She nodded again. “There is a very great distance between leaving me to my own independence and subjugating me, Cassin. This was the vast territory I wished to explore.”
Cassin dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. She spoke of their potential future. A future for which he could promise exactly nothing.
Willow spoke again. “It is not my nature to leave something undefined; I’ve said this before. But that is the very essence of our relationship, isn’t it?Undefined. Not quite business, as I designed it, but also not intimate—not fully. You have shared your reasons for withholding anything more, even if I was forced to wait until we part ways to hear them. They are valid reasons, I grant you. We are at an impasse. I’m not sure what more can be said.”
If Cassin was meant to articulate this more-ness, he could not. She was five seconds from showing him the bloody door. He could sense it. He’d be forced from this heavenly room, from her bewitching presence, from the passion that had, just moments ago, blazed. Of course he could not speak. He could barely breathe.
She dropped the gloves into the trunk and walked to the door. “Good-bye, Cassin. And good luck. I will make some excuse to my mother and her guests about why you have gone.”
She stepped into the corridor and gestured that he should walk out. Her blue-green eyes were bright with unshed tears, but the set of her jaw left no question.
Cassin swallowed hard, rolled his shoulders, and left the room. “Good-bye, Willow,” he said, breathing in the scent of cinnamon.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
25 December 1830
No. 43 Wilton Crescent
Belgrave Square
London, England
Dear Cassin,
I write you on the evening of Christmas, sitting alone in the attic studio of my aunt’s home in Wilton Crescent. Just a few lines I hope, after which I’ll pen notes to my mother and brother.
Happy Christmas, my lord. Our hasty farewell has weighed heavily on my mind, but it has taken me these many weeks to muster the wherewithal to put pen to paper. What better time than Christmas?
I struggle to imagine Christmas morning on a tropical island, but with any luck you have arrived safely and are settled in. I hope you have managed to take a special meal and have a song or two to celebrate. This letter will not reach you until late January or possibly February, but please know even now that my thoughts were with you on Christmas, et cetera, et cetera.
After a day of window-rattling winds and intermittent sun, the night has gone cold and still. I can scarcely make out the trees and pathways of Belgrave Square. My aunt has arranged a workbench for me in their studio, and I drift to the window so frequently they tease me about laziness. They do not know the spectacular view of trees and parkland to which I was accustomed in Leland Park, nor how intrigued I am, even after weeks in London, at the rush of city life on the street below.
How correct you were to warn of the differences between country and city life. London is as different from Surrey as night is from day. But I am quite taken with the pace and crowds of it all, dazzled, you might say. From the crush of street stalls to the museum exhibits and theatres, I devour each new sight and experience.
Tessa and Mr. Chance are married now (more on that in the postscript), and his paddle steamer should be nearly to you. Now that I have both friends with me, exploring the city at my side, I can but marvel that my dream actually came true. Never fear about homesickness, there’s none of that here. Well, with the exception of dear Perry. I have suggested that she may eventually view the noise and the commotion as vital and progressive, but I cannot say that she values vitality or progress as I do. She is a country girl at heart. I would not say that I prefer the city to the country, but I do so relish the discovery of a way of life so different from what I have known.
And of course the access to craftsmen and artisans in London is far greater than ever I had dreamed. My aunt has included me in calls to what surely must be every workshop and studio in the city, and I am astounded at the variety and splendor of the fabrics and carpets, the art and stonework. And the international markets! Spilling over with furniture and decorative pieces from around the world. I feel we shall never see it all, and new ships arrive daily with more treasures. I can scarcely sleep at night for the colors and textures spinning in my head. I cannot take down notes or sketch quickly enough to record the onslaught of inspiration. Best of all, the new Belgravia homes in which we might place these treasures are blank canvases just waiting to be adorned.
But I will not bore you with my wide-eyed wonderment. London is all that I dreamed it would be and more, rest assured. I doubt I shall ever find the words to thank you for making it possible for me. (My mother has discovered my intention to live and work with her estranged sister, by the way. Her reaction was one letter, very nasty in tone, declaring that she would not visit. Precisely what I had expected, and so be it.)
But since I am speaking of letters, I should let you know that I have received a missive from your mother and sisters, as you suggested I might. I’ve taken you at your word that I may respond in kind, and we have begun a lively correspondence. Never fear; I go to great pains to be vague about our relationship and gloss over their requests that I might visit Yorkshire.
Your mother’s letters demonstrate her very great affection for you, Cassin. I was careless in this regard, I fear, but my eyes are opened now. Our convenient marriage was a betrayal, in a way, of a hopeful and loving family. Even now, their confusion and disappointment is so clear. It is but another reason you struggled with the decision. For this, I am sorry.
I can also add that, in the days and weeks since our wedding, I have come to regret the awkward and terse manner in which we parted ways. I could say more—my defenses and assumptions, et cetera, et cetera—but the truth is I evicted you from my bedroom . . . and when your intention had been only to review plans and logistical matters. Of course these were topics to which I had endeavored to restrict us all along. Here, too, I am sorry.
I hope you and Mr. Stoker have found the mining to be speedy and effective (and tolerable). Certainly I would welcome a letter from you, if you have the opportunity to write us. As for this letter, please forgive the length and, if it offends you—the personal tone. I am sentimental, perhaps, on this day. Happy Christmas, Cassin.
Sincerely,
Lady Willow Caulder, the Countess of Cassin
PS: By the time you read this, likely you will have learned of the circumstances of my friend Tessa St. Croix—now Tessa Chance. Yes, ’tis true; Tessa is expecting a child. I am not at leave to discuss the father of the baby, but you may be assured that he is no longer a consideration and has not been for many months. We do not expect to hear from him ever again, and good riddance. We will welcome a new baby here sometime in the month of May.
I find myself quite without words to explain or justify Tessa’s condition to you, and it is my great hope that you can view both her secret and Mr. Chance’s revised future with some measure of compassion.
Although loyalty to Tessa prevented me from discussing her condition with you at the time (Surrey, etc.), please believe me when I tell you that I was unaware that Tessa had not revealed her condition to Mr. Chance. Sabine and I were led to believe that he knew all along. Only after their wedding did Tessa tell us that she told him about the baby for the first time that very night.
