Cassidy bent her head and sighed. “I’ll speak with her again, Telford.”
The valet bowed and slipped out of the room. Since Braden’s departure, he’d been the only servant Cassidy could speak to as an equal. He was the one who kept her informed of Quentin’s wild cavorting about the country—adventures that kept him away from Greyburn six days out of every seven. Telford seemed to find Quentin’s activities harmless, but Cassidy sensed something frantic about Quentin on his rare visits home, as if he were trying to game and drink and flirt his way one step ahead of some sadness he couldn’t acknowledge.
For the past two weeks, he hadn’t come home at all. Isabelle had grown as quiet and withdrawn as a shadow. It was as if she’d accepted the judgment of society in naming her a whore and outcast; all the fight had gone out of her. She hadn’t spoken Matthew’s name, nor had Cassidy seen the odd man in either of his identities, though she’d searched the fells time and again.
The footman, John Dodd, had also disappeared, his fate unknown. Mikhail was still in the hands of the Russians.
But Rowena’s case was worst of all. Cassidy climbed the stairs to the family wing. As always, there were footmen placed here and there along the landing and near Rowena’s room. They were her jailers. Cassidy didn’t know how humans could stop a werewolf if she wanted to leave, but obviously Rowena believed they could. The men showed Cassidy formal respect but remained at their posts like soldiers.
Cassidy didn’t bother to knock on Rowena’s door.
Rowena sat in a chair by the window in a starkly plain dress, her hair up and her back straight, a desolate figure surrounded by furnishings of feminine elegance and beauty. At first glance she looked the same as always, until one noticed the hollows under her eyes and cheekbones, the pallor other skin. Until it became clear that the black dress she wore was almost too large, because she was attempting to slowly starve herself.
There hadn’t been a formal family meal at Greyburn since before the Convocation, and Rowena remained alone in her suite day and night. Cassidy had discovered Rowena’s purpose by accident when she’d caught a maid in the hallway, removing an untouched tray of food from Rowena’s room. A little careful questioning revealed the disturbing truth: Lady Rowena hadn’t eaten at all since the earl left Greyburn.
Braden wasn’t there to bully his sister into eating, and none of the servants would dare. Quentin couldn’t be located. Rowena had chosen the perfect time to protest her fate in the only way she knew how.
And she was silent. She starved herself of words as much as nourishment. Every day for the past two weeks Cassidy had tried to coax Rowena into eating, and every day she’d left defeated.
How long could a werewolf survive without food—even a werewolf who didn’t want to be one?
Cassidy sat down in the chair opposite her sister-in-law’s. “This can’t go on, Rowena,” she said.
Hands resting passively in her lap, Rowena didn’t answer. She continued to gaze out at the park, watching summer rain spatter against the glass.
Cassidy stood up and planted herself in front of the window. “Do you really plan to kill yourself? I didn’t know that was something proper English ladies did.”
Rowena’s eyes met hers. “Leave me alone,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.
Hunger hadn’t robbed Rowena other aristocratic temperament. She was determined to control her life, and she wasn’t about to let an American country bumpkin interfere.
But Cassidy had had enough of Forster obstinacy and her own feelings of helplessness. She missed Braden with an abiding ache in her chest that had spread to fill her stomach as well. She needed him—and she’d dared to believe he needed her.
But he was gone. The brief notes and telegrams he sent on his travels were filled with light trivia about this country and that, none specific enough to tell her where he was or how long he would be gone. She was a little cheered that they also contained restrained words of affection, though only she might have interpreted them so.