He groaned again.
‘I told you it wasn’t really the time, but it’s nice to have her off my case for the foreseeable future. If you want to get your own back on Porsche by the way, you might consider introducing her to Mum. I never knew Mum’s vocabulary included such words. I was rather proud of her. Oh! Greg and Mark called to offer you their support, too. They’ve aborted trying to contact you directly. I won’t tell you the rest of what they said. But clearly our brothers would have made damned fine sub-editors! I obviously gave them the appropriate ear bashing. But they both seemed to be impressed that Saint George, never before caught in a compromising situation, finally appears to be human.’
Susie pulled her hat lower and wrapped her scarf around most of her face, as she climbed onto the bus. She was going for the Invisible Man look. She couldn’t risk being spotted.
Nobody seemed to be looking at her she noted on taking a seat, but it was worth the precaution. If she was ever identified she could lose her job. But that thought hardly got a look in with everything else going through her head.
It had felt so right … In the moment, the delusional moment, she’d felt there couldn’t be anything righter. As if he awakened her and only now could she start living. As if they were made for each other. As if … he felt the same!
She closed her eyes and shook her head at her own stupidity. And it was a good job it wasn’t right, she counselled. Because she would have been laid bare, exposed to the risk of experiencing all that loss, desolation, betrayal stuff for real. Which could never happen. Ever.
He’d zapped those haunting feelings for pity’s sake! And she knew why: what was the point of her brain relying on all that manufactured pain from ten years ago, when with George Silbury, the risk was for real. There was something about George Silbury that …
Enough she ordered herself. What she had thought had been between them in those moments, so clearly hadn’t been. Oh yeah. They’d physically done what they’d done, but as for him feeling anything more? The connection between them? It had all been in her screwed up head!
Porsche Sutter-Blythe’s quote in the newspaper ricocheted around her head, hitting the bull’s eye yet again.
‘It’s something we’ll laugh about. Overweight, cellulite-infested bimbos shamelessly throw themselves at him all the time, taking what they can get. You’ll note his eyes were closed. They had to be. But his eyes aren’t always closed. Not to those he actively seeks. And not with whom he discusses the future. Let’s just say, with that photo, this one has got her comeuppance. Please don’t make me say any more.’
She should never have let her get away with that snigger. She should have marched into the restaurant, picked up a fork, marched back outside and—
‘No!’ Susie cried, evidently aloud, because when she reopened her eyes everyone on the chock-full bus was staring at her. She slid down in her seat, repositioned her hat and wrapped her scarf up so she was mummified with only her eyes visible. Why were they still looking at her?
It had all become clear with Porsche Sutter-Blythe’s quote. He was with Porsche. Susie had been entertainment. They were going to be laughing about her together. And she’d got her just deserts.
Susie couldn’t forgive herself for taking advantage of, and violating, a non compos mentis George in Rachael’s consulting room, so how could she have ever expected his forgiveness? All his apologising … it had been part of the plan. He’d not involved the police. No doubt that would have been problematical for someone in the public eye. No, he’d sought his own revenge, doubling it up with entertainment for him and Porsche to boot.
Overweight, cellulite-infested bimbos shamelessly throw themselves at him … taking what they can get. His eyes aren’t closed to those he actively seeks. This one has got her comeuppance.
No matter how hard Susie tried she’d been unable to come up with an explanation for last night. Why George Silbury would have … Oh God … with her! She’d repeatedly asked herself why? Because it made no sense. How could he possibly be interested in her? He, who was dating Porsche Sutter-Blythe, one of the most beautiful women in the world – and had been linked to all the others – interested in her?
She did consider herself overweight. She did have cellulite. And she had acted like a bimbo. Totally mindless. But around him she was incapable of thought. Around him the only thing she knew was an overwhelming need to be in his arms, joined with him any which way she could. Whether he was willing or not!
But all was clear now. And she deserved it. She did.
