Her whole being, minus her head, wailed at the idea. She needed sleep. She needed oblivion.
‘Umm. Bed. I’ll be gone early in the morning. School trip to Canterbury. Night, night.’
George wasn’t listening to Michael, although it was evident that he was furious and he’d been vaguely aware of him on the phone to Porsche. He’d attempted an escape, bypassing the limo, but Michael caught up with him just before his taxi pulled away.
George was reflecting. He had done what needed to be done. He’d said his piece. And he prayed it had more of an impact than his countless phone messages and fruitless ringing of Susie’s door buzzer. He had never felt more helpless than during this past week. Neither had he ever wanted anyone or anything more. But he was frustrated at every step. It was like repeatedly banging his head against a brick wall – hard, really hard – and not stopping until it was bloodied and … it was currently pulverised.
What if she didn’t respond? He let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t allow himself to contemplate that.
The taxi turned the corner onto his road. ‘Up by the black car,’ George directed the driver before they came to a stop.
‘See you tomorrow, Michael,’ he muttered, climbing out of the taxi.
‘Not so fast!’ Michael blocked the door George was slamming shut with his chunky leg and a grunt. He followed him out. ‘We’ve things to talk about.’
‘Not tonight. Tonight—’ George spotted Cassie rushing towards him.
‘Cas? What are you doing here?’
‘Come here big broth. I think you deserve a hug. I’ve brought some liquid refreshments and just wanted to … well, give you a hug!’
‘You can’t drink tonight, George. You’ve an early start in the morning.’
George grinned as Cassie broke away from the promised hug to give Michael her ‘you are a slug’ look. It really couldn’t be good to be on the receiving end of that. And it had the desired effect because Michael was now back in the taxi and closing the door.
George watched with relief as it pulled away. He started moving towards the house with the carrier bag Cassie had brought with her.
‘Cas?’ She wasn’t following, but standing motionless, staring after the taxi. ‘Cas?’
‘Sorry …’ she said, frowning and rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if she were cold. ‘It felt like someone walked over my grave. I’m …’ She shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’ She now turned to smile at him and started following.
George reached for her hand with his free one, stopping short as he felt bandages. ‘Oh God, Cas, what have you done?’
Cassie lay in her bed later that night. Well, the early hours actually. The clock was currently reading 3.17. She couldn’t sleep. Her mind refused to switch off. It seemed to be seeking some kind of answer through its frenetic activity. It wasn’t to do with work, she was sure of it. She’d nailed her latest piece on the arms trade. Rachael had been right. She was finding a place for the past and managing to get on with the present. More than managing. And the idea that George was on the cusp of happiness felt great. It went a long way to nullifying the guilt she couldn’t help but feel for Kathryn’s actions. It was Kathryn, not you, she urgently reminded herself.
Yes George and Susie had yet to get their act together, but they would, she was sure of it. It wasn’t Rachael’s talk of Soul Mates that told her that because she was still struggling with that one, or more specifically, the details of that one: love but with supernatural cherries on top? Rachael couldn’t even point to the source of her information. ‘I just know. Born with it. A gift. Call it what you want but I reckon we all know about them, but just aren’t listening.’ Cassie sighed. No, it was seeing George. He had it seriously bad. And according to Rachael, so did Susie. It was just a matter of time before they sorted themselves out.
So what was preventing her sleep? Not having the remotest idea what her mind was trying to piece together, Cassie rolled over and turned on the bedside lamp.
She reached over to retrieve a letter from the top of the bundle on her bedside table. It was one from Freddie.
Thursday morning
My dear Miss Marsh,
I beg you will read this letter and pray that the fact you were not walking upon your usual paths was as a consequence of the unseasonably wet and stormy weather and not because of any wish to avoid me.
No doubt you will have heard of my visit to The Grange on Tuesday last, made with the excuse of inviting your father to a shoot. Whilst hoping to encounter you at your home gave me temporary respite from the elements, I was disappointed. The only comfort I seek Miss Marsh (or may I be so bold as to call you Hannah?), is that of being in your presence.
It has been my desperate desire to speak with you, after what happened, but I now have no recourse but to resort to pen and paper. I am far from an accomplished letter writer, however, and would therefore urge you to make allowances for this. My no doubt rambling, possibly insensible and almost certainly indecipherable attempt follows.
I am sorry! I am sorry! I am sorry! Never before have words been used with such heartfelt sincerity or with such desperate need for forgiveness. I am speaking them aloud as I write them upon the page. I am furious with myself for having put you in such a position, more furious than any man can ever have been with himself nor ever will be.
I am at least able to provide you with some peace of mind by assuring you that your identity remains a secret. You have my word no scandal will befall you or your family.
I beg you will send me some indication of your forgiveness!
Yours, in hope,
Frederic Montague
‘Oh Freddie,’ Cassie murmured fondly, repositioning both herself and her pillows in order to sit up. With the benefit of Kathryn’s memories, she knew what he was referring to. Cassie giggled.
