Catherine ran allthe way back to the main house. Once inside, she halted and put a hand against the wall while she caught her breath. She felt as though she was trapped in an outlandish dream. The passing of the years no longer meant anything. They had all been swept aside in minutes. Wounds that had taken so long to heal now lay open and bleeding. But beneath all the pain and heartache lay something more torturous. And that was the love that still flowed through her veins, as fierce and as pure as ever, desperate to be requited. She had a terrible need to run back to Lysander, to tell him she believed him and that all was forgiven. And that she had never stopped loving him, either. But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare.
“Catherine, what happened?”
Choking back a sob, Catherine glared at her brother. “You betrayed me, Henry, that’s what happened. Why would you do such a thing? You knew I didn’t want to see him, to face him.”
“I thought he deserved a chance.” Henry shrugged. “And I thought you did, too. I happen to believe the rumors, Cat. I’ve always suspected something untoward happened to him.”
“That he was given some kind of… of strange potion and then woke up beside Helena?” Catherine scoffed. “If that were truly the case, he would never have married her.”
“He had to marry her. He had no choice.”
“How can you—?”
“No, just let me finish.” Henry took her hand and pressed it between his. “Had he refused to marry Helena after what occurred, would you have married him, under the circumstances?”
Catherine frowned. “Of course not.”
“No, of course not. And even if youhadagreed to it, Mama and Papa would never have allowed it. Lysander did the honorable thing, but I’ve never believed he did it willingly. I believe there was treachery involved. There had to be. In all the years I’ve known him, I have never seen him in his cups. Not once. He was always a man who could hold his drink. He was also a man who knew when he’d had enough. The idea of him being drunk and seducing Helena, without being aware of it, is bloody ridiculous, frankly.”
Catherine pressed her fingers to her temple. “But we’ll never know for sure, will we? And even if we did—ifIdid—I have no future with Lysander. It’s so different for men, Henry. He’s ten years older than I, yet he is still able to marry and have children, whereas I…” Tears stung her eyes. “Whereas I am bound to be a childless spinster. The choice was mine, of course, but there it is.”
Henry sighed. “You couldn’t at least give him the benefit of the doubt and become friends again?”
Catherine gasped. “I cannot believe you would even suggest such a thing. The answer is no, I could not, Henry. It would be too painful, a constant reminder of a wonderful dream that never came true.”
*
Two weeks later
Myddleton House,
Derbyshire
Catherine awoke todarkness, wondering if she’d imagined the sound of her name being called. It had been a woman’s voice, oddly familiar. She lay still, straining her ears, hearing nothing but the sound of her own breath and the lively tick of the carriage clock on her mantel. It must have been a dream, one that did not include Lysander for a change.
Of late, it was a rare night when he did not come to her in dreams and rouse her from sleep. Seeing him, being so close to him on New Year’s day, had awoken so many memories, so many feelings.
By all accounts, the man had retreated back to Malvern, reportedly refusing any and all attempts to entice him to subsequent social events. Catherine, in contrast, had only declined one invitation in the past fortnight, and that had simply been due to a matter of preference. Despite her current sorrow, she had no intention of spending the rest of her life hiding away. In another month, Henry and Frances were heading to London for the season, and she had accepted their invitation to go with them.
This time, Catherine thought, she might even consider pursuing a courtship. She was well past what would be considered marriageable age, of course, and she was under no illusion about finding love. But perhaps an unattached older gentleman might take interest in her, someone who wanted nothing more than companionship from a marriage.
The mere concept of such an arrangement made her feel slightly desolate, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps because she had experienced love, felt the power of it, the immortality of it. And now she was considering a life where the absence of love would be acceptable. Was that wrong? It had to be wrong.
From downstairs, she heard the hall clock strike three. Such a lonely and depressing hour. Maybe, after all, she was simply tired and overwrought, in need of a distraction. Something sweet, perhaps. She threw off the bedcovers, shivering as she donned slippers and dressing-gown. Then, lighting her lantern, she padded downstairs and headed for the kitchens, intent on raiding the larder.
To her surprise, it seemed that someone was still up. The small stove had been lit, and the tea kettle upon it was already blowing steam from its curved spout. On a nearby table, a lantern flickered, and a tea-tray had been set for two.
Puzzled, Catherine glanced around, seeing no one. Yet a prickle ran up her spine as she squinted into the darker corners of the vast kitchen. “Is someone here?” she called, softly.
In response, a dark figure stepped silently out of the shadows, and Catherine parted with a soft cry of alarm.
“Do not be afraid,” a voice said. “There is nothing to fear.”
A woman’s voice that sounded oddly familiar. It was accented and carried the timeworn timbre of old age. A memory stirred in Catherine’s brain, unclear and unsettling.
“Who are you?” She raised her lantern. “Show yourself.”
The woman moved into the candlelight, her ancient face wizened with time, her once-black hair now stark-white beneath the burgundy silkpalludraped over her head. Catherine gasped. “Anjali?”
