Chapter 22
Ewan had not been himself of late. Cassandra had noticed it in the last few days, a particular distractedness about him that she had never seen before. He had been distant ever since the return of his brother, but this was even worse.
He seemed to be neglecting his duties.
Usually, during the days, he was out in the fields or meeting with his steward. He was a buzz of activity. But in the past few days, she had noticed that he did not leave the house.
Several times she had walked into the parlor to find him lying with a cold compress on his forehead.
When she enquired after his health, he brushed her off.
And when she spoke briefly to the steward, he mentioned that the duke had not been out in the fields in several days, that the tenants were inquiring whether or not he was well.
These words were still ringing in her ears as she made her way down the corridor to Ewan’s study.
If he was ill, then he required a doctor.
But she would not allow him to neglect his duties and his farmers.
Ignoring her was one thing; but his estate, which he had poured his life and soul into, was quite another.
She knocked sharply but did not wait for an answer. Throwing open the door, she stepped inside.
The darkness immediately shocked her.
All the curtains had been drawn, even though it was the middle of the day, and the fire in the grate was the only light flickering through the room, illuminating Ewan faintly, who was sitting in his wingback leather armchair.
However, he was not bent over his ledgers or writing reports. Instead, he was leaning back, almost as if he were asleep, and another cold compress was pressed over his brow and eyes.
When she came in, he stirred, then removed the compress and squinted at her. Slowly, too slowly, he sat forward.
“Your Grace,” he murmured.
“You are unwell,” she said. “Do not try to deny it. Everyone in the household has noticed it. Even your tenant farmers are asking after your health. They have noted your absence in the fields and are worried. Everyone is worried.”
She gazed down at him. He was still looking up at her as if he had not heard her.
“I think we must call the doctor, Ewan,” she murmured. “I am very concerned.”
She had used his given name reflexively, but as she heard herself say it, she was glad she had.
She did not have to retreat behind walls, even if he had.
At last, something flickered in Ewan’s eyes, and he frowned at her, sitting back in his chair.
“I am not unwell,” he snapped. “I have simply been tired. And headaches have plagued me the past few days. But it is nothing. They will pass soon enough.”
Her own frown deepened. “Headaches? When did these start?”
“Just a few nights ago,” he said. “But they are nothing to worry about,” he added quickly, his voice becoming softer and more reassuring. “They are merely the result of my overindulgence. My brother can be… a bad influence.”
This made Cassandra pause. She had noticed that Christopher was in particularly good spirits these last few days, and he had been insisting that the duke drink with him more often than he had before.
It had made her uneasy, at dinner two nights ago, watching Christopher filling her husband’s glass again and again, although she could not say why with any certainty. It had seemed to her that Christopher was too determined. That he wanted his brother to drink too much, to fall into recklessness.
But Ewan had behaved with dignity. Although he had swayed slightly when he stood up, he had not embarrassed himself or behaved at all in the manner of a man who had imbibed to excess.
But Christopher had seemed almost disappointed.
“So that is all it is?” she asked carefully.
Ewan nodded. “I will not drink with him tonight,” he reassured her. “I know that I have been neglecting my duties, but I shall be back to myself by tomorrow.”
He raised his eyebrows, then gestured to the door, as if expecting her to leave now that she’d had her concerns dealt with.
But Cassandra did not move. She had certainly not had all her concerns dealt with.
“What is it?” he asked, when she continued to stare at him.
“You have been distant with me,” she blurted out.
Ewan stiffened at once, but Cassandra did not regret her boldness.
It was time that she said something. Time to end this charade.
“Ever since Christopher returned to Calder Castle, you have been ignoring me, barely looking at me, speaking to me as little as possible. It is as if you are punishing me for the crime of your brother surviving his shipwreck.”
Ewan’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, she thought he was going to yell at her.
But then he took a deep, steadying breath.
“I am not being distant,” he said, his voice like icicles.
She crossed her arms. “Yes, you have. You have been pushing me away. Do not insult my intelligence. I know that things have changed between us, and I am confused, Ewan. Confused and angry and disappointed. I thought that something was growing between us. Even if it was not the kind of affection that usually exists between husbands and wives, I thought at least it might be friendship. Companionship. Trust.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Was it regret?
She held her chin up high. “Did you not feel the same?”
Ewan’s jaw worked, and she held her breath, sure that he was about to rage at her and order her out of the study.
And then, at last, his shoulders slumped, and a look of such potent grief passed across his face that she was almost startled.
“I have never spoken this out loud,” he whispered. His voice was so low and gravelly that she had to step forward to hear it. Pain glistened in his eyes, which were locked on her. “But I think you must know it, if you are to understand what it is that plagues me.”
“You can tell me anything,” Cassandra said softly, and she slowly sank into the chair across from him, placing both her hands flat on the desk as if in surrender.
She watched as Ewan struggled to find the right words. His eyes were still on hers.
“My late wife, Margaret, was in love with Christopher,” he said at last.
The words filled the space between them. They were difficult for Cassandra to hear, difficult for her to understand. She did not move, frozen in place as he continued to speak.
“Christopher, of course, did not love her, but he did dally with her, making her believe that he might actually propose.
She fell madly in love with him. Everyone in the ton knew of her great passion for him.
But everyone also knew, of course, that he would not marry her.
