another. And he’d done so simply to preserve his pride.
If he’d known about his father’s lie then, he would have moved heaven and earth to find Vivianne and go through with the elopement as planned.
“I suffered through one, terrible marriage”—she lifted her chin—“but I’m happy now. Happier than I ever could have been with you.”
Harbury steadied himself against the carriage while casting his gaze over his shoulder toward the Hall. He’d the mad desire to either laugh, or weep.
He turned back to Viv again, with an altered, sadder gaze.
But she was happy with Pennington. And he…
Well, he knew now the pain, the sadness, the desperate longing he’d felt had been not for her, but for something he’d known in his heart was possible—the joining of two bodies, two spirits, two souls into a single, stronger entity.
A marriage, as Cassie’s God Mama was fond of saying, of minds.
That kind of marriage, that kind of love, had quietly sidled into his life, sneaking beneath his defenses in the form of a lady with a wide-open heart and a feather-soft touch.
His father had lied to him and Viv both, ending what Harbury had then believed to be the only love he’d ever know. But in all those years that he’d protected and nurtured that flame, he had never, ever felt the pain he had earlier this morning when he’d thought Cassandra would leave him.
“We would not have suited,” he said.
“Likely not.” She sighed. Her gaze moved beyond his shoulder. “I did love this place, though.”
This place. Not him.
How telling.
*
Settle your little row.
The icy calm that had descended over Cassie when Vivianne said those snide words had not yet dissipated. Her body continued to function—she could blink her eyes, turn her head, and even, by deliberately placing one foot in the center of several succeeding risers, climb the stairs.
Her spirit, however, had become a separate being, floating somewhere behind her in murky, moon-shadow darkness, somewhere equally cold.
She’d told Harbury she would be here when he came back. She hadn’t, however, let him know she intended to leave in the morning. But as she’d exited the carriage, she’d made that inalterable decision.
If her wounds were to heal, she had to know what she truly wanted. And to know what she truly wanted she needed perspective, a vantage point to view her marriage. The latter was impossible when Harbury was close.
When he was close, her body anticipated his touch, her mind remained clouded, and her heart stayed vulnerable to his persuasion.
Ergo, she must seek refuge from Harbury’s influence.
Now, she’d only two questions to answer…where should she go?
And for how long should she stay away?
The answer to the first came readily enough.
Her twin, her other half, was the only one in the world who could stitch her flayed skin back to her body. However, Eliza was married to Harbury’s sworn brother, possibly posing a problem.
But the problem could not be helped.
If Adrian knew what was good for him—and he’d always struck her as a perceptive and intelligent man—he would not come between two sisters, let alone twins.
The second question, though, she could not yet answer.
Even if she could define what she wanted from him now, she did not have the means, let alone the will, to fight. She was exhausted.
She lifted the latch and pushed open the door to her chamber.
Mercy’s head popped up, suddenly alert. He threw back his head and let out a happy bark, then he ambled over to her feet with his sweet, fluffy ears flopping, punctuating his progression with a series of excited yips.
Despite herself, she smiled.
She scooped him up and buried her nose into his soft puppy fur. The dog licked her cheek and whimpered, struggling to see over her shoulder.
“He’s not coming,” she murmured consolingly.
Mercy whined.
“Don’t you defend him! I’m furious. And, besides, you always take his side, don’t you?”
Mercy ceased wiggling, then fixed his soulful puppy gaze on hers as if to say, “But we love him.”
“I know.” She grunted. “You’re thinking whatever he’s done is not his fault. You’re thinking he can’t help himself from falling into scrapes any more than you could resist destroying my favorite pair of slippers.”
Mercy dipped his head.
She hugged the dog close. “Still, he was a very bad boy, and he must suffer some consequences.”
Mercy let out another, mournful whine.
“Consequences,” she repeated. “You understand those, right?”
She was going to leave.
And she was going to stay away until either she felt strong enough to fight for him or he came to his senses and decided to fight for her.
If he came to his senses at all.
He could force her back, of course. Not only was the law on his side, but underneath her searing pain, her love for him persisted.
Stubbornly.
Irrationally.
As faithful as Mercy’s own adoration of the man.
“I belong in Bedlam,” she confided.
Mercy looked away, as if seriously considering whether or not he agreed.
Bedlam-worthy or not, she couldn’t accept either apology or explanation until she’d had time to heal. She needed to spend time with her sisters. With their love, she’d gather her wounded pieces and bind them back together.
She knew enough of wounds to expect, eventually, the bleeding would cease.
A knock sounded at the doorway to the corridor.
Mercy yowled in indignant protest.
“I know…how dare anyone interrupt our confidential tête-à-tête?” She placed him back on the bed before hesitantly opening the door.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pratt wrung her hands. “But the lad—”
“I will not have that woman in my house,” Cassie interrupted, surprised at her own vehemence.
“Of course not.” Mrs. Pratt drew back, affronted. “I already told Miss An—Lady Pennington, I mean—that if she insisted on waiting for you to return, she was welcome to wait outside in the comfort of her own carriage. Imagine!” She huffed. “Her coming right to the door, demanding to see His Grace.”
Cassie hadn’t expected Mrs. Pratt to express her loyalty with such fervor. She couldn’t help a deep exhale.
“Mind you,” Mrs. Pratt went on. “I understand she is worried. If I hadn’t been certain Your Graces would share her concern for Mr. Anderson, I would have told her to turn her carriage right around.
” She pulled herself up to her full height.
“I would not take the part of anyone with the effrontery to disturb you just weeks after you were wed.”
Well, well. She had made at least one true ally. “Thank you, Mrs. Pratt.”
