Chapter 1.16 #7
His emotion barely allowed him to speak; she remained still in his arms for a few moments, then her head fell on his shoulder and despair burst from her chest in the most heartbreaking weeping.
He had never before experienced such pain as he felt while holding her in his arms unable to do anything to share her grief.
If only he could take her burden upon himself.
After some minutes, her sobs stopped. She withdrew from him and resumed her place on the sofa. He rose with her but did not sit near her, allowing her the separation she wanted.
“The doctor told me I might not be able to have children again, and at that moment, I gave it little consideration. I no longer wanted to live…so what would I care whether I could have children again? And then one day Darcy arrived. Later I found out that three weeks had passed since my husband died—only three weeks, and I was certain it was a lifetime.” She stopped and looked at David, smiling painfully.
“I recovered because of Darcy; he was such a tiresome burden and such a wonderful, annoying brother! He stayed with me more than a month. He tried to discover what happened but found no real clues; we had no proof that Thomas ever met Lord Markham. He and his friends had left Rome some time earlier, and Darcy could not find them; I was so happy for that, as I was afraid something would happen to him too. A year later, I left Italy and spent another two-and-a-half years travelling—that is all. That is my life.”
“The elder Markham son died two years ago,” said the colonel. “There were rumours that his death was a horrible one and he had lost his mind near the end.”
“Yes, I have been told that, but I cared little about it. His death was no comfort to me.”
“How is it nobody knew—about your marriage, I mean… ?”
“Who would care to know? My life is of little interest to anyone except Darcy and Georgiana…and you; I shall not deny that, which is why I decided to tell you everything. I hope now you can understand my reasons for refusing your proposal. I shall never open my heart again; my heart is stone, and so it will remain.”
Suddenly, he rose to his feet. She followed him with her still tearful eyes.
“Cassandra, I am deeply grateful to you for sharing this story with me and for being so considerate of my feelings. I cannot tell you how angry I am with myself for my unfair reaction earlier in your room. I did not—
“No, no, please do not blame yourself. How could you have known? I hope we will be able to forget everything and be friends again someday.”
He continued, pacing the room in torment.
“You talked about your fault and your husband’s fault, but I can see neither.
All I can see is the unfortunate story of a most worthy and honourable gentleman who, in an attempt to protect the honour of the woman he loved, was defeated by a cowardly rogue.
He did nothing any man of honour would not have done. ”
“I shall not have this conversation with you, Colonel,” she said coldly as she prepared to leave the room.
“I can well imagine you see no fault in a man breaking the promise he made to his wife to satisfy the demands of honour; I am sure you would have done the same. You declared as much last evening in the library when we talked about Markham. You would have been very pleased to see Darcy confront him and expose his life only because the rule of honour demands it!”
“A gentleman must defend his honour and the honour of those for whom he cares; that is how things are, Cassandra, whether you like it or not. I will always protect you and Georgiana; you must know that. I will always do what is right for you, and so will Darcy with Miss Bennet. How is it possible you do not see the justice in such a gesture—you, of all people, who jeopardised your own reputation to save Miss Bennet’s? ”
She looked disconcerted for a moment. “That is utterly different; it cannot be compared.”
“It is absolutely the same; you bear no fault in what happened to your husband—you must see that—or in losing your child. But I am afraid you do not permit yourself to see the truth. You have become so accustomed to living with this burden—with this profound suffering—that it has become a part of you, and you cannot imagine your life without it. You cannot bear the idea of forgiving yourself and trying to be happy again.”
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner? You, who never knew what love was, who never cared for any woman more than a couple of nights? How dare you tell me what the truth is!”
“I love you. I have not known love before, but I do now so very painfully,” he whispered, and she ceased her angry tirade and turned to him in shock. “I shall be your friend if that is your desire, or I shall leave if you prefer, but I shall always love you.”
He stopped talking, and she seemed to stop breathing. Her beautiful green eyes appeared as lifeless as her pale face. In the silence of the room, he was certain he could hear their hearts beating as he waited for her reply.
An answer did not come—at least not the one David longed to hear. Cassandra’s trembling voice, so soft he could barely perceive it, whispered as her tentative steps directed her toward the door.
“You may do as you please, sir, and I shall do what I must.”