The best teacups were laid out, and Horatio was told to pour.
“Not too full,” she ordered. “No spills on the cherry tray. I suppose there is no food in the house.”
“Not that I know of. I can run and get some rum cake from my mother’s house. It won’t take me more than an hour.”
“In this downpour? I’m not that cruel. Anyway, I don’t care for rum cake.”
“Well, to tell the truth, it's what’s left from last night’s supper and probably stale.”
“Always tell the truth, Horatio. Honesty turns out to be the best policy.” She laughed, then sighed deeply.
“Yes, Miss—Madam.”
“You may continue to call me Miss. If the shoe fits…”
The silence lengthened in the room. Horatio had no idea of what her unannounced visit meant, but he was ready to fetch and carry for his mistress, whatever she might desire. He cracked his knuckles.
“Hadn’t you better be getting along home? I’m sure your mother is looking for you.”
“Well, I was hoping you might let me stay in the piano room tonight, if it ain’t too much trouble, Miss. I get the fever when I go out in the rain, and mother says I am not to get wet if I can help it.”
“So you were willing to run through the rain for rum cake, but now you want to stay here. Well, I don’t mind having someone else in the house. When is my grandfather returning?”
“I expect him back first thing tomorrow, Miss. I was just doing chores in the barn when you arrived.”
“Obviously, he wasn’t expecting me tonight.” She sighed again. “I suppose I may tell you, if you promise not to gossip, that I have had some trouble with my husband just now.”
“What is the matter, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“My life here is over. That is all,” she said flatly.
It gave Horatio a lurch at his heart to hear her talk in such a way. The last time a woman spoke of her life being over was when he had stayed with the old woman on the Bulette hillside. That day had turned out very badly indeed. In his mind he turned over what his mistress had just said, looking at it from as many angles as he could.
“Do you mean to go away because of the trouble, Miss?” he asked slowly.
“That is exactly what I mean to do!” she vowed, with a dangerous flash in her eye and a tremble on her pale lips.
Cassandra's angry vehemence made Horatio nervous. This situation was looking worse and worse. He hoped the young Mrs. Brighton wouldn’t go the way the older one had. His mother had told him the old woman’s sadness might have contributed to her death. Could that also happen to his beautiful goddess? His alarm grew. Meanwhile Cassandra was yawning repeatedly, a sign clearly meant to say he should take his leave.
“Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, Miss?”
“Has my room been tended recently?”
“Annie May cleans it every time she’s here. She aired it out before the Captain left.”
“Please go in and beat the blankets for me. You may sleep in the reception room, my little knight. I will attempt to do the same shortly.”
“It is good sleeping when it rains.”
“'To sleep, perchance to dream'—aye, there's the rub.’ I hope I may not dream at all tonight,” she murmured in her dulcet tones.
Horatio was troubled by Cassandra's train of thought, which sounded suicidal. Reluctantly he went to bed, but he remained awake. The reception room was cluttered with a sewing machine and other miscellaneous trappings, among them a broken pianoforte, which was why he had called it the “piano room.”
He lay on his back in a small cot wedged into the corner, eyes wide open and ears poised for any sound of Cassandra's distress.
Around midnight Horatio was startled awake by a noise in the kitchen. He crept downstairs. The noise proved to be a cat prowling around. He noted that his mistress had fallen asleep before the fire in the horsehair settee, instead of going up to her old room. He curled up in a corner, staying to make sure the fire remained burning.
Cassandra was on the settee until early in the morning, when she sleepily arose and went upstairs toward her bedroom. Her drowsy mind dwelled heavily on how her circumstances had altered for the worse since she had lived here. Before, she had regarded the stone house as minimally adequate for her needs. How low she had sunk, that this modest place now appeared the epitome of comfort.
