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Two years. That’s how long it had been since the last time he was here. Into the spring mist, he could see the Belmotte tower standing tall. He walked further, following the trail. The gatehouse, still intact, was connected to the old moulding walls that were joined to the house. From the distance, everything seemed like he had left them. Two years and yet things appeared the same. However, nothing was the same. He was different. His childhood home too seemed different, smaller somehow and more decrepit than it used to. It stood there like a ghost of older times, times so far away when things were much simpler and filled with tiny little joys and hopes.
His hand fumbled with the small, tightly folded piece of paper in his pocket. He didn’t know why he had even bothered writing that little note. The memory of her smiling at him as praise for his little gifts came to his mind. Back then, her faintest smile had filled him with so much happiness but now that he had learned more about the world her smiles seemed forced.
Of course, he knew she had never believed he wrote those poems. Miss Cassandra was the smartest woman he had ever met. She would have easily recognised that the poems had come from their book collections, the only treasure the house held. It was easier for the Mortmains to live without furniture than to live without written words. Yet, she had never said anything, accepting the small notes that he passed her with kindness and gratitude. Perhaps, it was because she loved paper, the smell, the texture, the outlet it offered to her busy mind.
Even if the words on those notes weren’t his, he always put so much effort and love into them, working on them in the barn, writing them in his most beautiful and careful script to please her. If only those words were his. If only he was good enough for her, a true gentleman like Simon. However, a servant could never become a gentleman.
Crossing the old stone gateway, Stephen stood still for a moment. He took in the image of the house. He didn’t find the strength in him to climb the stairs. The house looked so empty, silent as a grave. Although it was the only home he ever knew, he felt like an outsider, a stranger. Like he had never belonged there.
Past the stairs, there was the garden where he used to grow vegetables, that provided the Mortmains with a meagre income, and the henhouse attached to the barn. He remembered how Miss Cassandra loved eggs and laughed softly. All of them were now abandoned. The garden had been taken over by weeds and wildflowers and the henhouse had collapsed under the weight of time and neglect.
He took off his jacket, folded neatly, and let it over the stair wall. A spade was leaning against it, unused for a long time. He took it in his hand and walked over to the small plot. He thrust the spade into the wet soil, uprooting the unwanted plants. The smell of the earth engulfed him, bringing a smile to his face. How much he had missed it. This was where he belonged.
He kept working with fervour, thinking of how content Miss Cassandra would be if she saw a tended garden. If she ever returned to Suffolk that was. He even considered planting some bluebells before he left. He felt proud of his idea, imagining how pleasantly surprised she would be if she discovered a garden full of her favourite flowers. Words were Miss Cassandra’s treasures, but her smiles were his. Even if he wasn’t there to see them. Even when they weren’t meant for him. Focused on his task, he didn’t take notice of her presence.
“Stephen?” He heard her voice calling to him tentatively from behind. He froze. He could never mistake her voice. It was hers. For a moment, he believed it was his mind playing tricks on him, too far gone into memories and thoughts. He turned slowly around and there she was, standing in front of him, looking at him with a puzzled smile. She was as beautiful as he remembered her but looked more mature, more womanly.
“Miss Cassandra?” was the only thing he could utter.
“Oh, Stephen, my sweet Stephen! It’s been so long,” she said, excitement and sadness mixed in her tone, closing the distance between them and embracing him tightly. Sweet. The word stung like salt on a wound. After all these years, he still was in love with her and she still saw him as a brother. Nothing had changed there.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking a step back so she could see his face.
“Umm, getting rid of the weeds?” he shrugged awkwardly. No matter how much his life had changed or how many women he had been with, Miss Cassandra always made him feel like the gawky teenager he used to be.
“This is not your work anymore, Stephen. You are a famous movie star. You shouldn’t get your fine clothes all dirty. You are a gentleman, now.” The warm smile on her face disarmed him.
“Hardly,” he huffed, blushing. “ A gentleman is born as such, Miss Cassandra. I don’t forget where I come from.”
“Of course you are! You have always been a gentle man, Stephen,” she said tenderly.
“Thank you, Miss Cassandra.”
“How many times do I have to ask you not to call me Miss Cassandra?”
“At least once more,” he smiled, scratching the back of his neck nervously.
“I missed you,” her voice was reminiscent and soft. He raised his eyes, meeting her stare.
“I missed you too…Cassandra.” It was odd how her name, stripped of the title, sounded so different, intimate.
“Will you join me for tea?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she took him by his hand and made way to the house. “I can’t wait to hear everything about your life.” She picked up his jacket with her free hand and started climbing the stairs quickly, with enthusiasm. He followed her obediently, without a word. He would follow her to the end of the world without protest if she asked him to.
They drank tea, sharing their news like two good friends. He had heard eagerly about how everyone in the family prospered. Mr Mortmain’s new book ‘The Cat Sat On The Mat’ was a success. He and Topaz travelled around the country giving lectures on his work. Rose and Neil lived happily on his ranch in California, expecting their second child. Thomas was accepted into a boarding school in London, excelling at his studies. In exchange, he filled her in about his life in London, his new house, and his part in a new movie. They remained silent before he spoke again.
“Why did you come back?”
“I am here to write my book,” she announced proudly. “An editor has taken interest in my stories and offered me a contract to publish my work. I am officially a writer,” she giggled. “This house is my inspiration. I feel so close to all of you here.” She leaned towards him over the table, putting her hand over his.
“Congratulations. I had no doubt in my mind that people would see how talented and unique you are.” He gazed at their hands touching. He had forgotten how long her fingers were. Gently, he took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. The gesture made her gasp.
“What about Simon? Are you two together?” he asked, his thumb running idly over her fingers.
“I haven’t seen Simon since Rose’s wedding. I heard he has returned to America,” she answered, her eyes never leaving his hand, but sadness was showing on her face. “You haven’t told me why you came here, Stephen.”
He didn’t say anything. He just looked outside the window and after a long pause, he spoke.
“It’s getting late. I better leave.”
“Already?” She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
“It’s getting dark and I have a long trip to London in front of me.” He stood up swiftly, taking his jacket from the back of his chair and putting it on.
“You can stay here for the night if you want,” she offered quickly, standing up too. He remained still for a moment with his hands in his pockets, the little piece of paper grazing the pads of his fingers.
“It was so nice to see you again, Cassandra.” He turned to her, a sad smile on his lips. If only she knew.
“Please stay,” she said, coming closer to him, hugging him tightly. “This is your home too,” she spoke in his neck, her voice breaking just a hint.
“My home is wherever you are,” he whispered in her hair, circling his arms around her waist.
“Stephen,” was the only thing she could say. He kissed her temple, before he freed himself from her embrace, holding her hands in his.
“Goodnight, Cassandra. I hope we will meet again.”
She stood in front of the door for a long moment after he left. Her sweet Stephen had changed so much. His once innocent, bright eyes somehow appeared darker, sadder now. She looked at her hand, slowly opening her palm. Tears started welling up her eyes when she saw the tightly folded piece of paper, signed: “To Miss Cassandra by Stephen Colley.”
“Oh, Stephen,” she sobbed, recognising immediately what it was. One of his stolen poems. She unfolded the paper, tears streaming down at the view of his beautiful, neat handwriting.
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee …
*‘To Anthea, Who May Command Him Any Thing’. Robert Herrick