Ghosts of Winter (12 page)

Gradually, though, she began to resign herself to the realities of her life. Knowing Maeve had been her one brief moment in the sunshine, the rest of her existence would not be so bright. She could still be content, knowing that her mind had expanded beyond its previous constraints as a consequence of her friendship with Maeve. Of the feelings Maeve had inspired in her, she tried not to think.

This partial recovery was decimated in early April, when Catherine’s older brother, Francis, who had been at Oxford, announced his intentions of returning to Winter and bringing with him his new fiancée. Kitty Richmond was tremulous with excitement at the prospect of having her elder child—her son—under her roof again, and more thrilled still with the notion that he was bringing home the woman with whom he would be continuing the family line. Catherine would be pleased to see her brother again, but did not relish having to form a new friendship with her future sister-in-law.

When her brother entered the hallway a week later in the mid-afternoon, Catherine greeted him warmly and then turned her eyes to the woman who followed him meekly. She wore a broad-brimmed bonnet piled with silk flowers, and a wide crinoline. Her skirts were crimson silk, looped up to show the contrasting violet silk underneath. For a moment she was entirely unfamiliar. And then Catherine looked into her eyes.

Maeve.

The room whirled around her as she stared at the woman she’d thought she would never see again. It was surely a terrible trick. Maeve removed her ornate bonnet and looked nervously between Mrs. Richmond and Catherine.

“Hello, again.” There were dark shadows beneath her eyes where there had been none before, and her skin was even paler, if that was possible.

“Miss Greville!” Catherine’s mother exclaimed. “Francis? What does this mean?”

“Oh, Mother,” Francis said, smiling as he brushed a hand through his brown hair and tried to appear entirely relaxed, “when we met at a reading in Oxford, Maeve said you’d encountered each other once before and didn’t quite see eye to eye, but I told her everything would be perfectly fine. Now she’s here as my fiancée.”

Mrs. Richmond had little option but to smile weakly and bend to kiss Maeve lightly on the cheek. Catherine watched her mother run her gaze over Maeve’s transformed appearance and relax perceptibly. Meanwhile, her own heart was lying exposed on the floor, and Maeve was about to stamp her foot down on it and kill her.

“Catherine. How do you do?” Maeve said, showing no trace of their former intimacy in her expression. No one knew how much they’d shared, and now Catherine might as well have dreamt it all alone.

“I’m well, Maeve, thank you. I trust that you are too.” Such a desperate effort just to form the words.

“Yes, thank you. It’s wonderful to be back at Winter.” Just before she turned her gaze away to focus with apparent adoration on her husband-to-be, there was the faintest acknowledgement, deep in her eyes, of what had passed between them before. And then it was gone.

Maeve and Francis, who had encountered each other while Maeve was visiting her cousins in Oxford, would be married in late May, and take their honeymoon on the Continent. Until then, they would stay at Winter, within easy visiting distance of Maeve’s uncle. Though they had just arrived, Catherine longed for the day when they would depart Winter. Every time she saw Maeve, the pain came again, as raw as it had been on that last day near the bridge, when Maeve had walked away from her.

*

Unable to bear it, bewildered by this new turn of events, and wondering how Maeve could subject her to such torture, Catherine avoided being alone with Maeve for the rest of that week, leaving the room if they happened to find themselves together. But on one rainy day, they both left their chambers and found themselves in the upstairs passageway at the same moment. Discomfort turned to alarm, turned to irresistible elation as Maeve wordlessly, unexpectedly, took Catherine by the arm and drew her into her chamber. Before Catherine could think, Maeve’s lips were hot against hers. With her heart swelling as if it might burst, thundering in her ears, Catherine held the kiss. But when Maeve eventually pulled back, she was reminded of the day by the bridge, of the chilling reality that Maeve was engaged to Francis now, and she looked at her with bewildered, frightened eyes. How could Maeve taunt her like this?