Her phone went. Rooting it out of her bag she saw his number flash up. She turned it off. She was not providing any more entertainment. She could imagine him and Porsche having a giggle about it in bed. Oh God! Fork. Fork. Fork.
It cut to the bone. It tore her up. Oh God. It was killing her. She was going to cry again. Why had she ever had to encounter him? She’d had Peter.
The crying reached sobbing stage.
Peter could never have made her hurt like this. She would never have been extreme and lost control around him … except to bash his boring brains out if he hadn’t stopped droning on about his mother!
She’d … lost George. Not that she’d ever had him. Loss, desolation, betrayal. She was insane. Help. She’d get help.
The tears fell faster. She pulled up her scarf to cover her eyes, too.
George walked away from Susie’s building. She’d gone to work. He could go to her school. But his turning up could blow her anonymity. He’d come back later. He’d come back again and again.
Whether she agreed to see him was another matter.
Chapter Twelve
Cassie finally found the courage from somewhere to enter the grounds of the Montague family’s private chapel.
She had meant to visit yesterday, but had fled as she reached the ornate wrought metal gate at the graveyard’s entrance. As the gate now closed behind her, she reaffirmed her need to do this.
She’d spoken to Rachael on the phone. Well, no, she’d bawled down the phone at her, wailing about how the places, the dates, everything matched, and how horrifyingly familiar everything was. And then there were her memories – Kathryn’s memories – which now, triggered by the setting, or perhaps her final acceptance, flooded her head.
Put it to bed, Rachael counselled. Learn from it. Redeem where possible. But look forward, not back.
Forward, not back, Cassie reminded herself. What had her life become having to rely on the counsel of Rachael Jones? And Cassie Silbury didn’t bawl! Although that’s exactly what she felt like doing all over again.
She took a deep shaky breath. Forward not back was sensible. But it was so much easier said than done. Because Kathryn was becoming more and more a part of her … and she hated her! Each thing she remembered made her loathe her all the more. And she’d been her. She’d done those things. Manipulated, conspired, plotted, hated … and ultimately destroyed. How was she ever going to live with the guilt?
Cassie took another deep shuddery breath and made her eyes focus on the inscription upon the stone tomb now before her.
Lord Frederic Montague
Son of the Earl and Countess of Worton
Died 1826. Aged 22 years
She sank to her knees. ‘I’m so sorry, Freddie,’ she murmured repeatedly over the course of several minutes, all the time fighting to regain control.
She finally reached a better place where she told herself again and again: I am Cassie Silbury; not Kathryn Montague.
Cassie took a deep breath and relinquished the bowl of soft peach roses she clutched to her chest. She placed them on the wet ground. She then stroked a hard, cold cherub’s face; one formed each corner of the tomb.
‘I promise you now, Freddie, I will do everything in my power to see you and Hannah reunited. You’ve found each other again, you know. There can be
no more denial. I watched your reunion in that consulting room. Heard your words …’ She swallowed hard. ‘You’re George now. I see that. And I love you so very much and I think he’s already in love with Susie – your Hannah.
‘I’m not like Kathryn. I promise you I’m not. I’m on your side. So is Rachael – Tessa. And getting you and Hannah back together …’ Cassie released a shaky sigh, ‘might just get me through this mentally intact.’
With one last gentle stroke of the tomb Cassie determinedly rose from the ground. She spared a glance around her. The beautifully kept grounds, surrounded by their short curving brick-built wall and with the small Norman chapel at their heart, were all familiar to her, thanks to Kathryn.
As she focused on the chapel’s porch, she experienced Kathryn’s latest snapshot from the past: Freddie’s funeral. Cassie inhaled sharply at the subject matter … and nearly choked on that breath as her eyes clashed with those of the man standing framed in the doorway, a distraught woman at his side.
Matthew Argylle.
He appeared to be looking straight at her and the look in his cold blue eyes … so, so icy cold. No emotion. He may have been the past and long dead and gone, but his gaze seemed to slice through her. Cassie shivered, instinctively wrapping her arms tightly around her body.