Along the upstairs corridor, she stopped and peeked into her grandfather’s room. The fresh autumn air was blowing through the windows, which he left partially open. Her bleary eyes focused on a sight which, though familiar, newly caught her attention. There was a brace of pistols hanging on a nail beside his canopied bed. He always kept it there loaded, in case of burglars. She thought it a contradictory stratagem, since he usually left the door to the house unlocked.
As Cassandra was half asleep, she stood very still, so as not to tumble down. She did not hear Horatio coming up the stairs and creeping up close behind her. He looked from her to the brace of pistols she was staring at. His face went very pale. From that moment onward, he was convinced his beloved mistress meant to do harm to herself because of the trouble with her husband. There was rarely a waking moment thereafter when he allowed her to be out of his sight.
“Oh, it's you, Horatio.” Cassandra moved along the corridor woodenly.
“May I get you some tea and toast? I found some bread in the larder, and it don’t look too moldy.”
“No…thank…you,” she said, with a mighty yawn.
As soon as he saw she was safely in her bed, Horatio went into the captain’s room and took down the brace of pistols. He spent the next half hour finding the best place to hide them, finally placing them carefully on top of the strings of the pianoforte and tightly closing the lid.
At mid-morning, Captain Vye came roaring up the long driveway in his roadster, which now gave off fewer sparks. When he spotted a figure slipping out the back door to his house, he honked the horn. Horatio was bolting for the safety of the barn, intent on putting distance between himself and the smashed glass that would have to be explained.
Indeed, as he approached the front door, the captain was quick to take note of the gaping aperture where his prized lead-glass side window had been two days before. Cursing like a seadog, Captain Vye entered his house. Seeing the smoldering fireplace and various parcels of female attire strewn in the living room, he bellowed, “Cassie!” There was no answer. He thundered upstairs and looked into his own room. On the wall near the bed, where the pistols had been hung, there was empty space.
“Hell and damnation!” he yelled. “I’ve been robbed!”
Thinking of the clothing downstairs and fearing the worst, he ran down the hallway to Cassandra’s room and tore open the door. A drowsy head was raised from the pillow. One topaz eye peered out from under a nightcap.
“I have left my husband, Grandfather. May I stay with you for a few days? I promise not to be any trouble.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Fateful Note
October 25, 1901
Mill's Creek
At the tiny Bulette cabin, the marital belongings were packed, the bed and all the things that reminded Nicholas poignantly of Cassandra. Her paintings and books, her clothing and toiletries, and her baroque zither were carefully packed into two trunks, then loaded into a dray under his personal supervision.
But when the items arrived several days later at the Grange, he could not bear to look at them again. They brought back happier moments too vividly. He treasured most the locket she had left him. He kept it close, in his breast pocket.
With the holiday weekend at hand, he recalled how he had enjoyed the Fire Nights of his youth. The thought he would be spending tonight, the First Fire Night of 1901, estranged from his adored wife was painful. The memory of her imploring his forgiveness on her knees was haunting him, as well as the image of her beauty. For the first time in months, he felt a desire for his wife's physical body. To
look upon her as innocent was not yet possible, but he ached for her. In the end, the fair-minded young husband was regretting having rushed to judgment.
To keep from going mad, all day long Nicholas followed his mother's pattern. He worked hard, sweeping leaves from the garden-paths, cutting dead stalks from the flower-beds, nailing up creepers which had been torn down by the autumn winds, and repairing wire fencing. He also consulted with the ranch foreman on the roundup schedule and instructed two new hands on the care and feeding of the weaned calves.
That evening, as soon as the sun went down, Nicholas set out to visit Mr. and Mrs. Drake. His plan was to present his case about the closed door, omitting his suspicion about a third party. He hoped to prompt Drake to volunteer information, which he would surely do if he had been at the house with innocent intentions. To his disappointment, Nicholas found only Clare at home.
As always, Clare was glad to see her cousin, though his haggard and forlorn appearance gave her cause for concern. She told him Caleb Scattergood was staying at the inn for the holiday. She took him to inspect the sleeping baby, carefully screening the candlelight from the infant’s eyes with her hand. Little Nicholas Samuel Drake blinked at his cousin Nicholas and yawned.