“What are you doing?” she demanded, ashamed to hear her voice tremble.

“It’s what we both want, isn’t it Catherine?” Maeve’s eyes were intent on hers, the passion in them unmistakeable. “Don’t tell me you’ve stopped loving me already.”

Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes. She knew Maeve would never truly comprehend just how much she loved her. “You broke my heart, Maeve.”

“I’m so sorry, Catherine, dearest,” Maeve said, reaching up to stroke her face and smooth the tears away. “Your heart is so precious to me. Is it possible I can mend it, do you think?”

Catherine gazed into Maeve’s hazel eyes and tried to make sense of the words she was hearing. The worst of it was the hope fluttering in her heart, the compulsion to kiss Maeve again. “How on earth can you mend my heart, Maeve?” she asked, her words infused with her pain.

“Don’t you see? I’ve come back to you, Catherine.”

Catherine swallowed hard and wondered if Maeve was really suggesting what she seemed to be. “You’re engaged to my brother,” she said plainly. “You’re going to marry my brother. You’re in my house, but you’ve not come back to me.”

Maeve took Catherine’s face in both of her hands and looked imploringly into her eyes. “Yes, yes, I have Catherine! Do you think I could really love Francis? Do you think for a moment I really want to wear these ridiculous clothes? It’s all for you, Catherine, I’ve come back for you.”

“You don’t love Francis?” Catherine ached on her brother’s behalf, still trying to comprehend the remainder of Maeve’s words.

“Not as a wife. He’s dear to me because he’s your brother, of course.”

“Then you cannot marry him, Maeve, it’s too cruel,” Catherine protested.

“I only said yes to him because I knew it would bring me back to you, Catherine. Just think, after we are married, we’ll have all the time we want to be together, alone.”

The extent of what Maeve had planned, expected her to be complicit in, was clear to Catherine finally. She pulled in a strangled breath, forcing the throb of hope away. Too much. It was impossible. “Live a life of lies? Betray Francis?” Yet her heart bled with how much she wanted to consent to any deceit, just to be with Maeve. “And what about the risks? If anyone ever knew...”

“I love you, Catherine. That’s the most important.”

“And I love you, Maeve. So much it nearly killed me.” She paused to draw on her last lingering vestige of strength. “But I cannot be so selfish or so cruel. I did not think you could be. All your talk about freedom and creativity, and you want to reduce our love to something sordid and deceitful!” Catherine was beginning to sob now, because the temptation of what Maeve offered was so great, and her disappointment in Maeve for suggesting it was so profound.

“But for love, Catherine, dear.” Maeve leaned in to kiss Catherine again. Catherine pulled back before their lips met.

“Don’t, Maeve! It’s too much. Marry my brother if you will, I would not have you let him down now. But expect nothing of me beyond sisterhood. My heart has been broken once. I will not risk it again.”

“But Catherine, this is all for you—”

“It is all for yourself, Maeve, don’t you see that? How could you think this is what I’d want?”

“You love me.”

“Yes. I will love you as my sister. But there can be nothing else.” Catherine was astounded by her own resolution, her ability to speak the words so definitely, as her heart strained towards Maeve. She could stand the conversation no longer. She reached up briefly to stroke Maeve’s smooth, pale cheek, pushed past her quickly, and fled to her own chamber, where she gave in to the sobs that tore her throat and chest apart. Maeve did not follow her.

*

This evening, Catherine had been forced to escape to the window seat in the Long Gallery. In the Music Room, Francis was demonstrating his accomplishments on the piano, Maeve gazing at him with eyes full of a love Catherine knew she did not feel. Her mother had been swayed very quickly in favour of the apparently reformed and now charming Maeve Greville, and even her stern father seemed drawn to Maeve’s charms. Only Catherine sat restlessly, the music tormenting her senses, as she watched Maeve, remembering what those lips had felt like against hers, unable to shake herself free of her fascination.

