Chapter 6
The next morning, Cassandra woke early. She had barely been able to sleep all night.
The moment the thin morning light began to seep through the crack in her bedroom’s curtains, she rose, washed her face with the cold water in the basin, and dressed quickly and quietly in a simple white muslin walking dress.
She could have called for a maid, she knew, but she didn’t want to wake the rest of the house.
Most of all, she didn’t want to wake her mother.
After the duke had informed them the previous night of the fact that her fiance had disappeared to the Continent, Lady Pembury had been apoplectic. She had wanted to talk to Cassandra about it late into the night, pacing around Cassandra’s bedroom and making angry threats to leave in the morning.
It had taken all of Cassandra’s energy to convince her mother to stay.
“We do not know that he will not return,” she had said, over and over again. “He has always been an adventurer. We knew that. We must wait and see what happens.”
It had been hard to squash her own doubts in order to reassure her mother, and now, in the light of day, they came roaring back.
She left the castle quietly, tiptoeing across the landing and down the wide stone staircase to the entrance hall.
Her footsteps echoed on the flagstones, no matter how lightly she stepped, but no one in the house seemed to be awake, and at last, she was able to slip out the front door and into the dawn.
The Highlands at this time of day were stunning. The sun was still low in the sky, its warm glow turning the hills golden. The heather seemed to blaze on the sides of the mountains, and the green had never looked more luscious and verdant.
“I could get used to living here,” she murmured to herself, as she walked out across the moat and toward the main path, which she thought led toward the village.
However, she did not go immediately there.
Cassandra had always been a great walker, and although she had now learned her lesson about swimming in the lochs, she had every intention of exploring the valleys and hills around the castle.
This might be her only chance, after all.
If Lord Christopher didn’t come back, she would have to return to England in shame, having been abandoned by her intended, and she might never get another opportunity to explore the landscape that unfurled itself to her like a painting that she had stepped inside of.
By the time she walked down into the village, an hour or two had passed. The sun was higher in the sky now, and it was warm enough that she was just thinking of removing her pelisse.
The village was already bustling. Women were sweeping outside their houses, or hanging laundry on lines, while carts rumbled down the dirt lanes, delivering goods to the little shops that lined the main street.
Main Street was cobbled, and bunting had been hung across the street from the rooftops.
She saw a butcher, a baker—already with a long line outside of it—and a cobbler, as well as a flower shop, a milliner, and even a dress shop.
At the end of the street was the square, where a market seemed to be in full swing.
Farmers had set up stalls and were selling fresh produce, several artisans were selling vases and bowls, and there even seemed to be a stall selling wooden toys for children.
Cassandra was just perusing some of these stalls when she heard her name being called, and she looked up to see Miss Lillian Ashworth coming toward her.
“Good morning, Lady Cassandra,” Miss Ashworth said, curtsying politely. “I was not sure that was you at first. You are up early!”
“I always rise early,” Cassandra said, smiling warmly at her. “I love to go for long walks while the world is still asleep and quiet.”
“That is very adventurous of you,” Miss Ashworth said, looking surprised. “And a good sign indeed. We Scottish women are hearty. I think that once you and Lord Christopher are married, you will find yourself very much at home here.”
The smile on Cassandra’s face faltered, and Miss Ashworth’s brow furrowed.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Did I say something amiss?”
“Oh, no, it is only…” Cassandra trailed off, unsure of how much she should say. Then again, Miss Ashworth was Annabelle’s nanny, and a close enough friend of the family that she dined with them. It was possible she already knew.
“Well, Lord Christopher… He has gone to the Continent,” she said at last. “The duke told us last night that he does not know where his brother is or when he will return.”
Miss Ashworth let out a long sigh and shook her head. “My goodness,” she murmured. “I was afraid it was something like that. We were all worried, you know, when he did not arrive at the castle when he was supposed to. But even I did not think him capable of something so foolish…”
The two women fell into step next to one another. They were about the same age, Cassandra noted, although perhaps Miss Ashworth was a few years her senior, and she had all the bearings of a noblewoman. She wondered, suddenly, how she had ended up working as a governess.
“Is Lord Christopher always so impulsive?” she asked.
