Pen nodded. ‘But I thought the younger, the better. Most older guys get off on that.’
Cass made no comment, but shuddered inwardly. What kind of men had Pen been dating?
‘Not him,’ Pen continued, rolling her eyes, ‘You know what he said? “Come back when you’re twenty-one!” Then he kissed me on the forehead as if I were a three-year-old and sent me home in a taxi.’
‘Awful man,’ Cass mused, straight-faced, while secretly applauding this show of decency.
‘Bloody bossy, as well—’ Pen pouted in agreement ‘—and boring about work. He wouldn’t let Tom take more than three weeks for his honeymoon.’
‘Really.’ Cass managed to sound sympathetic. Three weeks seemed more than generous but letting Pen run down Dray Carlisle had to be a good idea.
It was something of a setback when Pen added, ‘The trouble is he’s so sexy, too.’
Cass wasn’t about to argue. Dray Carlisle definitely fell into the sexy category. But should Pen be conscious of this fact when she was about to marry his younger brother the following afternoon? Cass thought not.
Pen caught her sister’s expression and quickly backtracked. ‘Don’t worry. I find lots of men sexy. It doesn’t mean I’d do anything about it.’
‘Lots of men aren’t going to be your next door neighbours,’ Cass felt she should point out. ‘Dray Carlisle is.’
‘So? It’s not me who’ll be sorry,’ Pen claimed, ‘but Dray, when he realises what he’s missing. I can just see him, growing old and wrinkly, carrying a torch for me until the day he dies.’
Cass wasn’t sure if Pen was entirely joking, but she laughed with her, anyway. It was becoming clear that, for all her doubts, Pen was going to become Mrs Tom Carlisle, regardless.
‘Should I take it the wedding’s on?’ Cass enquired dryly.
‘What do you think?’ Pen smirked back. ‘All that money— I’d be crazy not to go through with it.’
‘Pen!’ reproved Cass, but Pen continued to grin as she slipped into bed and snuggled down.
It was Cass who was left to switch off the light and lie awake, long after Pen’s breathing told her she’d fallen asleep. But that was the nature of things. Pen had cleared her conscience by talking to Cass and now it was Cass’s job to do the worrying.
Meanwhile Pen slept like a log and woke bright and breezy the next morning, talking nineteen to the dozen about the wedding, her honeymoon and the house they would one day buy. And later she floated up the aisle of the fine old medieval church where the Carlisles worshipped, trailed by a coterie of attendants, all cousins of Tom’s apart from Pen’s best friend, Kelly.
Pen had asked Cass to be a bridesmaid, too, but had looked relieved when Cass had demurred, citing lilac as not her colour and flounces even less her style.
Cass was content to sit in one of the front pews, proud of her sister’s beauty, doubts quelled by the look of devotion on Tom Carlisle’s face when he turned to his future bride.
Even Dray Carlisle seemed to give the marriage his blessing. Dressed in morning coat and tails, he stood at his brother’s side, acting as best man, solemn until the ceremony was over, then, with a smile, embracing his brother and Pen in a circle.
Cass had mixed feelings at the gesture. She was pleased that Pen was to be accepted into the Carlisle fold but it surely meant a degree of loss for her. Pen was embarking on a new life and Cass already suspected from hints dropped that she wanted to keep it quite separate from her old one.
Cass understood why and was losing herself in the crowd outside the church when suddenly Dray Carlisle loomed in view, head and shoulders above most people, nodding acknowledgements to friends as he went, before coming to a halt in front of her.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ he announced without preamble.
Considering they hadn’t spoken since the day they’d met, it was hardly the politest of greetings, so why had she felt it again, that sharp pull of attraction?
She hid the fact well, muttering back, ‘And it’s nice to see you again, too.’
His brow lifted, registering the sarcasm, then he took her arm and instructed briskly, ‘Come on.’
‘Come on where?’ she echoed as he steered her through the crowd.
‘Photographs.’
‘Oh.’
Cass’s lack of enthusiasm was almost tangible.
