Chasing Cassandra Read online

  Winterborne gave him a skeptical glance. “You’d miss his wedding? You’ve been friends for at least ten years.”

  “He’ll manage without my presence,” Tom assured him testily.

  “Does it have something to do with Cassandra?” Winterborne asked.

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Trenear told you,” he said rather than asked.

  “He mentioned you’d met Cassandra and taken a fancy to her.”

  “Of course I did,” Tom said coolly. “You know my fondness for pretty objects. But nothing will come of it. Trenear thought it was a bad idea, and I couldn’t agree more.”

  In a neutral tone, Winterborne said, “The interest wasn’t only on your side.”

  The statement sent a quick, sharp thrill down to the pit of Tom’s stomach. Abruptly losing interest in food, he used the tines of his fork to nudge a sprig of parsley across his plate. “How do you know?”

  “Cassandra had tea with Helen last week. From what she said, it seems you made a strong impression on her.”

  Tom laughed shortly. “I make a strong impression on everyone. But Cassandra told me herself I could never give her the life she’s always dreamed of—which includes a husband who could love her.”

  “And you couldn’t?”

  “Of course not. It doesn’t exist.”

  Tilting his head, Winterborne stared at him quizzically.

  “Love doesn’t exist?”

  “No more than money.”

  Now Winterborne looked baffled. “Money doesn’t exist?”

  For answer, Tom reached inside a coat pocket, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a bank note. “Tell me how much this is worth.”

  “Five pounds.”

  “No, the actual piece of paper.”

  “A ha’penny,” Winterborne guessed.

  “Yes. But this ha’penny slip of paper is worth five pounds because we’ve all agreed to pretend it is. Now, take marriage—”

  “Yr Duw,” Winterborne muttered, realizing where the argument was headed.

  “Marriage is an economic arrangement,” Tom continued. “Can people marry without love? Of course. Are we able to produce offspring without it? Obviously. But we pretend to believe in this mythical, floaty thing no one can hear, see, or touch, when the truth is, love’s nothing but an artificial value we assign to a relationship.”

  “What about children?” Winterborne countered. “Is love an artificial value to them?”

  Tom tucked the five-pound note back into his pocket as he replied, “What children feel as love is a survival instinct. It’s a way of encouraging their parents to care for them until they can do it themselves.”

  Winterborne’s expression was dumbfounded. “My God, Tom.” He took a bite of the dressed crab, chewing methodically, taking his time before replying. “Love’s real, it is,” he said eventually. “If you’ve ever experienced it—”

  “I know, I know,” Tom said wearily. “Whenever I make the mistake of having this conversation, it’s what everyone says. But even if love were real, why would I want it? People make irrational decisions for the sake of love. Some even die for it. I’m far happier without it.”

  “Are you?” Winterborne asked dubiously, and fell silent as the barmaid came with the pitcher of ale. After she had refilled their mugs and left, Winterborne said, “My mother used to tell me, ‘Troubled are they who want the world, troubled are they who have it.’ I knew she had to be wrong—how could a man who’d gained the world be anything but happy? But after I made my fortune, I finally understood what she meant. The things that help us climb to the top are the same things that keep us from enjoying it once we’re there.”

  Tom was about to protest he was enjoying himself. But Winterborne, damn him, was absolutely right. He’d been miserable for months. Holy hell. Was this what the rest of his life was going to be like? “There’s no hope for me, then,” he said grimly. “I can’t believe in something without evidence. I don’t take leaps of faith.”

  “More than once, I’ve seen you talk yourself into the wrong decision by thinking too much. But if you could manage to climb out of that labyrinth of a brain long enough to discover what you want … not what you decide you should want, but what your instinct tells you … you might find what your soul is calling for.”

  “I don’t have a soul. There’s no such thing.”

  Looking exasperated and amused, Winterborne asked, “Then what keeps your brain working and your heart beating?”

  “Electrical impulses. An Italian scientist by the name of Galvani proved it a hundred years ago, with a frog.”

  Firmly, Winterborne said, “I can’t speak for the frog, but you have a soul. And I’d say it’s high time you paid attention to it.”

