The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  “Good morning,” Cassandra smiled.

  “Good morning, miss, how may I help you?” asked the proprietress.

  “Yes, I…I am recently arrived from America and need some gowns and underthings. I am afraid I am ill prepared for the British climate. I hope you can help me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said the woman relaxing her gaze. Her face was pock-marked and she wore spectacles. Together they rifled through the bolts of fabric and reviewed dress patterns. Cassandra submitted to a fitting, and the shop owner essentially abandoned her other customers, though they didn’t seem to mind, so fascinated were they with the striking American. The woman then found her some good woolen stockings, as well as heavier weight chemises and drawers. Cassandra’s shoes were as fit for the weather as could be expected, as were her gloves and her cloak. She was beginning to feel she would be able to deal with the cold as long as it didn’t get too much worse.

  Paying the lady for her purchases, supplying her with the Hampshire address for their delivery and tipping her generously, Cassandra then hailed a hackney coach to take her the distance to the bank on Threadneedle Street. She carried only a small package containing her new undergarments. She would pay for the finished gowns when they were delivered to her.

  When the cab stopped in front of the bank, Cassandra stepped out gingerly onto the muddy street and picked her way to the entrance of the enormous columned building, the original Bank of England. A doorman opened the heavy wooden doors, and looked down at her, lips pursed. Inside the bank, the air was only slightly warmer than the outside; a fire burned impotently in a great stone fireplace. The ceilings were too high, the granite walls and marble floors too unforgiving to allow themselves to be warmed. Before she could decide whom to approach, the bank manager hurried up to her as fast as his girth would allow, a frown creasing his flushed brow.

  “Good morning, miss, is there something we can do for you?” he asked in a syrupy tone.

  “Yes, I am, um, looking for a Mr. Howard,” Cassandra said modestly. “I am Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.”

  “Oh, of course, Mrs. Franklin! Please forgive me. I am Mr. Howard.” He suddenly stood up taller and tugged at his lapels. After all, this woman’s legal representative had recently deposited several thousand pounds in his bank. “Right this way, madam. Please come into my office and we shall settle your business there.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, and followed him into a large room with windows set high, a grand wooden desk with claw feet and two well-worn leather chairs, one on each side of the desk, all warmed somewhat more efficiently by a coal stove.

  She withdrew two thousand pounds, more than enough to get her through the year. The full year’s rent on the house had been paid by Jake, which included the salaries of all the servants. It was odd handling money, Cassandra thought. In the twenty-second century, skin-cell scanning was how one was identified to every bank-linked computer in nearly every shop or restaurant. She took the bills and coins and put them in her bag, enjoying the new feel of the money in her hand. She thanked Mr. Howard; he bowed deeply and offered his personal carriage and a bodyguard to escort her back to the inn. She gratefully accepted, and, once she arrived at her room, locked the money in the false bottom of her suitcase.

  Jake had assured Cassandra that Sorrel Hall, as her new country home was called, had a fine piano, and he’d designated a music shop for her in London where she could buy sheet music. She’d brought none for fear of inadvertently exposing any composers who had not yet been published. So after a modest lunch alone in her room, she walked the few blocks to the shop, Jake’s directions clutched in her hand. From halfway down the street she saw the sign Stockard’s Music Shop. She entered the quiet store, dimly lit by half-burned candles and a small fire flickering in the corner hearth. The familiar smell of wood and old paper was tinged with pipe tobacco. Sheet music stores haven’t changed in three hundred years, she thought.

  The shopkeeper smiled at her. He was in his fifties, she guessed, with longish graying hair and warm brown eyes. His glance lingered on her for a moment; then he returned to closely examining a cello bow. She sighed with relief, knowing it was natural for a lady to be looking about in a music store.

  Cassandra soon located Bach. The store had an admirable selection, and she chose several pieces that she had never tried to master. She then leafed through Beethoven; some of her favorite sonatas were there and some minor piano pieces. She browsed down the alphabet; there was plenty of Italian baroque, some of which she selected, but she didn’t recognize too much else until she came to the H’s where she found Handel and Hayden, some of which she had never seen before. She felt like a kid finding her Easter basket. Moving on, she located Mozart, and farther on Scarlatti, but no Schubert.

  “Excuse me, you do not carry Schubert?”

  “I am sorry, miss?” he looked up from his work.

  “Schubert, Franz Schubert?”

  “I am sorry, miss, I have never heard of him. Is he modern?”

  “Yes, he is, quite modern. I heard him in Ger…Austria when I was there,” she said, remembering that Germany, as such, did not yet exist, and neither did the works of Schubert. “But, I am being silly; his work cannot be known outside of that country yet.”

  “Do not trouble yourself, miss. Is there anything else I can help you find?”

  “No,” she replied, looking at the pile of music in her arms. Realizing that it would not all fit in her suitcase, she said, “let me narrow down my selections a little,” and culling through her choices, she finally laid several pieces in front of him on the counter.

  “Wonderful selections, miss. You must be quite a musician.”

  She smiled. “I do not think I am, but I love to play.”

  “That is all that matters, is it not? Where shall I have your package delivered?”

  “The White Hart, Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.”

  He stopped for a moment, surprised, and studied her. “My pleasure, Mrs. Franklin, I will have them there shortly.”