“He has your mother's eyes and his father's curly hair,” Clare said proudly.
When they had sat down together over coffee, Nicholas said, “Clare, have you heard Cassandra has left me?”
“No! Oh, Nick!”
“Yes. I have left the cabin and am living at the Grange now.”
“What on earth is the matter now?”
He related to her the circumstances of the closed door, omitting his suspicion about her husband's involvement.
“Nick, did she leave you because she is really as wicked as everyone says? Or were you cruel to her?”
“Can a man be too cruel to his mother’s enemy?”
“I think so, if the person is your wife.”
He paused and sighed, for she had said what he himself had come to think. “Very well, then. I admit I have been hard on her. What is to be done now?”
“Make it up with her. There are ways, if you both want to.”
“I don’t know. It was a terrible thing to shut out my mother like that. Can I ever forget it or forgive her?”
“She could not have known anything serious would come of it.”
“That is just what she said. But the fact remains Mother was there and the door remained closed.”
“I am sure she is truly sorry, Nick. Beg her to come home. Where is she staying?”
“At Mill’s Creek. What if she won’t come?”
“I don’t believe for a moment that will happen.”
“I hope you are right. Clare, is your husband away from home?”
She blushed faintly.”No, just out. Will you promise me to write Cassandra immediately?”
“I will,” he said. “I am most unhappy with the present state of affairs.”
He went into the inn’s reception parlor, where he found writing implements and sat down in a sheltered corner to pen the letter:
“Cassandra, please come back to me. I promise I will burden you with no further blame or cruelty. Dearest, remember the kisses and vows we exchanged in the summer. Return, and you will be warmly welcomed. I am now at the Grange, with our belongings. Your husband as ever, Nicholas.”
Having signed the letter and enclosed it in an envelope, he looked around the saloon for help in delivering it on this holiday night. The town cronies were gathering, fortifying themselves in anticipation of a long First Fire Night up at the Hat. Among them he spotted his amiable friend Jason Harrison. Harrison was soon prevailed upon to deliver Nicholas’s letter at Mill’s Creek on his way to the bonfire.
Having set his reconciliation plan in motion, Nicholas was exhausted. He rejected several offers to go out for the festivities. It seemed to him the suitable behavior for a husband in limbo was to stay at home. In heading back to the Grange, however, he made it a point to go out of his way and ride past Mill’s Creek. From a distance, the house appeared quiet and dark. He wondered what its inhabitants were doing and how his note of capitulation would be received. Would she read it and run back to him?
At ten o’clock, Captain Vye was sipping grog in the stone kitchen when there was a loud knock on the front door.
“Come in, come in, Jason. I haven’t seen you in a while. I just got here myself, to take my holiday spirits in my own kitchen. Care to join me?”
“Thanks, Captain, but Rita Simmons is waiting for me up at the bonfire at the Hat. Mr. Brighton asked me to leave this here note for Mrs. Brighton on my way up the hill. He says it is urgent. Will you make sure she gets it, sir?”
“That I will,” said the Captain. “Cassandra is not in at the moment. She went out walking a while ago.”
When Harrison had gone, the Captain placed Brighton's note on the mantelpiece, knowing Cassandra would see it when she came in, as this was where she always set down her bonnet and cloak. He went back to his pipe and his grog.
Shortly thereafter, Horatio hurried into the house to check the parlor fire. As he did so, he spotted the envelope addressed to Mrs. Brighton on the mantelpiece.
He took a deep breath, then opened it.
When Horatio saw the note was from Cassandra's husband, he did not read it. Instead he immediately threw the letter into the fire. He stood there and watched it burn, relieved he had saved his mistress any additional distress from her husband.
Thus ended the last chance Nicholas Brighton had for reconciling with his wife on this side of the grave.