  AFTER LUNCH, TOM walked back to his offices on Hanover Street. It was a cool autumn day with sharp, sudden gusts coming from every possible direction—a “flanny” day, as Winterborne had put it. Stray gloves, cigar stubs, newspapers, and rags torn from clotheslines went skittering along the street and pavement.

  Tom paused in front of the building that housed the main offices of his five companies. A short distance away, a young boy diligently collected used cigar stubs from the gutter. Later the tobacco would be pulled out and made into cheap cigars to be sold at tuppence apiece.

  The imposing entrance was twenty feet in height, surmounted by a massive pedimented arch. White Portland stone covered the first five stories, while the top two were faced with red brick and elaborate white stone carvings. Inside, a wide staircase occupied a light well that stretched up to a glass-paneled skylight on the roof.

  It looked like a place where important people went to do important work. For years, Tom had felt a thrill of satisfaction every time he’d approached this building.

  Now, nothing satisfied him.

  Except … absurd as it was … he’d experienced some of that old sense of purpose and fulfillment while repairing the boiler at Eversby Priory. Working with his hands, relying on the skills he’d acquired as a twelve-year-old apprentice, with all of it still ahead of him.

  He’d been happy back then. His boyish ambitions had been praised and nurtured by his old mentor, Chambers Paxton, who’d become the father figure he’d needed. In those days, it had seemed possible to find the answers to any question or problem. Even Tom’s limitations had been an advantage: When a man didn’t have to bother with love, honor, or other such rot, it left him free to make a lot of money. He’d enjoyed the hell out of that.

  But recently, some of his limitations had started to feel like limitations. Happiness—at least the way he used to experience it—was gone.

  The wind danced and pushed at him from every point of the compass. A particularly sharp gust whipped the black wool felt hat from his head. It went tumbling along the pavement before it was snatched up by the little cigar stub hunter. Clutching the hat, the boy looked at him warily. Assessing the distance between them, Tom concluded it was pointless to give chase. The child would elude him easily, disappearing into the maze of alleys and mews behind the main street. Let him have it, Tom thought, and headed into the building. If the hat were resold at even a fraction of its original price, it would mean a small fortune for the boy.

  He went up to his suite of executive rooms on the fifth floor. His personal secretary and assistant, Christopher Barnaby, came immediately to take his black wool overcoat.

  Barnaby looked askance at Tom’s lack of a hat.

  “Wind,” Tom said brusquely, heading to his large bronze-topped desk.

  “Shall I go out and search for it, sir?”

  “No, it’s long gone by now.” He sat at his desk, piled with ledgers and stacks of correspondence. “Coffee.”

  Barnaby rushed away with an agility that belied his stocky form.

  Three years ago, Tom had chosen the junior accountant to act as his secretary and personal assistant until he could find someone appropriate for the position. Ordinarily he would never have considered someone like Barnaby, who
was perpetually rumpled and anxious, with a nimbus of wild brown curls that danced and quivered around his head. In fact, even after Tom had sent Barnaby to his tailor on Savile Row and footed the bill for some elegant shirts, three silk neckties, and two bespoke suits, one woolen and one broadcloth, the lad still managed to look as if he’d dressed from the nearest laundry hamper. A personal assistant’s appearance was supposed to reflect on his employer. But Barnaby had quickly proved his worth, demonstrating such exceptional abilities to prioritize and attend to details that Tom didn’t give a damn what he looked like.

  After bringing coffee with sugar and boiled cream, Barnaby stood in front of his desk with a little notebook. “Sir, the Japanese delegation has confirmed their arrival in two months to purchase steam excavators and drilling equipment. They also want to consult about engineering issues of building the Nakasendo line through mountainous regions.”

  “I’ll need copies of their topographical maps and geological surveys as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Mr. Severin.”

  “Also, hire a Japanese tutor.”

  Barnaby blinked. “Do you mean a translator, sir?”

  “No, a tutor. I’d rather understand what they’re saying without an intermediary.”

