"I—I would be pleased to have you call upon me," she said as calmly as she could. "But not now .. . that is, in a few days. I shall not be home to callers in the next day or so. I have been so busy, you see, and have fallen behind on some of my duties." She hated to give such an excuse, although it was not a lie—she did need to see to some of her duties to her charities—but in truth she was a coward and did not want to face him. She looked down at her clasped hands on her lap. Oh, but she could not, could not speak to him just yet!
She could hear him taking in a deep breath before replying, "I see. Perhaps . . . perhaps in three days?"
"Yes . . . yes, that will do."
"I thank you. Your servant, Miss Hathaway." He sketched a bow and turned away.
Cassandra watched him leave, then caught her mother looking at her questioningly from across the room. She shook her head and then looked down at her lap again. Three days. She wondered what Lord Blytheland would say to her when they met again. Well, she would have enough time to compose herself and rehearse whatever words she might need to . . . what? She did not know. Her hands twisted together and a lump rose in her throat.
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece—she would have to stay another fifteen minutes before she could go home. And she wished desperately to go home. For right at this moment, there was nothing she wanted more than to fling herself upon her bed and cry and cry until she had no tears left.
* * * *
Psyche sat and stared dully out at the street in front of the house from her window. She shivered. She wished she could go home to the house in the country—there were many things to do there, not like London. Dull, boring London, with nothing to do and no . . . friends.
Even the scold she had received from her mother upon their return from Lord Blytheland's alfresco luncheon was better than this. She felt a little better about being punished, for she knew she deserved it for ruining things between Cassandra and Lord Blytheland. Well, the marquess still should not have acted so odiously, but he would not have if she had not misled him about Cassandra's charity.
A dull, empty ache pulsed inside of Psyche's chest, and she felt like crying again. It was not as if the scolding had helped her sister in any way. She hated how falsely cheerful Cassandra would become when in her, Psyche's, presence, and could see how her sister seemed so listless and sad when she thought no one was looking. Psyche had also heard some weeping in Cassandra's room next to hers . . . whatever Cassandra said, it looked very much as if she did love Lord Blytheland anyway. However bad one might argue with someone, it did not mean you hated them, after all.
Psyche sighed. And well did she know that! She wished desperately that she had not argued with Harry. It was awfully lonely without him, for he was always amusing to talk to, and always had a story to tell or would play a game of cards or chess with her. But now there was nothing to do, for she could hardly play chess with herself, and playing game after game of patience was becoming dreadfully boring.
She heard a door open and shut out in the hallway, and a rush of activity in the next room. Did Cassandra have a caller? Psyche gnawed at her lower lip and frowned. She was not allowed to see anyone who called upon them, and was more or less confined to her room for the next two weeks. But a certain rebelliousness rose in her. She had not totally been at fault for the argument between Lord Blytheland and Cassandra; it was Harry's fault, too, and the marquess's. So her confinement to her room was quite unjust. Really, it was only fair that she be allowed a little peek at who was calling at their house, and if she was careful, no one would be the wiser. Psyche quashed a little quiver of conscience. No, she had taken on punishment that should have been Harry's, too. She deserved to leave her room at least a little!
She waited until the voices from Cassandra's room were silent and the door opened and closed for a last time. She glanced at the ormolu clock upon the mantelpiece and waited for another five minutes. There. That should be enough time.
Carefully, Psyche opened the door to her room and looked around it out into the hallway. Nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief and tiptoed silently down the hall. The stairs went down to a small landing, and there she sat, peering between the balusters. She could hear someone pacing below . . . ah! It was Lord Blytheland. His head was bent, his hands clasped behind his back, but there was no other gentleman of their acquaintance who had such golden blond hair and impeccable clothes. He looked nervous, Psyche thought, as if he were trying to think of something to say. The door of the drawing room opened. He straightened, and his face became smooth, as if he had never paced or looked nervous at all. Psyche wondered how he could do that, for she was never able to control her features at all.
Perhaps it was something that came with age. The door closed behind him, then her mother came out, and Psyche shrank back behind the balusters again.
"I will give you fifteen minutes, my lord. That should be quite enough for anything you have to say to my daughter. I shall be in my sitting room across the hall, should either of you need me," Lady Hathaway said into the room, looking very stern, as if she would have liked to have confined Lord Blytheland to his room, too. She left the door ajar, then went across the hall to her room.
Psyche stared at the open door and fidgeted. Perhaps she would go down the stairs to listen at the door. She might as well go back to her room if she was going to let herself be bored by sitting on the landing and staring down at the hall, after all. There was a very large potted fern sitting upon a table just next to the door; if she was very careful, she could conceal herself there and listen.
She rose and tiptoed down the stairs. There was a slight space between the fern and the wall next to the drawing room door, enough for her to slip behind and curl up beneath the table. She made herself very still, and listened.