“He was always the wild one of the two,” Miss Ashworth said.
“I grew up close by, and our fathers were friends until mine fell on hard times. One might say that Lord Christopher got all the charm and recklessness, the duke all the responsibility and caution. I think, sometimes, that if you were to combine them, you would make the perfect man.”
Cassandra nodded slowly. “Do you think Lord Christopher will return?” she asked. “Or do you think he intends to…”
“Abandon you?”
“Yes.”
“I do not know.” Miss Ashworth stopped and took her hand, squeezing it.
“But I know that if Lord Christopher does, the duke will make things right with you and your family. He will not allow scandal to touch you. He will ensure that his brother takes the blame. He is a good man like that, even if he is…”
“Even if he is what?” Cassandra pressed, when Miss Ashwroth trailed off.
Miss Ashworth smiled tightly. “Well, he is just distant, that is all. Ever since the death of his wife, he has seemed to build a wall around himself that no one can break down. Not even Alaric. Mr. Greybourne, I mean,” she added quickly, flushing slightly.
Cassandra said nothing, but she made note of this as she and Miss Ashworth kept walking. She had noticed the way the two of them had spoken to each other the previous night at dinner. Mr. Greybourne had been very attentive to Miss Ashworth, and she had blushed often when he spoke to her.
They continued walking together for another few moments, then Miss Ashworth stopped in front of a stall that was selling ribbons.
“These are beautiful,” she murmured, touching a purple ribbon. “Annabelle would love this. Violet is her favorite color. It reminds her of the heather on the mountains.”
Cassandra touched the ribbon as well, an idea occurring to her. “I shall buy her a length of it,” she said. “As a way of saying thank you for welcoming me into her home.”
“Oh, that is a lovely idea, Lady Cassandra!” Miss Ashworth cried. “She will love that!”
“You must call me Cassandra, please,” Cassandra said, and Lillian beamed at her.
“As long as you call me Lillian.”
Cassandra felt something warm settle in her chest. Were she and Lillian becoming friends?
It was such a lovely thought. In London, it had been so difficult to make friends.
All the young debutantes were competitive with one another, forced to be so by their mamas.
But as she bought the ribbon and had it wrapped in brown paper, Cassandra got the feeling that she and Lillian might just have a chance to become real friends.
Unless, of course, Lord Christopher never returned.
The two ladies were about halfway back to Calder Castle when a horse overtook them, and they looked up to see Mr. Greybourne atop a grey mare. When he saw them, he raised his hand in greeting, slowed the horse, and dismounted.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, bowing low, his eyes lingering longer on Lillian than on Cassandra. “Were you at the market this morning?”
“We were indeed,” Cassandra said, subtly positioning herself so that Mr. Greybourne was between her and Lillian.
“Lady Cassandra picked out some beautiful ribbon for Annabelle,” Lillian said, smiling shyly at Mr. Greybourne. “I think she will be very happy with the gift.”
“That is very thoughtful indeed, Lady Cassandra,” he said, nodding at Cassandra before turning back to Lillian.
“Oh, careful, Miss Ashworth,” he said quickly, putting out a hand to stop her as she made to step right into a muddy patch of road. “Here, allow me.”
Taking her arm, he helped her around the mud, and Cassandra saw her new friend’s cheeks flush with pleasure and embarrassment.
At the same time, Cassandra couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of envy and sadness in her chest.
Will Lord Christopher ever make me blush like that?
If he could not even be bothered to be here to greet her, she very much doubted it.
Back at the castle, Cassandra left Lillian and Mr. Greybourne to return to the house and decided to walk around the garden.
She knew her mother would be inside, and she did not want to see her yet.
She still had not managed to order her own thoughts about Lord Christopher’s disappearance, and she did not need to hear her mother wailing that they would all be ruined.
It is just I that will be ruined, she thought gloomily, as she walked along the cobbled path past the hedgerows and rose bushes, toward the trees that made up the orchard.
She had just rounded the corner by a marble statue of a satyr when she saw Annabelle up ahead, sitting in the grass beneath a lemon tree, arranging pebbles in a line.