Kathryn had thought herself in love with this man, although as far as Cassie was concerned, it hadn’t been love – more being in love with the idea of having him, with finally getting what she’d made up her mind to get. Cassie could find no love within Kathryn, despite all her desperate soul-searching. Only hate.
Such cold, cold eyes … He had been her partner in crime. No! Kathryn’s partner in crime. The two masterminds. Tessa, aka Rachael, just did what was ordered. Although the knowledge Kathryn had of Tessa’s yearning looks at a man, had served her – Kathryn! – well. So, so easy to manipulate. They had all been.
Cassie frowned as her head attempted to intrude, to point her in the direction of something. But it hadn’t a hope with those eyes fixed upon her … and the memories of the even colder Kathryn.
Kathryn hadn’t cried. Her brother was dead and she hadn’t even cried! Dead because of her and Argylle’s efforts to prise him away from Hannah. Freddie was to marry Prudence. Not Hannah. That was the plan. So simple.
Cassie attempted to divert her gaze to look at the sobbing woman to Matthew’s right: Prudence, his sister. But Cassie’s eyes seemed frozen to the frigid depths of Matthew Argylle’s eyes. She couldn’t move them no matter how hard she tried. It was like that time George got his tongue stuck to the frozen door mirror of the yet to be defrosted family car. She desperately clutched at the memory. A Cassie memory. She wasn’t Kathryn. She was Cassie Silbury. Such memories made her who she was. Not Kathryn Montague’s!
George had decided to lick the frost. He never made that mistake again. In fact none of them would. He may have only stayed like that for a matter of minutes before Mum came to the rescue with warm water, but he was terrified. As was she. Their brothers didn’t help. Telling George any movement and his tongue would be ripped off. The hysterical tears streamed down his face. Cassie was what four, five? She recalled standing on tiptoes and stretching up to use Molly the dolly’s dress to wipe away his tears. This was her life. Not Kathryn Montague’s. But she still couldn’t quash Kathryn’s memory! The bitch was determined to have it play out.
The Montagues and Argylles had long hoped for a union between Freddie and Prudence. Not that Freddie ever played ball. But Prudence loved him and had done for years. How much Matthew artificially fed that love with lies about Freddie’s own feelings towards Prudence, Cassie could only guess at. But it was in character. In the event, Prudence would have done anything to secure Freddie. And that proved useful.
But Matthew and Kathryn didn’t plot just to see Prudence happy. They’d been incapable of such selflessness. For Matthew it was about money, nothing more, nothing less. He was after the money the union between his sister and Freddie would afford him access to. And once that was secure, he’d continue in his own longer shot pursuit of some foreign heiress. Not that he’d told Kathryn the latter, of course. She’d not discovered that fact until the end. No, Kathryn had believed his words that a union between the two of them would follow that of Freddie and Prudence.
For Kathryn …?
Cassie physically retched as she thought of what it had been about for Kathryn. The action ensured she finally managed to snap her eyes away from Matthew Argylle’s. Oh, she had wanted Matthew Argylle, but she had also wanted to see Freddie – the golden boy – suffer. She had yearned to see him struggle. To be denied. And along had come Hannah. He could be denied the one thing he wanted above all else.
For Kathryn had despised her brother. A sentiment fuelled by jealousy and resentment. And as far as Cassie was concerned: mental imbalance.
Cassie sat down on the cold gravel path and hugged her knees to her chest.
Freddie could do no wrong. Freddie could charm and had done so since the cradle. Freddie possessed looks and charisma that guaranteed whomever or whatever he wanted was his. Bar the love of his sister.
Kathryn was the eldest, yet Worton Hall, her home, would be Freddie’s. Kathryn could only ever do wrong. Kathryn alienated rather than charmed, not that she tried the latter and she rather enjoyed the former. Kathryn’s looks weren’t even deemed passable. And when they had both been ill, it was she that had been left with pox marks across her face. Not he! Oh no, nothing would mar that beautiful face. Except pain.