  “But sir,” the assistant said, nonplussed, “surely you’re not proposing to become fluent in Japanese in two months … ?”

  “Barnaby, don’t be absurd.”

  The assistant began to smile sheepishly. “Of course, sir, it just sounded like—”

  “It will take a month and a half at most.” With his exceptional memory, Tom was able to learn foreign languages easily—although admittedly his accent usually left something to be desired. “Arrange for daily lessons starting Monday.”

  “Yes, Mr. Severin.” Barnaby scribbled notes in his little book. “The next item is quite exciting, sir. The University of Cambridge has decided to bestow the Alexandrian prize on you for your hydrodynamics equations. You’re the first non-Cambridge graduate to receive it.” Barnaby beamed at him. “Congratulations!”

  Tom frowned and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “Do I have to give a speech?”

  “Yes, there’ll be a grand presentation at Peterhouse.”

  “Could I have the prize without the speech?”

  Barnaby shook his head.

  “Decline the award, then.”

  Barnaby shook his head again.

  “You’re telling me no?” Tom asked in mild surprise.

  “You can’t decline,” Barnaby insisted. “There’s a chance you may someday earn a knighthood for those equations, but not if you turn down the Alexandrian award. And you want a knighthood! You’ve said so before!”

  “I don’t care about it now,” Tom muttered. “It doesn’t matter.”

  His assistant turned stubborn. “I’m putting it on the schedule. I’ll write a speech about how humbled you are to be honored as one of the many intellects furthering the glory of Her Majesty’s empire—”

  “For God’s sake, Barnaby. I have only five emotions, and ‘humbled’ isn’t one of them. Furthermore, I would never refer to myself as ‘one of the many.’ Have you ever met anyone like me? No, because there’s only one.” Tom sighed shortly. “I’ll write the speech myself.”

  “As you wish, sir.” The assistant wore a small but distinctly satisfied smile. “Those are the only items for now. Is there anything you’d like me to do before I return to my desk?”

  Tom nodded and stared down at his empty coffee cup, rubbing his thumb along the fine porcelain edge. “Yes. Go to the bookshop and buy a copy of Around the World in Eighty Days.”

  “By Jules Verne,” Barnaby said, his face lighting up. “You’ve read it?”

  “Yes, it’s a ripping good story.”

  “What lesson does Phileas Fogg learn?” Seeing the blank look on his assistant’s face, Tom added impatiently, “During all the traveling. What does he discover along the way?”

  “I couldn’t spoil it for you,” the young man said earnestly.

  “You won’t spoil it. I just need to know the conclusion a normal person would come to.”

  “It’s quite obvious, sir,” Barnaby assured him. “You’ll find out for yourself when you read it.”

  After leaving Tom’s office, Barnaby returned only a minute or two later. To Tom’s surprise, his assistant was holding the lost hat. “The doorman brought this up,” Barnaby said. “A street urchin returned it. Didn’t ask for a reward.” Regarding the felt brim critically, he added, “I’ll make sure it’s cleaned and brushed before the end of day, sir.”

  Pensively Tom stood and went to the window. The boy had returned to the gutter to resume his search for discarded cigar ends. “I’m going out for a minute,” he said.

  “Is there something you’d like me to do?”

  “No, I’ll handle it.”

  “Your overcoat—” Barnaby began, but Tom brushed by him.

  He went out to the footpath, narrowing his eyes against a gust laden with grit. The boy paused in his labors but remained in a squat beside the gutter, looking up warily as Tom approached. He was skinny and ropy, with a young-old look of malnourishment that made it difficult to assess his age, but he couldn’t have been more than eleven years old. Maybe ten. His brown eyes were rheumy and his complexion had the rough texture of a plucked hen. The long straggles of his black hair hadn’t been brushed in days.

  “Why didn’t you keep it?” Tom asked without preamble.

  “Ain’t a thief,” the boy said, harvesting another cigar end. His small hands were scaled with grime and dust.

  Tom took a shilling from his pocket and extended it to him.

  The boy didn’t reach for it. “Don’t need charity.”

  “It’s not charity,” Tom said, both amused and irritated by the show of pride from a child who could ill afford it. “It’s a tip for service rendered.”