Chapter Thirty
The Gift of Fire
October 25, 1901
Mill's Creek
Upon Cassandra’s return to Mill's Creek, Horatio Nelson had felt more happiness than ever before in his life. During the daylight hours, he was at her beck and call. He was young enough to fetch and carry, and manly enough to flatter her vanity. A cozy fire was burning in any room she might set foot in, and he would run to retrieve her slippers or her shawl, then sit at her feet and moon at her like a bedazzled puppy.
Every day he presented her with a new treasure: a vacant bird’s nest graced with a mourning dove feather, a handsome collection of small igneous rocks from Hatter’s Field, stone arrowheads, and a colorful beaded bracelet worked by Annie May (which had been intended for his mother’s birthday). He left these gifts around for his mistress to find, lurking in the chilly corridors of the stone house to see her reaction and gloating when she appeared pleased.
After a day or so of these special attentions, Cassandra began calling Horatio by his family nickname of “Dode,” whereupon her houseboy jumped to the optimistic conclusion she would remain at Mill's Creek permanently. The three of them would live happily ever after.
Cassandra spent the first days of separation from her husband mulling over what had brought her to this juncture. Part of her unhappiness, she decided, lay in simple loneliness. She was starved for cheerful company. So she played cards and read books with Horatio, and they sang songs in the evening when the Captain came home. She even permitted the lad to hold the skein of fine thread that she was crocheting into an intricate web pattern to run along the oak harvest table in the dining room.
Early on Friday morning, Cassandra, crocheting and looking out her bedroom window, witnessed a multitude of townspeople milling about the mountain. Having lost all track of time, she attributed the activity to the unusually fine weather.
In fact, preparations were underway for the first Fire Night of 1901. A year had passed since she had successfully lured Drake to answer her signal fire. But, wrapped up in her thoughts, Cassandra was completely oblivious to the date or the holiday.
For Horatio, Cassandra's apparent oblivion presented an irresistible opportunity to create a surprise that would surpass all others. He had a dispensation from his mother to stay out as long as he wished tonight. For two successive years, Cassandra had taken great pleasure in lightin
g her own bonfire, even though her grandfather took a dim view of it. This year, he, her young knight Horatio, would continue the tradition. A surprise bonfire could not fail to delight his mistress and erase any remaining sadness.
Horatio brought the Captain in on his plan, asking permission to use his supply of prized juniper logs. Captain Vye, too, was worried about Cassandra's state of mind, and so he agreed to the scheme.
“I’ll be back home by nine thirty,” Captain Vye said, when he left for the Plush Horse after an early supper, with a conspiratorial wink for Horatio. The lad was happily engaged in a hot and heavy game of canasta by the fireplace in the parlor with Cassandra.
“Mind you keep the fires going in the parlor and the bedrooms, Horatio,” said Captain Vye, with another secret wink.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have a good time, grandfather,” said Cassandra absently, peering closely at her hand. “Don't worry if I am not here when you return. I will take a walkabout later this evening. The air is nice enough for star-gazing.”
“Be careful, my dear. The almanac says there is likely to be lightning on the mountain tonight. And mind the squaw paint. I don’t want to hear later you was carried off by an Injin chief, har, har, har.”
“There is not a man in this district will touch me now, much less a chief.”
“Have you heard from your husband yet?”
“No. And I don't wish to either.”
Walking out the door, Captain Vye recollected it was on this same day last year he had met up with a coal miner who told him Clare Brighton's wedding was a failure. Who would have believed then that a year later his own girl would be pining away while plain, ordinary Clare would land in prosperity? As he rumbled away in his roadster, he was considering the fate of modern, independent-minded women like Cassandra. It seemed they were too smart for their own good. There was nothing he could do to halt Cassandra in mid-course, however. He had heard the whispers about his granddaughter having demonic powers, but he had no use for superstitious cant. Cassandra was just a woman with an excitable imagination, as his own runaway wife had been.
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