 Worse still, she knew the secrets of Maeve’s heart, understood too well the real reason Maeve was now at Winter. Her brother was so happy, and for that she was glad Maeve had chosen to stay despite her own refusal to succumb to her entreaties. But to live her life with Maeve as her sister, as nothing more, knowing her brother’s marriage could not be a happy one, struck her as worse than being sentenced to all the fires of hell.

She’d left the room hurriedly and escaped to the dark, quiet Long Gallery, with only her oil-painted ancestors for company. Surely none of them had ever felt the sort of sadness she experienced now. She was certain it would press the life from her before too long. Perhaps she would haunt the Long Gallery, crying from a broken heart she could not mend.

*

Later that night, Maeve Greville sat beside the bureau in her chamber, her writing case in front of her. She stroked her fingers over the place where her brass initials,
M.G.
, were inlayed. Not her initials for much longer. Soon she would be Maeve Richmond. It was impossible to conceive of it. Francis was a good man, a truly good man who loved her, but she could not imagine him as a husband. Catherine’s resolute words, her rejection, had shattered her tenuous dream, and now she felt like a predator, but one who had trapped herself in the course of the hunt.

Catherine had spurned her. Her reprimands had stung because they were true. Catherine was disappointed in her, and Maeve knew she had betrayed their pure love that she had treasured above all. She would never have Catherine now. Should she torture both of them by lingering here, going ahead with a marriage she had only ever viewed as means to an end? Could she survive in the dark rooms of Winter Manor, with its fine carpets and heavy curtains, its oppressive tapestries and wallpapers, the disapproving portraits and air of strict moral conduct, haunted by desires she could never act upon? It was a ghastly thing to contemplate. Impossible.

Maeve opened her writing chest and took out a sheet of creamy paper. She reached into the blue velvet lining and drew out a pen and nib, and opened the crystal inkwell. The writing chest had been a gift from her mother the year before she died, and it was one of the most beautiful of her possessions. She dipped the nib of the pen into the ink and began to write.

*

Catherine did not sleep well that night. She awoke long before her maid came to help her dress. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she saw a white envelope on the crimson carpet close to the door. With a feeling of cold dread filling her, she padded over in her bare feet and picked it up, quickly tearing it open.

Dearest Catherine,

I know that you will not allow this letter to be read by any eyes other than your own. By slipping it beneath your door before I depart, I hope it will fall into no other hands.

As you read this, I will already have departed from Winter. I believe I will go to Darlington and travel by train from there to London. Wish me well. I have a fancy I may become an artist’s model, and maybe even a painter myself. I hope you are laughing at me now, Catherine, can you see me sitting still for long enough to be a model?

Oh, Catherine, there are no words for our final goodbye. Your words found their mark in the deepest recesses of my heart, my dear. I cannot be dishonest and marry your brother, whom I do not love as a wife should. I cannot expect you to behave in a manner I now realise would have been not only improper, but quite against your beautiful nature. I have no choice, I must leave Winter. It does me no good to remain here, and it is of even less benefit to you. But knowing we shall not meet again is a pain that is hard to bear.

 I write it now so you might be sure of what I have already confessed. I love you, Catherine. I craved your sweetness in the time we were apart over the winter. I hope you will forgive what I have done, in the knowledge I acted out of love.

I know now that it is not our time, my sweet love. I am sorry that I made you love me in return and for any pain I have caused you. Who would have thought you would turn out to be the wise one of the two of us?

I have quite taken your words to heart, Catherine, and you must know thoughts of you, and your goodness, will guide me through the rest of my life. Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross again someday and we will see each other happy, and laugh at all that passed between us? If not, in another place, in another time, maybe our kindred souls will find each other and finally merge together and create a perfect whole. But it is not here and now, and I am afraid we must continue into the world incomplete.

 I will never forget you. When I write or paint, Catherine, you will be my Muse and in my every stroke of the pen or brush.