“Only right,” the housekeeper quipped. “But I came to tell you about the other ladies at the door. Miss Clapham and Mrs. Townsend have requested an audience with you, and only you. I would have turned them away, too, but Mrs. Townsend said their visit has to do with Mr. Anderson.”
“Take me down.” She would hear the ladies first before deciding if she should interrupt Harbury. “But inform Mr. Marsden I’d like him to keep an eye on the duke. I don’t want Harbury running off in a mad search if one is not necessary. And stay close, if you will. I may need you.”
“I will,” Mrs. Pratt said. “I knew you’d know just how to handle things.”
She felt a sweeping sense of gratitude for her staff as Mrs. Pratt led her down the stairs. Mrs. Pratt’s loyalty touched Cassie more than she could say.
The housekeeper announced her entry.
“Mrs. Townsend,” she greeted. “Miss Clapham. So good of you to visit. Please have a seat.”
The ladies did as she bid, though they exchanged a nervous glance.
“You asked me to contact you,” Mrs. Townsend began. “If I noticed anything unusual, that is.”
“What’s happened?” Cassie inquired.
“This morning, Mr. Townsend and I were on our way to town when we spotted Mr. Anderson on the roadside. He was unshaven. Almost frantic. When my husband asked where he was going, he refused to answer. And when he tried to question him further, he ran away.”
“Oh!” Cassie exclaimed. “Oh, my.”
“We thought Anderson’s behavior strange, of course, but Mr. Townsend did not wish to become involved with something he did not consider to be his concern. ‘Like as not,’ he said, ‘he’s been at the punch.’”
She and Miss Clapham exchanged another glance.
“I held my peace, though I didn’t think him in his cups, if you’ll forgive the parlance. Taking a page from the old duke, Mr. Anderson rarely overindulges in spirits.”
“Then later this morning,” Miss Clapham continued the story, “when my father visited Rose Cottage, he found Mrs. Grant frantic. She said she hadn’t seen Mr. Anderson since yesterday, when he’d told her ‘the impostor must be stopped.’ This morning, she discovered the tinder box missing.
She claimed not to understand what Mr. Anderson had meant. ”
“Miss Clapham and I think we might, though,” Mrs. Townsend ventured.
“He thinks my husband is an imposter,” Cassie breathed, equal parts concerned and sad.
The two ladies nodded in unison.
“Toward the end of my aunt’s life,” Miss Clapham ventured, “she was absolutely convinced I was not myself. In fact, each time I visited, she told her maid to send me away thinking I was a stranger. I’m afraid Mr. Anderson suffers from a similar affliction.
Only his concern about an imposter makes me feel as if he may be dangerous. ”
Cassie’s heart further softened toward the man. “How horrible!”
No matter what her feelings toward Harbury and Vivianne, now was not the time to indulge them. Now was the time to act. And, to properly understand what she could do to help, she had to set aside her upset.
“He must be found,” she mused. “And quickly!”
“He has been,” Miss Clapham responded. “Soon after my father left Mrs. Grant, he came across Anderson in the church, talking to one of the monuments. I was in the back doing some dusting.”
“The most recent monument,” Mrs. Townsend added with a significant glance. “The one of the duke’s father. I went in after having heard the commotion from the street.”
“My father has been able to keep Mr. Anderson there at present, but Mr. Anderson is, well…not right.”
“I encouraged Miss Clapham to come to you.”
“Not to Mrs. Grant?”
“No matter what Mrs. Grant believes, we aren’t sure she has Mr. Anderson’s best interests in mind,” Miss Clapham explained.
“Or the duke’s,” Mrs. Townsend added.
“You see,” Miss Clapham continued, “he says he will burn down the church if my father does not produce the duke—the real duke. He has the tinderbox, but so far, my father has been able to keep him calm by telling him he must wait for word.”
A cold sense of premonition shivered over Cassie’s skin.
Not only was she concerned for Anderson, but also for the rector, as well as St. Margaret’s, a jewel at the very heart of the Harbury estate.
If she did not see this through in careful, deliberate, and precise steps, the day could end in an even greater disaster.
“I feel absolutely certain Mr. Anderson would listen to the old duke.” Mrs. Townsend sadly shook her head. “If he were here.”
She raised her gaze to the portrait of Harbury’s father—high cheekbones, cleft chin, large dark eyes. She’d never noticed the stunning resemblance.
“Perhaps there is a way he can be,” she said to the ladies.
She would need everyone’s help, including—much as she wished things were otherwise—Lady Pennington.
“Might you two be willing to sit with Lady Pennington? She is quite upset, as you might imagine.”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Townsend answered.
“Shouldn’t we be getting back to the church?” asked Miss Clapham.
“Yes,” Cassie agreed. “And you will, but not alone. My hope is that, after Lady Pennington has had a chance to calm herself, she will permit you to accompany her back to the church. I also intend to send our carriage, along with four footmen and, of course, the duke. If everything goes well, Mr. Anderson will have the direction he seeks, from the man he seeks.”
Mrs. Townsend and Miss Clapham exchanged a confused glance. Then, Mrs. Townsend shifted in her seat. Just as Cassie had, she studied the prior duke’s portrait.
“An inspired idea, Your Grace.”
All three ladies rose.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must make a few additional arrangements.”
She bid them farewell and went to find Mrs. Pratt.
Mrs. Townsend and Miss Clapham had come to her because she was duchess, because they knew she would do whatever she could to protect her own.
She was still furious with her husband, and equally exasperated by the things Lady Pennington had said, but she set aside her anger and disappointment—for now.
Something greater than her heart was at stake.