It had been at a private ball at the Fitzwilliams’s. They held one every summer, although none before or after could have lived up to that one of 1826.
After the first several hours of dancing in hot, stifling conditions, the four hundred or so guests had answered the summons to the cooler gardens for a firework display in a near stampede. As that first firework whizzed and banged and then provided its dramatic flash … it hadn’t only been the sky that was lit up.
But also a seat amongst the shrubbery, housing a couple in a most compromising position.
Freddie and Hannah’s saving grace was the momentary nature of the illumination and they took full advantage of the restored cover of darkness. For with the next flash, only one person, Freddie, appeared upon the bench – much to the disappointment of the erstwhile gleeful audience. Indeed, a collective groan sounded.
But the speculation. Hannah had been obscured from view during the illumination, but illumination was what buzzing society desired. Wagers were even placed on the betting books of gentlemen’s clubs across London as to the identity of the mystery woman. But keeping a low profile, Freddie and Hannah managed to save her reputation. Not to say that, as time went by, people didn’t begin to put two and two together. But society couldn’t be sure, and by then Freddie had made his intentions abundantly clear.
And that had been the problem.
On that sobering note, Cassie continued reading the next letter.
Thursday afternoon
My dear Miss Marsh,
As I have had nothing by way of a reply to my letter to you of this morning, I am in despair. However, it occurred to me that perhaps you have not yet found the means of conveying a message to me. I therefore thought it best to write again to inform you that by the gate leading into the watercress meadows, there is a large oak tree. Whilst hoping to encounter you, I discovered a hole in the trunk some six hands up on the west side, hidden under vegetation growing from a knot above. If you were to be kind enough to write to me, the hole is larg
e enough to hold a letter and appeared dry, despite the then torrential rain. I will visit it daily, in the hope of a word from you. I pray you take pity upon me and leave me a letter!
I can only reiterate my apology. My conduct was wholly unpardonable and so much beneath that of a gentleman, I can no longer refer to myself as such. The faculty of rational thought deserted me the moment my eyes rested upon you again.
On seeing you so pale after your energetic dance with Mr Richard Barratt, a gentleman in possession of sense would have sought out your mother or the Misses Barratt. I, however, felt compelled to follow you into the gardens instead. I had to assure myself as to your well-being – and to be near you, if only for a brief moment.
I then compounded my faux-pas. On satisfying myself as to your health, I remained, taking un-gentlemanly advantage of your being alone. I did not grasp this, the most precious of opportunities, of conversing with you, as I should have done. Indeed, my head is beyond full, Miss Marsh – Hannah, of questions as to your likes, your dislikes, your dreams, your fears. Alas, they remained unsaid.
My only excuse being that, in that moment, holding you within my arms was as necessary to me as the air I breathe.
My regrets about what happened are merely with regard to the consequences my actions have had for you and of your possible opinion as to my character and intentions. Not of the moment itself. For it was the most precious of my now miserable existence. Out of your arms, I am the most wretched of creatures.
My dearest – and you have unquestionably rendered me yours – I am at your command. I fervently hope that you will not feel compelled upon any course of action as a result of my abominable failings. Your identity is safe. But should you so desire, I would most willingly call upon your father to ask for your hand in marriage.
I am aware enough of my failures to realise that you may wish never to set eyes on me again. Should that be the case, I concede you have every right to feel thus. But please do not think for a moment that I will resign myself to such a fate. For I intend to win you. You occupy my thoughts to the exclusion of all else, as well as all my dreams, as has been the case since that first encounter in church.
There I watched your every move, both your fond smiles and where necessary, frowns for your young brothers; the raised eyebrows for your father. Then there were the dancing eyes for the Misses Barratt – and their brother – and the well practised politeness for the Reverend.
The moment your eyes were raised to mine as I returned to you your shawl, I believe I became yours. You awakened within my being something so staggering in its intensity, it is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. To ignore it would, however, be to condemn myself to the most barren and desolate of existences. A hell not worth living.
Would that you felt just the tiniest degree of that which you inspire within me, I would cry from the rooftops, ‘I am the luckiest man alive for Hannah Marsh adores me!’
You have in your power my destruction or my salvation. I beg of you to look within yourself. If there is any return of sentiment, no matter how small, please grasp it!
For I am free to wed Hannah, would you but have me. I am aware that my name has been linked with that of Miss Prudence Argylle. Since we were babes in arms, our families have talked of a union in order to strengthen the two estates, but this has never been my intention. There are no feelings involved on my part and the lady in question is aware of my sentiments. I will ensure that my position is made publicly clear as well.
Before I send this via a trusted messenger, I would just like to add one thing – if you should hear of an unfortunate public altercation, know that it was but a result of my inability to have our moment together cheapened. Rest assured, your identity remains secure.
Yours, dearest Hannah, I am yours should you but have me.