He continued to flirt with other ladies, even flaunting his other courtships in front of Margaret.
“She was furious, but more than that, heartbroken, or so I believed. I felt for her, of course I did, and I offered her comfort. She soon became reliant on me, devoted to me, even, and convinced me to marry her. At the time, I was young and naive, foolish enough to believe that my comfort had made her fall in love with me. But once we were married, it soon became clear that the only reason Margaret had married me was out to avenge herself on Christopher.”
Cassandra’s mouth had fallen open in shock, and she quickly closed it. A million questions filled her head, but before she could ask any of them, Ewan was speaking again.
“She was humiliated by him, and heart hardened. I tried my best to show her that she was loved and cared for, that she was safe with me, but she would not open her heart to me, especially once she realized that her revenge was pointless. Christopher did not care that she had married me.”
“That is hard to believe,” Cassandra interrupted.
“It is true. He laughed at her when she tried to point out how she had humiliated him in turn by marrying his titled brother.”
Ewan let out a long sigh, “I was furious at him for his behavior, of course, but I also wanted her to let go of her anger and thirst for vengeance. We were married, and I thought we ought to make the best of the situation. And I cared for her, I really did, I even loved her…”
He trailed off, his gaze becoming unfocused as he stared over her shoulder, at the wall. Cassandra glanced over her shoulder as well. On the wall behind her was a small portrait of a woman she had never noticed before. A beautiful woman, with beautiful brown eyes.
The exact same eyes that Annabelle had.
A shiver passed over her, and she turned back to Ewan.
He looked at her, and she felt everything in her body constrict.
“I spent my marriage loving a woman who wished I was someone else,” he said.
“And I had to bury that humiliation deep. When she died, I had to add grief into the equation. It was almost a relief, to feel grief, rather than longing, because longing for someone who lives in the same house as you and does not want you is a particular kind of starvation. But then of course, the relief only led to more guilt.”
His eyes looked momentarily glassy, but he did not cry. Instead, his face seemed to become even harder, his body as rigid as a board.
“That is why I refuse to do it again,” he said.
“If you are in love with Christopher, if you would prefer to be married to him, then I would rather let you go than experience again the pain of living with a woman who prefers my brother. I cannot put myself in that position again, especially not with you”
Cassandra suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Her chest was pounding, her whole body hot.
“The idea that you might look at Christopher and see the man you actually want is something I cannot survive. I cannot, Cassandra.”
His voice broke on the last word, her name, and he finally looked down.
For several heart-stopping seconds, neither of them moved.
And then she reached across the desk and took his hand.
The rawness and vulnerability of his words were making her feel things that she had never felt before, like her whole body could have floated up out of her chair, like her heart was moving faster than a speeding marriage, like every inch of her yearned to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin, the roughness that told her he was a man who was not afraid of hard work.
And as his hand slipped over hers, she felt a tremor go through her. His hand was calloused and warm, so big and tanned next to her small, pale one. She stared at where her hand nestled in his palm. Her heart was in her throat. She did not dare look up.
And then, after what seemed like an eternity, his hand responded, cradling hers gently, and squeezing it with the lightest touch.
She looked up.
His eyes were fixed on hers.
She opened her mouth to speak—to say what, she did not know. That she was sorry for what had happened to him? That she would never look at Christopher and see the man she wanted? That he, Ewan, was the man she yearned for?
And then she heard her name being called.
“Cassandra, where have you gotten to? Ewan, are you coming to luncheon?”
It was Christopher’s voice, cutting through the moment, shattering the fragile peace that had momentarily connected them.
Ewan released her hand at once, sitting back just in time. The door to the study was thrown open, and Christopher entered. His eyes swept between the two of them, then narrowed slightly.
“Luncheon has been served on the terrace,” he said, the smallest of whines in his voice. “You should both come at once.”
It was with shaking legs that Cassandra stood up, and all throughout the luncheon, she could not focus. Though her lack of conversation went unnoticed.
Lillian was also quiet, and Alaric was not eating much, his eyes fixed on Christopher.
Ewan did not seem able to concentrate, either. She thought that he was also distracted by memories of their encounter in the study. But then he became dizzy and had to excuse himself, complaining of a headache.
Cassandra could not help but worry that, perhaps, their conversation had not meant quite as much to her husband as it did to her.
***
Later that evening, Cassandra went to check on Annabelle, as much to see her as to distract herself from the constant thoughts of Ewan.
She found the girl in her bed, clutching her blanket to her, large tears rolling down her cheeks.
“My darling!” she cried at once, rushing across the room to Annabelle and throwing her arms around her. “Whatever is the matter?”
“It is P-Papa,” the girl sobbed, burying her face in Cassandra’s shoulder. “He looked so ill at luncheon today, and then he did not even come to dinner!”
Cassandra’s throat tightened as she patted Annabelle’s back. She had also been worried when Ewan had not appeared for dinner.
Could it really just be overindulgence? He only had one glass of wine with luncheon.
Christopher had insisted. But one glass of wine was not enough to give a man a headache and to send him to his bed for dinner.
“I have a bad feeling,” Annabelle whimpered. “You and Papa say nothing will change, but it already is.”
“Life is full of change,” Cassandra murmured. “But there is no reason to fear. Nothing will change for the worse.”