Dressed in Black

Chapter 16

As promised, Mr. Borne and Mr. Musgrave came by at the appointed tea-time. Catherine had been on the look-out at the drawing-room window, so it was no great surprise to her when they were announced, though something very like a murderous flash crossed the General's eyes – he had only just lighted his cigar, and would be obliged to share with his visitors.

The gentlemen quietly acknowledged Catherine's presence with furtive glances in her direction now and again, but they had come exclusively to observe and judge the General.

"Cigars, my worthy sirs?" he growled, thrusting the velvet box forth with scornful reluctance. Harry, who had been reading the newspaper, folded it presently, and began blatantly scrutinising Mr. Musgrave from his corner.

Mr. Musgrave politely refused the General's offer, for he did not smoke, but Mr. Borne accepted, despite his thinking the General a great brute of a man, or a 'damned blackguard,' using his own charmingly frank vocabulary.

"Catherine, why don't you play us one of your melancholic tunes," said Henrietta, having realised, in spite of all her silliness, that her serious companion's talent lay chiefly in songs denoting despair. Perhaps she played them so well because she sympathised with the sadness the composers must have felt at the time of their composition, and could thus play with all her heart. Indeed, it is my private opinion that a song sounds better when played with emotion than it does when played with precision. For all that, had Catherine known how to be happy, she could have played a merry tune with just as much feeling.

"I shall," she nodded, gliding over to the back drawing-room. After flipping through the music book, she began playing a song unrecognisable to the listeners – who listened to her playing with passive admiration, as they had got in the habit of doing – but for the reader's sake, I will say that it was Chopin's Tristesse.

As the gentlemen spoke in low tones to one another, though in truth having very little to talk of in the presence of the ladies, Harry slinked out of his corner to the vicinity of the piano. He leaned with his back against the wall, half of his symmetrical face shaded by the cast shadow of the door hard by, which had been left slightly ajar. His lips were parted, as though he were going to speak, and his leaden eyes dragged from gentleman to gentleman as if he were trying to make sense of their seemingly casual conference. Though Catherine observed all this, she kept her thoughts to herself, until he spoke up, and demanded an audience with her inner voice.

"I think I know what this is," he said at last. "That Musgrave fellow is here to put a stop to our marriage."

"Good thing too," she said, unconsciously lifting an eyebrow as she hit a high note on the keyboard.

"Now I must go to London to find myself another wife," he said, looking like a sullen schoolboy.

"I wish you luck in your endeavour, Mr. Slater," she said, an involuntary smile crossing her lips.

"Humph!" he glanced at her with his usual disdain, thinking of a way to verbalise his vexation – though it wasn't attributable to disappointment of any sort. "You were never silly. I should have known that. But you are such a little temptress!" Here she snapped her eyes on him with sudden severity, reproofing him without uttering a syllable. "Very well, a man knows when he is not wanted," he muttered, creeping back to his corner and staring sullenly at Mr. Musgrave, who looked too composed for a man in his situation. He knew his father's own potential – he carried a handgun in his left boot, and would go to any lengths, if provoked.

The clock struck six o'clock. Miranda's dress rustled as she rose, and she slunk to the back drawing-room, telling Catherine to cease her playing, as it was time for them to withdraw, and leave the gentlemen to themselves. "Miranda," said Catherine, as they noiselessly withdrew. They paused in the dimly lit corridor, both Harry and Henrietta having moved along to their rooms. "I must warn you of an impending evil."