Frederic (Freddie) Montague
Cassie smiled as she refolded the letter and placed it on the bedside table. God Freddie had it bad. Just like George! And an unfortunate altercation? Freddie basically called Lord Alistair Granger out in front of most of the Ton – society’s elite of the day – on overhearing his comments on the notorious indiscretion. If their relationship had not been strong and sense reached, Freddie would have found himself duelling one of his closest friends at dawn.
Cassie reached out for another letter. But stopped.
The next letter might … She wasn’t up to that tonight. She promptly switched off the light. But why was her head doing that damned nudging thing again?
Chapter Fourteen
‘Ronald,’ Susie groaned. She now addressed the child sat next to her at the front of the coach. ‘In the bucket, sweetheart. In. The. Bucket.’
She held the plastic wastepaper basket, lined with a carrier bag, in position and turned away as her own stomach heaved.
Ronald Wittering was child number five to succumb to travel sickness and the coach wasn’t currently the most pleasant place to be. They were out of buckets and baskets and there were three seats no longer fit for purpose. Fresh air was a long distant memory.
They were on the way to Canterbury, Susie counselled. This was not a literal journey to hell, but she didn’t see how it could get much worse than this. She’d have struggled with this coach journey at the best of times, but hadn’t slept a wink last night. And the past couple of weeks had been little better. Once upon a time she’d taken a good night’s sleep for granted.
Susie turned instinctively on hearing suspicious giggles from several rows back. ‘Joseph Robinson!’ The bloody child had his trousers down, evidently about to moon out of the window. He met her eyes. He instantaneously pulled up his trousers, spun himself back around in his seat, plonked himself down, fastened his seat belt, and now sat like a little angel.
Okaaaaaay. Her eyes were obviously reflecting her mood rather well.
Susie swallowed hard as her physical senses sent the most horrible, horrible scenario to her brain. There was a feeling of warmth on her hand and then that which now seeped through to her lap. She slowly turned back around. Yes. Ronald had missed the bucket!
Hearing a sympathetic sound to her left she met the eyes of a parent-helper across the aisle. That sympathetic look was going to be her undoing. Susie meekly smiled back. She couldn’t open the floodgates. Not here and now.
But she was so tired.
And her life no longer felt real. For the past eleven days it had been either – thinking of this journey it was particularly apt – hell or heaven. Extremes, with nothing halfway normal in-between.
And George Silbury was at its heart. A Hollywood film star: a man it should have been impossible to ever meet; a man whose appearance in 2D alone incited a reaction in her that had had her questioning her state of mind for a decade.
But George Silbury in the flesh …
Susie gulped and closed her eyes, urging her body to behave.
Rachael’s consulting room: hell. Her body, not suffering her head’s amnesia, strongly protested. It voted for heaven.
Discovering what she’d done in Rachael’s consulting room: hell.
Lunch with Peter: hell … except for that incredible tingling sensation. Susie snapped her eyes open. It had been him! George Silbury had been in that restaurant. It had been him making her all hot and needy. She groaned at the strength of her reaction to him while not even knowing he was in the room.
Coming face-to-face with George Silbury outside the restaurant. Her body all but purred at the recollection. But it had been so much more. The way he made her feel simply by looking at her with those eyes. And the touch of his hand on her elbow and then his arm around her waist. And his voice. And then he asked to take her home. And hadn’t he asked to see her? But then there was Porsche Sutter-Blythe. And that walk away. Heaven and hell. She dared her body to dispute that one.
Susie shifted in her seat to allow repositioning of the bucket
. Its weight was causing cramping in her hand. Holding it now with two, she found herself face-to-face with a green-looking Ronald Wittering. She closed her eyes.
Coming face-to-face with George Silbury on the dance floor: No! Had he seen that dance with Rob? She half choked. That was a terrible thought and one she refused to consider right now.
‘Miss Morris … You’re not going to…?’
She shook her head, her eyes still closed. ‘No Ronald. I’m not going to be sick on you.’
Finding herself in George Silbury’s arms when she’d ailed on the dance floor: heaven, but then hell when she’d come to her senses and stepped away.
Hearing George Silbury laugh: heaven.
Laughing with George Silbury: heaven.
Kissing and being kissed by George Silbury: heaven.
Touching and being touched by George Silbury: heaven.
That feeling that being with him was so right. That only with him could she be complete and truly alive. Heaven … but so nuts!
Surrendering to the moment in George Silbury’s arms: heaven, although it was hotter than hell.
Susie was now boiling hot. She didn’t have any arms free and couldn’t take any layers off. Why hadn’t she taken her coat off before she sat down? Then she remembered what was currently in her lap and was grateful for her long coat. She was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t. She blew through her lips in an attempt to cool her face and forehead.
She deliberately thought of what she knew would dampen her ardour: the newspaper article and thinking George had been in league with Porsche Sutter-Blythe. Worse than hell.
Telling Peter it was over: hell, although he hadn’t taken it too badly. It was her; she’d felt awful.
Romancing the Soul Page 13
