Chapter 12
Twelve
“You seem in remarkably high spirits, Your Grace,” Mr. Pemberton said as he studied Cassian across the desk.
“Ought I not to be?” Cassian asked as he took a sip of brandy and smacked his lips. “Tonight is a night for high spirits, I think.”
Mr. Pemberton smiled. “I like seeing you this way. It reminds me of…” He trailed off and looked away as if he had said something that he should not.
“It reminds you of what?”
“Oh, nothing,” Mr. Pemberton sighed. “Just when you were a boy.”
“And when I was a man?” he pressed.
“Men are not boys,” Mr. Pemberton said carefully. “Boys have little to care about, but what they see before them—a man’s life—is weighted with responsibility. But losing your memory has freed you of this, and it warms my heart to see it.”
“Yes, well…” Cassian cleared his throat awkwardly. “I have every reason to feel this way. My muddled memory aside, I dare say that life is somewhat perfect as it is.”
“If you say so…”
Cassian’s spirits were piqued for good reason.
He had just seen Isolde to her chambers, following what was a perfect evening with the woman whom he loved.
That was what was so strange, as well as so right.
It was not that he was falling in love with her, as if they were in the early stages of courtship.
Rather, it was that he already loved her, just as he was sure that she loved him.
He knew so little about her. He could not even remember the day that they met. Yet, that love burned in his heart so hot that he worried it might explode.
Surely, that is proof of everything? I might not know much, but I know what that means.
Following their goodbye, Cassian had retired to his office for a glass of brandy before bed. He had run into Mr. Pemberton on the way and invited the steward to join him.
It was a friendly request, and one that he assumed Mr. Pemberton would expect. Only, the steward had seemed surprised, even concerned. It was almost as if such an invitation was not a normal thing…
“You do like Isolde, don’t you, Mr. Pemberton?” he asked across the table.
There was a glass of brandy in front of the steward, but he did not touch it. Nor did it look as if he meant to. “Does it matter what I think? You like her, Your Grace, and that is what matters.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is,” Mr. Pemberton said. “Albeit a cryptic one.”
“Very clever,” Cassian chuckled and had another sip of his drink. “I do like her, though. No… I love her. She is the only thing in the place that feels familiar. No offense,” he added with a grin.
“None taken.”
“I suspect that we will marry soon,” he continued, more to himself than to Mr. Pemberton. “She has not mentioned anything to that effect, but no doubt she expects it.” He eyed Mr. Pemberton, who started to look uncomfortable.
“I would not rush into these things,” Mr. Pemberton said vaguely. “Best to focus on your health first. And I am sure Miss Isolde would say the same.”
Mr. Pemberton was a perfect servant, or so Cassian assumed. He never argued with Cassian. He never told him no. And there was an air of familiarity between the two that was not dissimilar to how he felt when talking to Isolde.
However, Cassian was constantly taken by the sense that Mr. Pemberton, while always honest, was also holding things back from him.
But to what effect? And why? If he truly wants me to remember, should he not tell me everything he knows?
It was just so frustrating! Cassian sat in his office, a room in which he had no doubt spent hundreds of hours.
It was dark and cramped, stacked with books and papers and other trinkets that held no meaning.
Behind his desk hung a portrait of himself as a teenager, as well as a younger boy whom he knew to be his brother, Julian.
They smiled in that portrait, looking as happy as two men could be.
But when Cassian asked where Julian was, Mr. Pemberton became awkward, even afraid, as if the answer might undo Cassian completely.
He told Cassian that his brother had died when he had been nineteen, a horse-riding accident, and nobody’s fault at all.
But other than that, he refused to elaborate.
Secrets on secrets, the reasons for which I cannot fathom.
He looked around the office as he sipped his brandy. He tried to remember… anything at all… a fragment of a memory that proved he had been there before.
That was when he smelled it… or he thought that he did.
It was subtle, almost as if he imagined it, but Cassian could have sworn that he smelled cigar smoke in the air. He sniffed further, realizing that he had imagined the smell, even if it lingered in the air.