* * * *
Cassandra sat and folded her hands before her in her lap and was glad she could control their shaking. But her palms felt damp, and she took out her handkerchief and surreptitiously dried them. She did not look at Lord Blytheland, for she was afraid of what she would blurt at him if she did, especially since she had no idea what she would say to him. That was what had made her say indiscreet things, she found—not knowing what she'd say in any particular social situation. She had tried to think of potential events before she went anywhere so as to practice what she would say. It had worked well, too, for no one had walked off in an offended manner for a month now, and she had many gentlemen calling upon her the next day after dancing with her.
But for all that she had had three days in which to practice before Lord Blytheland would come calling, she could think of nothing except how she had felt in his arms, how she had kissed him as shamelessly as he had kissed her, his words to her in the maze and how she had hit him. How was one to practice proper responses to thoughts like those? And so here she was, wordless in front of him, twisting her handkerchief into knots, and feeling as if her stomach were twisting into a knot as well.
"Cassand—Miss Hathaway," Lord Blytheland said abruptly, making Cassandra start and stare at him. He had a tight look upon his face, his lips thin and frowning, his eyes tired and a little reddened, his face pale. Was he ill, perhaps? She hoped not. .. although why she should care when he had treated her so badly she did not know. She twisted her handkerchief tighter. She did care, and there was no deceiving herself about that, stupid as it was.
"Miss Hathaway," Lord Blytheland began again. "I. . . I have come to apologize." He began to pace the floor in front of her. "I should have come to town earlier, but was . . . indisposed." He grimaced, then smiled ruefully. "Frankly, I was afraid to show myself with a black eye."
"Oh!" Cassandra closed her mouth tightly to keep herself from saying more. She felt a pressure of words behind her lips, and heaven knew what she'd say if she opened them. Not now, she told herself. Not now. Listen and think first.
"I was a brute, I treated you badly," he said, his words coming quickly now. "There was little excuse for it except. . . excep
t I seemed to have gone a little mad. It is not something I have done before—well, I suppose anyone might say that." He raised his hand—a slight, beseeching gesture—then dropped it to his side. "But you may ask any of my friends—Lord Eldon, Mr. Rowland, Sir Ellery."
"I suppose your friends would speak well for you," Cassandra said carefully, trying to keep her voice neutral.
Anger flickered in his eyes, then faded to resignation. "I wish. . . I wish I knew what to say. I wish to be in your good graces again, so you will not think ill of me . . ."
Cassandra turned away, embarrassed, not really wishing to hear more, for it seemed to be more of the same thing he had been saying before. She had known people who disliked anyone to think ill of them, not because of any remorse, but out of pride, because they could not bear a tarnish on their public mask. It was beginning to seem Lord Blytheland was such a man. She had sensed the passion— no, anger—beneath the surface mask, and he had shown it, and now he wished to hide it, pretend that it would not happen again. But such anger often repeated its performance in one way or another. Did not Mrs. Wollstonecraft say it, also? And Cassandra did not want to see it again. Or be tempted to display your own temper in response, the nasty little voice said inside of her. She firmed her lips. Yes, or be tempted to display her own temper again.
"Please, Cassand—Miss Hathaway—please look at me."
Cassandra turned to him again, gazed into his eyes, and a sharp pain went through her heart. He had stopped before her, his eyes were full of despair, his face pale with strain.
"What I said before was true. I love you. I wish you to be my wife, not because of any scandal, but because I love you. I swear I'll never accuse you falsely of anything, as long as I live." He ran a shaking hand through his hair, messing it terribly, then began pacing again.
Her hand trembled as she pressed it to her lips. There were so many things she wished to say, all fighting for a place on her tongue, all full of conflicting feelings and desires. Anger, weeping, fear. And love? She thought so, but her emotions were so mixed and fiery, they boiled inside like a pot on a stove, and if she put her hand down from her mouth, she knew the feelings would spill forth, confused and heated. She had never felt so much before in her life and did not know what to think, what was right and proper. Nothing her father had taught her of various philosophies helped her, for they were full of theories and hypotheses, and none of them seemed to fit her situation now.
Lord Blytheland stopped again in front of her, gazing at her earnestly. "Please—deuce take it, I know I'm a fool for asking it, and I would not blame you if you never wish to see me again, but I must know. You said—" He hesitated, then rushed on. "You said you loved me, there in the maze. Do you still?"
Cassandra rose, stepped toward the window, and stared blindly out of it. What could she say? Her heart was too full, and she was afraid of what was in it.
"Please, Cassandra..
She turned swiftly around and faced him. "I don't know. I don't know!" She clasped her hands in front of her to still their shaking. "I did, before you—Before we—" Cassandra cleared her throat of the tears rising in it. "I have not been able to think clearly since then." She gave a hesitant laugh, a little bitter, a little sad. "I used to think I was very good at discerning what people were like after I observed them for a while. But you . . . well, I suppose I should not have been so sure of my abilities. And now I am afraid."
"Not of me—I swear—"
"I do not know how you will act in the future, Lord Blytheland," Cassandra said. "If I wed you, how do I know you will not act jealously again? It will be too late, after we are wed."
He gazed at her, frustrated. "How can I prove it to you, that I know I will not do it again?"
Cassandra shook her head. "I do not know how you may prove it. I do not even know what I think or feel." She turned from him, and went to the fireplace. She leaned her head upon the mantelpiece and stared into the fire.