  The boy shrugged and took the coin. He dropped it into the same pouch as the harvested tobacco bits.

  “What’s your name?” Tom asked.

  “Young Bazzle.”

  “And your first name?”

  The boy shrugged. “Young Bazzle’s wot I always been. Me farver was Old Bazzle.”

  Tom’s better judgment advised him to leave the matter as it was. There was nothing special about this boy. While helping an individual child might satisfy a benevolent impulse, it did nothing for thousands who lived in filth and poverty. Tom had already donated large sums—as ostentatiously as possible—to a host of London charitable groups. That was enough.

  But something nagged at him, probably because of Winterborne’s lecture. His instincts were telling him to do something for this urchin—which was a good example of why he usually tried to ignore them.

  “Bazzle, I need someone to do sweeping and cleaning in my offices. Do you want the job?”

  The child looked at him suspiciously. “Ye hoaxing me, guvnah?”

  “I don’t hoax people. Call me ‘Mr. Severin,’ or ‘sir.’” Tom gave him another coin. “Go buy yourself a little broom, and come to my building tomorrow morning. I’ll tell the doorman to expect you.”

  “Wot o’clock do ye want I should come, sir?”

  “Nine sharp.” As Tom walked away, he muttered ruefully, “If he robs me blind, Winterborne, I’m sending you the blasted bill.”

  Chapter 7

  ONE MONTH LATER, TOM took the train to the Saffron Walden station in Essex, and then a hired coach to the Clare estate. It was quite a change from the comfort and insulation of his private railway carriage. He preferred to visit people without being at their mercy, maintaining his ability to come and go as he wished, eat whatever and whenever he liked, wash with his favorite soap, sleep without being disturbed by other people’s noise.

  On the occasion of West Ravenel’s wedding, however, Tom was going to try something new. He would be part of the gathering. He would stay in a room where housemaids would come in at some ungodly hour of the morning to stir the gr
ate. He would go downstairs to eat breakfast with other guests, and dutifully join them on walks to admire views of hills, trees, and ponds. The house would be infested with children, whom he would ignore or tolerate. In the evenings there would be parlor games and amateur entertainments, which he would pretend to enjoy.

  The decision to subject himself to the coming ordeal had been a direct result of Rhys Winterborne’s advice to follow his instinct. So far it hadn’t turned out well. But Tom was so tired of months of numb, empty nothingness that even this panoply of discomforts seemed like an improvement.

  In the distance, a classic Georgian manor with white columns occupied a gentle hill dressed with evergreens and low ivy-covered walls. Curls of smoke rose from a neat row of chimney stacks, dissolving continuously into the November sky. The nearby timbered groves had lost their foliage, leaving only stark branches swathed in a lace of black twigs. A heavy evening mist had started to sulk over bare harvested fields in the distance.

  The hired carriage stopped before the front portico. A trio of footmen surrounded it, opening the lacquered door, setting out the step, and unloading luggage. Tom descended to the gravel drive and drew in a deep breath scented of wet leaves and frost. The air smelled better in the country than the city, he’d give them that.

  Rows of sash windows afforded glimpses of an ample crowd milling in the front rooms. Abundant music and laughter were punctuated by the happy shrieks of children. Many children, from the sound of it.

  “Small family affair, my arse,” Tom muttered as he ascended the front steps. He reached the entrance hall, where a butler took his hat, coat, and gloves.

  The interior of Clare Manor was spacious and airy, painted in serene shades of white, pale blue, and light green. Wisely, someone had chosen to decorate the house in keeping with its clean neoclassical façade, rather than filling the rooms with an avalanche of china figurines and embroidered cushions.

  In a minute or two, West Ravenel and Phoebe, Lady Clare, came to welcome him. They were a handsome pair, the tall and perpetually sun-browned West, and the slender red-haired widow. A mysterious invisible connection seemed to link them, a quality of togetherness that had nothing to do with proximity or even marriage. Puzzled and interested, Tom realized his friend was no longer a completely independent being, but half of some new entity.