“What is it?” Mr. Pemberton asked him.
“That smell…” He sniffed again.
“What smell?”
“It is… I think I am imagining things. Only, I could have sworn I could smell cigars. Or rather, it is as if I should be able to.”
Mr. Pemberton’s eyes widened and he sat up. “Your Grace, that is wonderful!”
“I don’t see why it is. It seems to me that I am losing my mind.”
“No, that is not…” Mr. Pemberton shook his head. “You would often retire after supper to this office to have a cigar. Always around this time. And always with a glass of brandy.” He looked pointedly at the glass of brandy on the table.
“Oh.” For some reason, Cassian felt embarrassed. “That hardly means anything.”
“What else?” Mr. Pemberton pressed. “Is there anything else that you remember?”
Cassian clicked his tongue as he looked around the office. And for reasons he could not explain, his gaze drifted to the desk, and then the second draw. He stared at it, another niggling memory touching his mind.
“What?” Mr. Pemberton urged him.
“That drawer…” Slowly, his hand went for it. “I have no idea what is inside of it, but I know that if I try and open it, it will catch.” He took the drawer’s handle and lightly pulled it open. Indeed, it caught, and he had to force it all the way. “Huh.”
Mr. Pemberton could not have looked more pleased. “Your memories are returning. Just as Doctor Monroe said.”
“It is hardly cause for celebration,” Cassian muttered.
“It is a start,” Mr. Pemberton dismissed. “Piece by piece, you are returning to your old self.”
“And is that such a good thing?” Cassian said before he could stop himself.
“What do you mean?”
Cassian’s brow furrowed as he met Mr. Pemberton’s eyes across the desk. “I am not a fool, Mr. Pemberton. So please, do not treat me as one.”
“Your Grace, I would never.”
“Then why do you insist on pretending that the way I act, who I am, is the man who you claim to know. I have seen it with my own eyes, Mr. Pemberton. How the staff treat me… how they look at me. Even you, whenever I make a joke, you react as if it is the first one I have ever made.”
“Your Grace…” The steward shifted uncomfortably.
“What type of man was I, Mr. Pemberton? Truly. Was I a good master? Was I the type to inspire loyalty? Or was I a tyrant, one who the staff are right to fear?”
Mr. Pemberton did not answer immediately. And as he considered the question, he looked down at the desk, his mind turning behind his eyes. That alone was answer enough for Cassian, the very same answer that he feared knowing, while wanting to know at the same time.
“Your life was not easy, Your Grace,” he began, his voice soft and distant. “I know you see the wealth, how you live, and you might assume otherwise. But few had as difficult an upbringing as you did.”
“My father?”
“Remember, I have known you since you were a boy,” Mr. Pemberton said as he looked up. His eyes were sad but also determined. “I have seen you grow before my eyes, and I would not be here still if I did not think you were deserving of my loyalty.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Soon, you will come to realize the difficulties one faces when in your position. Choices that must be made. Decisions that must be forced on others, but always for the greater good.”
“Mr. Pemberton—”
“I cannot say what type of man you were,” he spoke over Cassian. “In my eyes, you have always been that same scared child whom I first met over twenty-five years ago…”
A smile touched his lips, but it was as sad as the look in his eyes.
“What I can say is that you have always done what you thought was right, and always what you must. Sometimes, those decisions were hard; often, they were not agreed upon by everyone, but I never doubted that your heart was in the right place. You are a good man, Your Grace. Know that to be true.”
Once again, Cassian was struck by the sense that Mr. Pemberton was not telling him everything. Although he did not doubt that Mr. Pemberton meant every word he said, he knew that much was being obfuscated and ignored.
Was I really such a tyrant that even my own steward is afraid to tell me the truth?
It was a startling revelation to have. It left Cassian feeling worse off than ever. And as he took another sip of brandy, as the lingering smell of cigar smoke drifted through his mind and his memories, he wondered once again if remembering his past and who he had been was a goal to strive for.
Or, maybe, if it would be better for everyone if his memories never came back.