Yes, it would be that.
Cassandra imagined the outside world could not reach either of them here.
Once the train stopped and brakes hissed, he opened the door to their first class coach and stepped out onto the platform.
Wade offered his hand to her. By now, taking it had become almost second nature. She knew the warm fit of her fingers laced with his and the strong press of his palm as he assisted her from the railway carriage.
He liked holding her hand. Touching her. Making excuses to be near her. He was proud to have her on his arm—she did not bother to lower her veil now—and Cassandra was happy to walk with him across the scarred boards.
Warm sun and salty air stung her cheeks. She squinted. After a fortnight of rain, she’d almost forgotten what sunshine felt like. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to this new brightness.
There was little time to take in her surroundings, for Wade’s open barouche awaited on the dusty lane just beyond the station steps. Two immense black horses pawed the earth and jangled their traces. A liveried groom held their heads, soothing them, while a coachman stood at attention beside the open door of the black lacquered conveyance.
Both servants eyed Cassandra curiously.
Perhaps she ought to have pulled her veil down after all. She reached her free hand to tug at the soft black net, but Wadebridge was already one step ahead of her.
“Pasco.” He addressed the coachman. “Help Martin with Miss Staunton’s bags.”
The fellow leaped to do the duke’s bidding. The liveried groom returned his attention to the horses, and—as if by a wave of Wade’s hand—Cassandra’s curious appearance was forgotten.
“You’ll have no trouble from them,” he told her as he lifted her into the carriage. “Indeed, they shall look after you.”
She settled onto the leather squabs, which had been dyed a rich red-wine to match the servants’ maroon livery. She perched on the bench, admiring the upholstery, the gold braid accents and polished wood trim. It was far too elegant for the country, surely.
With a shift of the springs and a crack of the coachman’s whip, they left the station behind. Cassandra could not tear her eyes from the view below. The bustling riverside village teemed with moored boats, fisherfolk sorting their nets and hauling the day’s catch along the quay.
Gulls swooped down to torment them all, desperate for one dropped morsel. Some of the more daring seabirds had no qualms snatching pilchard from the baskets as the fishwives grumbled.
Along the street stood smoking huts, thatched-roof cottages, stores, stables, and one rather dubious looking public house.
Mr. Harris would’ve been offended if she’d called it an ‘inn’, as it was nothing so genteel as the White Lion.
“For such an out-of-the-way place,” she observed aloud, “the village is certainly bustling.”
Wade laughed. “It is busy enough, I grant you, and you’re welcome to explore it. I’ve credit with all the merchants, so anything your heart desires is but a train ride from Bodmin away.”
She might have new frocks and fine silk thread for her embroidery. She could order books—the latest novels!—and sample pasties on the street corner, and make friends with local people.
Cassandra could build a life here, where she might never be known as the ‘pretty, sickly girl’, and she could live with the man she loved.
They left the village and headed uphill. Wade’s barouche followed the riverside road, and Cassandra looked out across the glittering water. Boats bobbed and birds dove. Clouds drifted where the hazy blue water met the horizon.
“Is that the sea?” she asked.
“No, the river. The sea is just there, in the distance.” Wade pointed and she nearly fell from the bench trying to glimpse it. “For God’s sake, don’t strain your neck. You may view it at your leisure once you’re settled.”
Cassandra sat back, smiling. “What a notion! To see the sea whenever I wish, after a lifetime spent having never seen it at all…” She reached for his hand and pressed each leather-clad knuckle to her lips. “Thank you, Wade. Thank you for bringing me here.”
He smiled. Truly, he swelled with pride, and she could not miss the warmth in his cheeks. “Compose yourself, madam.” The duke gestured to something just beyond. “We are home.”
They’d reached an isolated headland, and the protective wrought-iron gate seemed out of place, as there were no houses or traffic for as far as the eye could see.
Indeed, Cassandra looked everywhere.
Pender Abbey stood on a high point, with the river to the east and the cliffs some distance to the west. There were no trees to block the estate’s unsurpassed views, and what it lacked in gardens and formal landscaping, it more than made up for in wild grasses, fuchsias, and vibrant purple heather.
The house itself was immense. As the carriage swayed along the drive, she could see that it was built of grey Cornish stone, with winking windows that welcomed the sun and enough chimneys to ensure a warm fire crackled in every room come winter.