He squinted her a curious look. ‘Don’t you want to be included in a record of the happy occasion?’
‘Not especially. I’m a little camera shy,’ she excused lamely.
‘It’s only a couple of group photographs,’ he assured her as they skirted round the corner of the church to find bride and groom posing against a backdrop of a blossoming cherry tree.
Pen was obviously loving every moment, flirting with the camera in a rather unbridal manner.
‘Well, your reticence is clearly not a genetic condition,’ Dray Carlisle added in an undertone.
Cass took it as criticism and replied a little sharply, ‘Pen’s enjoying her day. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ he agreed, choosing to be conciliatory. ‘I was merely remarking on how different you are.’
‘Well, I’m sure if I was drop-dead gorgeous,’ Cass stated dryly, ‘I’d be tempted to show off a little, too.’
Dray Carlisle might have taken the comment for envy, but he was too astute for that.
‘Would you?’ He studied her openly for a moment: dark hair, green eyes, classic bone structure and a mouth that was wide and generous even as she tried to turn it into a disapproving line. ‘No, I don’t think so. Your looks may not be as obvious as your sister’s but many men would find you the more attractive. I suspect you know that. You just don’t care.’
He was right, in part. Cass had no interest in being rated on her looks. All the same, his analysis put her more on the defensive.
‘And you’ve gathered all this from two minutes’ conversation?’ she returned in disparaging tones.
‘Not quite,’ he admitted. ‘Pen has talked about you.’
‘Oh, right.’ Cass could imagine the impression Pen had given of her.
Strait-laced. Inhibited. Repressed, even. Somewhere on that continuum, anyway.
She didn’t get a chance to enquire further, as the photographer called out, ‘Immediate family, please.’
‘Our cue, I believe,’ he prompted, when she made no move to step forward.
‘Doesn’t that mean parents?’ She nodded towards the couple already taking up stance beside Tom.
She’d seen them earlier in church, a tall straight-backed gentleman with grey hair and beard and a rather worldlier looking woman dressed in a lemon silk two-piece and an enormous hat.
‘That’s our Uncle Charles,’ he identified the man with a slight smile, before adding with a grimace, ‘along with our stepmother, Monica, who is insisting on being in this photograph regardless of the fact she and Tom can barely tolerate each other. So, as you see, neither side can field the conventional line-up, and I’m sure Penelope will want you in it as closest family.’
Cass didn’t totally share his confidence but he was already making the decision for her, his hand suddenly clasping hers, pulling her behind him.
The contact was fleeting but her reaction was not. Long after he positioned her by Pen’s side and reminded her with gentle irony to smile—it wasn’t a funeral—she could feel the warmth and strength of his fingers.
It was then she should have run, of course. Had her photograph taken. Wished her sister well. Called a taxi and caught the first train back to town.
But fool that she was, she had to stay. Had to ignore every dictate of good sense just to find out if it was real, that rush of feeling she’d had when he’d touched her hand.
Real enough, she supposed, only now, three years on, she didn’t feel the need to give it a nice name. Maybe it still began with L and had four letters but that was all it had in common with love, that tortured, destructive fe
eling she’d had for Dray Carlisle.
She thanked God it had ended when it had, in a matter of a few short weeks. Thanked Pen for once having been the wiser sister when her own head had been in a state of mush and her body hurting more than her pride.
It had been like a fever, burning hot and fierce and sending her a little crazy. Then it had suddenly been over. But it had left her weak and fragile for a long time.
She was better now, of course, and immune. Only anger lingered and that was no bad thing. For angry, she was usually cold and detached, and, in that mood, she might just be able to get through another funeral without breaking down.
After it, she would grieve alone for her pretty little sister.
CHAPTER THREE
CASS didn’t call North Dean Hall to be picked up at the station. Instead she took a taxi and barely made the crematorium in time.
The Carlisles were en masse at the front. Drayton Carlisle saw her enter and indicated she should join them but she slipped into a chair at the back of the chapel. She wasn’t family, not really.