While Freddie didn’t have the love of his sibling, Kathryn did have the love of hers. Despite all she had done to him over the years. So forgiving! So perfect! So stupid! She had been the intelligent one!
It had taken what had happened at the end to finally alienate that love.
Cassie hugged her knees yet tighter to her chest. How could a sister hate a brother so much? And George had been Freddie!
How could anyone hate George? Cassie wasn’t like Kathryn. She’d never hated George and never could, even when he’d made her cry as a child. She’d always loved him. In fact she’d always loved him best. George undoubtedly possessed looks and charm that neither she nor her other brothers had a hope of matching. And he could pretty much have whatever or whomever he wanted. But she didn’t hate him for it! She loved him! Okay, Cassie never faced what Kathryn had; the restrictions on women of her day. Cassie would be pissed. Definitely. But it wasn’t Freddie’s fault! Kathryn had been sick. She had to have been. Otherwise, Cassie was going to have to label herself as evil-reincarnate.
She swallowed painfully, and tentatively braved another glance around her. Matthew and Prudence still stood in the doorway, but they were fading. She tried to find Tessa – Rachael – among the other attendees. A friendly face would be really comforting right now … but she wasn’t there.
Cassie shut her eyes and urged the flashback to disappear completely. She focused on the present. Her: Cassie Silbury. George, Susie, Mum, Greg, Mark, her nieces and nephews, even the Nutty Regresser. Then there was her editor and all her newspaper colleagues and her work and … She took a few calming breaths and forced her eyes open. Matthew Argylle was gone. They were gone. She closed her eyes again and thanked God, or whoever the hell she was supposed to thank, for such mercies.
Cassie made herself stand and ordered her now numb legs to move. She wasn’t finished here yet. She walked slowly past the tombs holding Freddie and Kathryn’s parents. Numb. She felt nothing. She wasn’t surprised. Kathryn cared for no one but herself.
Cassie now stood before a smaller, less elaborate tomb.
Kathryn Montague
Died 1827. Aged 27 years
She stared. And stared.
And then spoke the words she needed to say.
‘You nasty, scheming, malicious, evil, psycho-bitch! How could you have done it? How could you have d
one it to Freddie. To George! To my George! You killed him. You killed them! It may as well have been by your own hand.’
Cassie finally stopped physically beating the cold hard stone and let out a string of curses. She should have brought a sledgehammer with her. Her bare fists were futile. There was no crumbling. Not even a crack. But her knuckles were bruised and bleeding. She nursed them by crossing her arms and placing them under her armpits.
She wasn’t remotely satisfied. But took some comfort in knowing that Kathryn had never secured Matthew Argylle. After Freddie’s funeral he’d gone to the Continent, not at all interested in marriage to Kathryn. Her dowry had never tempted him and the Hall and title would eventually pass to a male cousin. Cassie very much doubted, however, any amount of money would have tempted Matthew Argylle into marrying Kathryn. They’d worked together. He would have seen at least a glimpse of what she was. And Kathryn had thought she was the intelligent one. Had thought she’d known about manipulation.
The last news Kathryn had of him before she died was that he was engaged to a Spanish heiress. There had been no broken heart, just raging anger.
Cassie spared one last disgusted look at the tomb. She was wasting no more time on the dead and buried Kathryn Montague. She refused to allow her to live on.
She knew what she must do. First there was George and Susie to sort out. Rachael called it redemption. No, she had a feeling, it was love.
Then there was her writing. Perhaps Rachael had been right? Would the journalist in her be able to resist this story? She had it in her power to prove the existence of past lives. She might even be able to prove the existence of Soul Mates, although she needed to give that one significantly more thought. But it was potentially huge.
Cassie turned and walked along the winding gravel path and through the metal gate.
There had been no Hannah to see. Hannah and Freddie hadn’t been buried together. Separated in life and in death. Until now, Cassie vowed.
Romancing the Soul Page 11