Lucy swallowed back her own tears. Crying would not help Cass a bit and might just make her more sad. No, Lucy had to be strong. “What about Penelope? Did she say she might try to get there before … the end?”
Cass shook her head rapidly. “No. Nothing like that. I do not think she means to go.”
“What exactly did she say?’
Cass looked a bit embarrassed. “She said, ‘Whom shall I marry now? I’ve been waiting for Julian for years. I’m on the shelf.’”
Lucy furrowed her brow. Now, that was poor form indeed. Though it was in keeping with what she knew of Penelope. Cass’s cousin did seem the sort who would be more interested in her own marital prospects or lack thereof than the death of her poor betrothed.
“Oh, Lucy, Julian is so brave and wonderful. He didn’t deserve this. And I … I never had a chance to tell him…” Her voice trailed off into a series of tiny sobs. Lucy put her arm around her.
“Cass.” Lucy squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “You must try. He may still be alive. Write to Julian immediately. Tell him how you feel about him. How much you love him. Let him go to his grave knowing how much he means to you.”
Cass dabbed at her dripping eyes. “I want to, Lucy. Heavens knows I do. I cannot tell you how much. But I…” She sucked in her breath and shook her head again. “I don’t know.”
Lucy kept her tight grip on her friend’s shoulder. “Why not, Cass? What harm will it do now? You cannot want him to die without knowing how you feel.”
Cass blew daintily into the kerchief. Lucy smiled slightly. Even in the depths of her sorrow, her friend was demure and lovely. Lucy would look like a drowned cat if she cried that hard and would be blowing her nose with a Christmas goose’s honk.
Cass drew a deep breath. “For one thing I’ve no idea how bad he is. Apparently, he told Pen that he doesn’t expect to live, but the doctors have no way of knowing how long it will be. Oh, Lucy, what if he’s already dead?”
Lucy pulled her arm away and turned to face Cass, sitting up on her knees and facing her imploringly. “You don’t know that. Not yet. He may be dead but he may well be alive and live for some time, long enough to receive your letter. Don’t you see? You must try.”
Cass trembled. Her face fell. She appeared to consider it for a moment. “Do you truly think he would want to hear this on his deathbed?”
Lucy pulled her hands back and rubbed them distractedly up and down her arms, trying to think of some way to convince Cass of the importance of this decision. “He may, Cass. He may love you as much as you love him. He’s written to you for years, has he not?”
Cass plucked at the handkerchief that now rested in her lap. “There never has been any talk of love in our letters. And I haven’t received a letter from him myself in some time, not since before the battle. He wrote to Pen, not me. That says something.”
Lucy searched her friend’s face. “There may not have been talk of love between you, yet. But what if he’s thinking the same thing you are, Cass? You must tell him. Take it from me. I never got to say good-bye to the one person who meant the most to me before he died.”
Cass bit her lip. She was obviously considering it. Lucy seized the moment to spring from the bed and rush over to the writing table, where she plucked up two sheets of parchment and a quill. She hurried back over to Cass, but not before scooping up a large book to use as a writing surface. “Here, use this. Write to him. Tell him.”
Cass opened her mouth, obviously to protest.
Lucy pressed the quill into her friend’s hand. “No, Cass. No excuses. Do it. You must.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Mountebanks’ dinner party was abuzz with music, laughter, and talking. Course after course of fine fare was served à la russe, and Lucy found herself making awkward conversation with Lord Kramer to her right and Lord Pembroke to her left while giving Jane and Garrett long-suffering looks. Those two were seated next to each other and appeared to be happily engaged in their usual playful ribbing. Lucy envied them. Even the sharp barbs and verbal jabs they were no doubt trading would be preferable to the excruciatingly dull conversation about the weather that she was trapped in with Lord Pembroke. Just how many words might one use to adequately describe fog? Surely they were coming to the end of a finite list?
After dinner, the ladies played cards in one of the Mountebanks’ salons while waiting for the gentlemen to join them.
“I’m worried about Cass,” Lucy whispered to Jane, who’d joined her in the middle of the room during a break in the play.