The service was a curiously sterile affair. The clergyman spoke of Pen as a devoted wife and homemaker and young mother-to-be, his eulogy full of platitudes and quite erroneous virtues, followed by a dirge of a hymn that Pen would have giggled through if she’d been there beside Cass.
It was thinking of the real Pen that made tears gather at the back of Cass’s eyes and she swallowed hard. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
There were others sniffing into handkerchiefs, perhaps friends of Pen from the exclusive country club she and Tom had frequented. Cass noticed two heavily pregnant women and wondered if Pen’s death had left them anxious.
Cass could have reassured them: few women died in childbirth these days. Just ones with conditions like Pen’s which took the medical profession by surprise. And Pen’s shouldn’t have.
Pen had known the facts. Cass had explained them again last autumn. Pen had lost her first baby due to a womb abnormality and stood a fair chance of losing any others—and her life. Pen had known and chosen to play Russian roulette.
Cass focused on that thought, and kept focusing on it as the priest gave the final blessing and the curtains opened and the coffin slid behind. But it didn’t help. She still wanted to shout out at the unfairness of it, cry for the loss of her pretty young sister, scarcely into adulthood.
She wasn’t sure if the service was over, but she needed air. She scraped back her chair and made for the door.
She didn’t plan it, but, once outside, she had a need to escape altogether. She almost made it—was in sight of the crematorium gates when pursuing footsteps caught up with her.
Drayton Carlisle dispensed with any greeting and went straight to demanding, ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
Cass would have said it was obvious. ‘Back to London.’
‘No, you’re not!’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Not yet, anyway. You promised to speak to Tom, remember?’
‘I’m not sure what you expect,’ she countered. ‘I don’t know your brother well, and I’m not great at words of comfort.’
He laughed, a brief, harsh sound. ‘I can believe that…I don’t think it’s comfort Tom wants from you. He seems to think you’ll know why Pen died.’
Cass frowned. ‘Haven’t the doctors told him?’
‘The medical terms, yes.’
‘He wants me to explain those?’
He slid her a look that questioned if she was being deliberately absurd.
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he returned impatiently. ‘Whatever you do at St Wherever, I doubt you’re qualified for that.’
‘How do you know?’ Cass threw back. ‘In fact, what do you really know about me? I’ll tell you what—’
‘Nothing,’ he cut in, ‘I know nothing about you. I admit it. But this isn’t about you and me, it’s about Tom. He’s holding onto his sanity by a thread, and he seems to believe you’re his lifeline. So whatever you think of me, or I think of you, can keep,’ he continued, gripping her arm to stop her walking away. ‘For now, you come back to North Dean with me and speak to Tom and be damn sure you say the right thing!’
‘You can’t make me!’ Cass protested, even as she found herself being frogmarched back up the drive.
‘Can’t I?’ he muttered through clenched teeth and, as they rejoined the mourners, added in a hiss, ‘These people were your sister’s friends. At least, behave for her sake.’
Cass felt her face go a dull, angry red. He was treating her like a naughty schoolgirl. He made no allowance for her grief, her loss.
When he finally released her, she considered another escape bid but then she saw Tom standing with their Uncle Charles and she was too shocked by the sight of him to move. Deep lines were etched on his forehead, ageing him by ten years or more.
He stared at her dully for a moment, then his face contorted on recognition.
‘Cass.’ He rushed towards her. ‘Thank God you came. I need to talk to you. I have to ask you things. You will come back to the house?’
His eyes pleaded with her and there was a desperation in them that had her saying, ‘Yes, if you want.’
‘Thank you.’ He grasped her hands in gratitude. ‘And you’ll take her away, won’t you?’
‘Sorry?’ Cass made no sense of his question. ‘What do you—?’
‘Tom, we can’t talk about this here,’ Dray Carlisle cut in. ‘We’ll go back to the house…Uncle Charles, will you drive Cassandra?’
‘Of course,’ his uncle agreed readily.
‘You will come?’ Drayton directed at her.