Cassandra approached slowly, so as not to startle her. As she neared, Annabelle looked up. At once, her face broke into a wide smile.
“Good morning, Lady Cassandra,” she said. She had the most adorable Scottish accent that Cassandra had ever heard, and she felt her heart swell as she looked down at the child, whose dark hair was falling in curls around her shoulders.
“Good morning, Mistress Annabelle,” she said. She crouched down, so that she was eye-level with her. “Are you playing a game?”
“Oh, yes,” Annabelle said happily. “I am building a bridge for the frog prince and princess to cross.”
“Oh? And where exactly are the frog prince and princess?” Cassandra asked, looking around.
“In my head,” Annabelle said, giggling. “It is a make-believe game!”
Cassandra laughed. “Well, it sounds very fun. But it seems to me that the bridge should go over something. A river, perhaps?” And she pulled the ribbon from her reticule and laid it out on the grass.
Annabelle studied the ribbon. “It is beautiful,” she sighed, touching it softly with a finger. “But rivers are not purple!”
“That is why we are using our imagination,” Cassandra said, laughing as she touched the tip of the girl’s nose. “The ribbon you can keep. I got it for you in the village just now.”
Annabelle’s eyes went wide. “Truly?” she gasped.
“Truly,” Cassandra said, beaming.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Annabelle seized the ribbon and held it in her hand, running her fingers over it. “It is so soft and smooth! Can we show Papa?”
“Of course—” Cassandra began, but Annabelle was already standing and dragging her further along the path, shouting for her father, her excitement enthusiastic and enthralling.
Annabelle pulled her out of the garden, then around the side of the house to a stone terrace that descended from French windows. The duke was standing near the edge of the terrace in a state of undress that almost made Cassandra gasp.
He had removed his jacket and his cravat, leaving him in nothing but his linen shirtsleeves, which he had rolled up to his elbow.
She could see his tanned, strong forearms tensing as he helped to lift stones that had fallen from the terrace back into place, while a servant filled in the grout around the edges.
At the sound of his daughter’s cries, the duke turned, and Cassandra felt her mouth go dry.
His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing some of his chest, which was broad, bronzed and muscular.
She could see some dark hairs along his chest as well, glistening with sweat as he exerted himself in the hot sun, and she felt her cheeks heat at the sight of it.
Never before in her life had she seen a man like this. Certainly she had never seen so much of one before. Even worse, he was not the man she should be looking at.
That man was in Amsterdam.
“Y-your Grace,” she stammered, dropping into a curtsy and lowering her eyes so that she couldn’t continue to stare. “Please excuse the interruption, we did not realize you were—”
“It is no interruption,” the duke said, his voice rich and deep and smooth. “I am always happy to be interrupted by my daughter.”
“Look at what Lady Cassandra got me!” Annabelle said, holding out the ribbon to her father. “Is not it beautiful?”
The duke lowered his head to study the ribbon. After a long moment, he looked up at Cassandra.
“It is beautiful,” he murmured. “And you purchased it for Annabelle?”
“Well…” Cassandra hesitated. He was looking at her so intensely it made her feel exposed, almost naked. “Yes. I wanted to thank her for making me feel so welcome. She may be only a child, but she is still the lady of the house.”
“Did you hear that, Papa?” Annabelle crowed proudly. “I am the lady of the house!”
A smile flickered across the duke’s face, then it was gone, replaced by something harder. “So you are,” he murmured, his eyes still fixed on Cassandra. “So you are.”
His coldness lingered in her mind for hours after, even as she sat in the drawing room, listening to her mother fret and worry about Lord Christopher’s absence. She could not understand why, but the look seemed to have burned through her, and she felt shaken now. Dizzy. Not herself.
“We will have to return to London if Lord Christopher remains absent,” she vaguely heard her mother say, as she pretended to embroider the cushion in front of her. “Your father needed this alliance, and if you cannot marry Lord Christopher, you will have to marry someone else!”
Cassandra looked down at the cushion, barely seeing it. She did not want to return. That was the one thing she knew already. Despite everything, she felt happier here in two days than she had for years in London. She had a new friend in Lillian. A new niece in Annabelle. And in the duke…
Well, she did not yet know what he was to her.