“Is it? Or is it the same instinct that made your brother throw himself in front of a carriage without thinking? Sometimes we just know.”
Catherine was quiet for a long moment, her fingers playing absently with the edge of the handkerchief, twisting the delicate fabric. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, marking the seconds of silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. “He plays for you?”
“No, not yet—but I think he might, one day.” Marianne could almost see it in her mind’s eye—Adrian at the pianoforte, his long fingers moving across the keys with a grace that belied their strength, his whole body yielding to the rhythm as though the music might quiet something restless within him.
“He stopped playing after the accident. Said music was for people who could still feel beauty.” Fresh tears spilled over Catherine’s cheeks, tracking silver paths down her pale skin. Her next words came out choked, heavy with five years of accumulated guilt. “I took that from him.”
“No.” Marianne’s voice was firm, brooking no argument. She reached across the table, her hand stopping just short of Catherine’s, giving her the choice of contact. “The accident took it. Guilt took it. His choice to isolate himself took it. You were seventeen years old, walking in a park. You bear no responsibility for what happened.”
“He does not see it that way.” The resignation in Catherine’s voice spoke of years of trying to convince herself of the same thing and failing.
“He does not see many things clearly when it comes to that day.”
Catherine studied Marianne’s face for something—understanding, perhaps, or judgment. “You know. About the carriage, the sacrifice.”
“Yes.”
“He told you?” The shock in Catherine’s voice was evident, her eyes widening with disbelief.
“Eventually.”
“He never tells anyone.” Catherine dabbed at her eyes again, the handkerchief now thoroughly damp. Her voice softened, threaded with wonder. “Perhaps you’re good for him after all.”
“I’m trying to be.” The simple honesty of the admission seemed to settle between them, fragile but true.
Catherine’s face crumpled once more, shame rising to colour her cheeks. “I’m sorry. For what I said earlier. I was just... seeing you both together, so comfortable, when he can scarcely endure to be in the same room with me...”
“Give him time. He’s learning to let people close again. But it isn’t easy for him.” Marianne’s tone was gentle but unflinching. Catherine needed truth, not platitude.
“It has been five years.” The words carried the weight of all those lost days, all those silences that had stretched into years.
“And you have been gone for most of them.” Marianne kept her voice soft but steady, watching as the truth landed. “You cannot expect to walk back in and have everything mended at once.”
“I suppose not.” Catherine rose slowly, smoothing her skirts with restless hands. “I should go and apologise.”
“No. Let him cool first. Adrian doesn’t manage emotion well when cornered. He needs time to think.”
Catherine paused, tilting her head in a gesture that so resembled her brother’s it startled Marianne. “You know him well—for so brief an acquaintance.”
“I’m learning.” Marianne stood too, the chair legs whispering against polished wood.
The morning light caught the gold of her wedding band, throwing a glint across the table.
“Catherine, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What really happened in India? He’s told me his version, but I should like to hear what you know, if you’re willing.”
Catherine’s expression darkened like storm clouds gathering over a clear sky, her whole body tensing. “I don’t know everything. He won’t speak of it. But I know he went there to die.”
“What?” The word escaped Marianne as barely more than a breath, shock coursing through her.
“Not immediately, perhaps. But he took every dangerous assignment, every suicidal mission. The East India Company used him as their weapon because he didn’t care if he survived.”
She met Marianne’s eyes, and the pain there was almost unbearable to witness. “There are rumours—dark ones. About things he did, people he killed. They say he became something monstrous there.”
“He’s not a monster.” The defence was immediate, instinctive, fierce.