She nodded slowly.
His expression remained distrustful, but he didn’t press her further. His priority was to get an agitated Tom out of public view.
Cass stared after them, still puzzling over Tom’s final words: You’ll take her away. The her, she assumed, was Pen—or, at least, Pen’s ashes. But why? Why would he want her to do that unless he’d discovered the truth? She hoped she was wrong.
Uncle Charles lightly touched her arm and she let him guide her towards an elderly grey saloon car. Eventually they joined the line of cars leaving.
‘Good show of people,’ Charles remarked.
‘Yes.’ There had certainly been more mourners than at their mother’s funeral.
‘Not surprised,’ he added gruffly. ‘Lovely girl. Always thought so. Poor Tom.’
It came out in short bursts. Their uncle always talked like this. He’d been a naval man and accustomed to issuing information in bulletins.
‘He seems very distressed,’ Cass concurred.
‘Distressed, quite!’ Uncle Charles approved the word. ‘Still, when he talks to you…’ He trailed off on a hopeful note.
Cass said nothing. She couldn’t see what she could tell Tom that would make him feel any better.
‘How are you?’ The sympathetic note in his voice recognised her bereaved state.
Cass realised his concern was genuine but her feelings were too complex to express. There was anger in amongst the grief, pity and self-pity, guilt and every other emotion Pen used to draw from her, good and bad. She just needed to bottle it all up so she could get through this bloody awful day.
‘Bearing up.’ She used a phrase Uncle Charles would understand.
It drew a nod of approval. ‘That’s all one can do… You will stay overnight?’
Cass feigned polite regret, ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ before asking, ‘Are you still living in the lodge house?’
‘Yes, still there,’ he confirmed. ‘Don’t think I’ll be moving now. Ideal for one person. Don’t envy Dray, rattling around in that big place on his own.’
‘He’s not married yet?’ Cass had wondered because Pen might not necessarily have told her.
‘No, nor likely to be,’ was said in fond exasperation. ‘Plays the field. Pretty wide one, too, I believe. Not that he tells me much.’
‘No one serious, then,’ she concl
uded.
‘There was someone a year or so ago,’ he relayed. ‘Sophie Palmer-Lyons. Grand girl. Good family. Seemed it might come to something.’
Cass told herself she wasn’t interested but still asked, ‘What happened?’
‘Dragged his feet—’ his uncle sighed ‘—so she went off and married someone else… And you? Still seeing the same chap?’
‘I—I…no, not now.’ Cass was thrown slightly. It was almost two years since her last relationship.
‘Oh, well, plenty of time yet,’ Uncle Charles reassured her.
To catch a husband, Cass understood he meant, but let it pass. He was from a generation that believed marriage was a woman’s goal in life. Forget that his nephew was getting fairly dusty on his own shelf.
Still it was some shelf, Cass reflected as they turned into the gates of North Dean Hall and followed the long drive to the Carlisle country house which was even bigger than she remembered.
There were already several cars parked in the forecourt and people gathered round the doorway where Dray and Tom Carlisle stood.
‘Dray’s arranged a light buffet for close friends and family,’ Uncle Charles relayed as they climbed out of his car.
Cass didn’t hide her dismay. Polite conversation and sympathy from people she didn’t know. ‘I’d rather just have that word with Tom, then go.’
‘But surely…well, if that’s what you prefer…’ He was clearly in a quandary. ‘I’ll see what Dray says.’
Cass didn’t care what Dray said. She didn’t want to join the funeral party. She saw a way of avoiding it and took it.
‘I’ll be down at the summer house,’ she said, walking away before anyone could stop her.
She went round the side of the house and through a stone archway to the back terrace. Steps led down to the lawn and she crossed its expanse to a copse of trees and the river beyond.
The summer house had been built as a vantage point to watch the river go by. Of glass and wood, it was showing signs of wear but was still in use, furnished with wicker chairs and tables.
Cass didn’t try the door but sat at the top of the steps leading to the jetty by the river.
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