"If I give you time, time to think about it—" Lord Blytheland said eagerly.
"Perhaps," Cassandra said dully. She suddenly felt tired, and her mind refused to work and moved sluggishly. "I think perhaps that would be the best thing, to give me time."
"I see." Lord Blytheland said only the two words, but they were heavy with despair and pain. Something inside Cassandra cracked and flowed hot inside her, and she pressed her hands to her eyes to push down the rising tears. "I am sorry. Perhaps it is best that I leave. You may assure your parents I will not annoy you again, if that is what you wish."
Cassandra could not respond; her whole body felt leaden with the weight of confusion and unshed tears. She almost told him, crazily, that her father had gone out of town, that she would be sure to tell her mother—irrelevant things, for the important ones would not come. She heard his steps, swift, away from her, and she turned at last. But it was too late—he had left, quietly, with no more words.
She stood, mute, staring at the door. Then it opened again, and her heart hammered in hope . . . but it was only her mother, who gazed long into her eyes. Lady Hathaway said nothing, but held out her arms.
With a low moan, Cassandra ran to her and when her mother held her and drew her to the sofa, she moaned again, deep, for the tears she had held back for so long would not come now.
"Hush, child, hush, hush," Lady Hathaway murmured, patting her back gently. "It will come about, you will see. Hush, love, you will see."
She said the words again and again, rhythmically, a soft lullaby like the ones she had sung when Cassandra was a little girl, and at last the tears came, hard and hot and more full of grief than she had ever had since a child. When she was a girl, she could hope. But being a grown woman was a different thing, and hope did not come so quickly, especially when her heart and mind had become that of a stranger's, no longer familiar or sure.
* * * *
Psyche crouched behind the potted fern, her fist pressed tightly to her mouth. Silent sobs shook her, for she had heard it all, the hopelessness and love in Lord Blytheland's voice and now Cassandra's weeping. She could not bear that they were so unhappy, and it had been her fault and Harry's. What was to be done now? Their hearts were broken, and it seemed nothing could be done to make it better again. Lord Blytheland was right—he had suffered a sort of madness, for Harry had shot many arrows into him, enough to make him act in a way he would never have acted otherwise. The marquess would not act so again, now that Harry had cured him of the arrows.
It seemed Lord Blytheland might go away, and she wished he would not. He must stay in London, for Cassandra did love him—why else would she cry when he left? He must not give up, he must not leave. Psyche was certain they were meant for each other—did not Harry say so? And he was usually right about that, however they might disagree about his arrows.
Psyche squeezed her eyes shut tighter, thinking of Harry. She did not want to cry loudly, as she wished to, for she knew Mama would hear. But she missed Harry so! If only he were here! She was sure that between them they could think of a way to help her sister and Lord Blytheland.
She took in a deep breath, wiped away the tears with the back of her hands, and hiccupped. She would not think of Harry. It would be best if she returned to her room before Mama came out of the drawing room again. Psyche was certain she had not seen her behind the fern, for it was a very large plant, with long leaves that trailed down to the floor.
The afternoon was turning into evening; Psyche could see the sky now dim through the open window of her bedroom. The tears welled up inside her again. She had left the window open, as she always did for Harry. But he was not here. She always hoped perhaps he would return, but he never did, and it was a whole month since he had left. Slowly, she went to the window and slowly closed it, dashing away a tear with her other hand. It was stupid to hope. She had sounded as though she didn't like him anymore when she had shouted at him, and who would want to be friends with a girl who did that?
Psyche crept into her bed and sat against the
pillows, hugging her knees. Her stomach grumbled, but she did not really feel hungry, and did not feel like going downstairs to have her dinner or her supper. Perhaps she would ask a maid to bring up something to drink, and then she would sleep. She was not feeling very well, at least not in her heart.
But she would not let herself despair. Cassandra and Lord Blytheland needed help, and even if Harry were not here, she would think of what to do herself. She sighed, feeling very tired, and closed her eyes and leaned against the pillows of her bed. She could do very well without Harry's help, she was certain. Perhaps she would go to Lord Blytheland and explain how Cassandra truly felt about him. Yes, she would go to him tomorrow—properly accompanied by a maid, for she knew Mama would not like it if she were unaccompanied—and tell him all about it. And if he was not convinced, she could find out where Lord Eldon lived, and make him talk to his friend. Psyche yawned and settled down into the pillows more deeply. Lord Eldon was a very nice man, and because he was Lord Blytheland's friend, he would want him to be happy, too. And then she would talk to Cassandra and tell her all about Harry's arrows, and how it was all a mistake . . . perhaps Harry would come back someday, and tell her . . . himself . . . .
The room was silent, and Psyche turned over to sleep on her side away from the window, as she always did. So she did not see the slight glow just outside, or hear the light tapping upon the window.
The glow hovered about the window, moving back and forth as if trying to see within the room. There was the light tapping upon the window again, but Psyche did not move. The glow stilled, then moved away slowly. For one moment, it seemed to hesitate.
Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) Page 18