  She paid him and then made the bold move to shake his hand. “You are Mr. Stockard?”

  “Yes, I am, and it is delightful to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” she replied.

  “I hope to see you again.”

  “I am moving down to Hampshire tomorrow, but whenever I am in London, I shall visit your shop.”

  “I will look forward to it.”

  “Good afternoon,” she said with a smile and stepped out into the waning daylight.

  It was early, not yet four, but the days were short in London in winter, especially with the fog and overcast sky. She imagined it best to hurry back to the inn. Feeling confident of the way, she turned left out of the shop and walked past several storefronts until suddenly she felt disoriented. No, wait, she thought; she had come from the other way. She walked back and passed the shop again, continued to the end of the block, and turned left. Was it one or two blocks to Long Acre, she wondered. She couldn’t remember, and the fog was closing in, making it difficult to see. She had heard about these fogs. They were much more severe than in modern London, due to so much smoke, mixed with the vapors off the river. She searched her pocket for Jake’s directions but it was not there. She tried her handbag, but could not locate the slip of paper. Her jaw tightened. In spite of the fact that she had walked these same streets in the simulations, in reality, they did not look quite the same, and she now wasn’t sure if she had gone one block or two. She couldn’t see the street signs, nor even ten feet in front of her, and felt a twinge of anxiety. She continued on and nearly fell off a curb. This must be Long Acre, she thought. She could hear carriages passing in front and could just make out their looming shapes. The streets were starting to thin of people and vehicles. She turned right and walked for a few minutes, but it was getting darker and the fog was engulfing. She didn’t know if she had passed the inn now. She looked for the overhead signs, but could see nothing. Maybe she had gone too far. S
he walked back to the corner, passing the occasional pedestrian who would appear suddenly out of the mist. She then walked carefully back in the direction she thought the White Hart to be, feeling along the walls for doorways. Her panic rose. What if I can’t find it, she wondered. She could only dimly see the light of the gas lamps along the street. She kept walking; surely it couldn’t be this far. She began to turn back, when all of a sudden someone grabbed her arm. She gasped and tried to wrench away, while feeling for the knife in her cloak pocket.

  “Mrs. Franklin!” said a voice. The face came into focus.

  “Mr. Stockard!” she cried with relief.

  “I decided to bring your music myself,” he said. “I think I must have given you quite a start.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, her heart pounding. “I am so relieved to see you! I cannot find the inn.”

  “It is right here,” he said, and in a few steps they were through the front of the door and inside.

  “I am afraid I am not used to the fog.” She touched her damp brow with the back of her gloved hand.

  “It can be quite treacherous,” he replied. “Sir,” he called to the porter, “Help Mrs. Franklin to a chair and bring her a glass of wine.”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” she said. “I think I will just go to my room. Thank you so much for your help. You are my hero today.” She thought she detected a blush.

  “I am just happy I arrived when I did. Miss,” he called out to Betsy who had come over to see what the commotion was. “Will you please carry this package upstairs for Mrs. Franklin?”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Cassandra, “I shall take it. I really am fine now, I assure you. But thank you again.”

  “It was my pleasure,” replied Mr. Stockard, smiling. “Goodnight then,” he said, tipping his hat to her. “I hope we meet again.”

  “I hope so too,” responded Cassandra graciously. “Goodnight.” She smiled and shook his hand again. He opened the door and stepped briskly into the murky evening.

  Cassandra ordered the wine in her room after all. If she was ever in need of a “soother” it was now. She told the porter she would have supper in the dining parlor in an hour. She didn’t feel like spending the evening alone.

  Her fire had been lit. She threw off her cloak and gloves and sank onto the bed. She looked over at the window; it was as if someone had hung a gray blanket outside. She sipped her wine and allowed its relaxing effect. Eventually she got up, lit some lamps and candles, and pored over her new music. Hunger finally led her to set it aside, and she wandered down to the front desk to have a coach ordered for nine in the morning to take her the forty miles to Hampshire the next day.

  In the dining parlor, she was seated at a round table with four other guests, three men and a forlorn-looking young woman, thin and pale with light brown hair and large dark eyes in an oval face. During the course of the meal of leek soup, roast chicken and potatoes, boiled Brussels sprouts, fresh rolls and butter, cold ham and roast beef, dried fruit, cheese and cake, she chatted with the gentlemen. Each of them was a merchant of different sorts, in town for varying lengths of time to sell their wares.

  Cassandra found it difficult to draw much information out of them because they were mostly curious about her. They wanted to know all about America and her reasons for travelling alone so far. Cassandra didn’t reveal much except that she was born in Lyme Regis on the southern coast of England, and had moved to America with her parents when she was barely six years. She had married, had a son, and was eventually widowed. She’d longed to return to her homeland, and was going to Hampshire while her son studied at Harvard.

  The young woman seated with them at the table had been staring at her.

  “Do you mind if I ask where you are traveling to?” Cassandra said, turning to her. The merchants lost interest and began to talk among themselves.

  The girl addressed her plate. “I am going to Kent, ma’am.” Her light brown hair was pulled tightly into a bun, making her sharp cheekbones all the more prominent.

  “I am Cassandra Franklin. Do you mind if I ask what takes you to Kent?”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Rosalind Carr. I am going to be a governess, ma’am.” Her response was barely audible.

  “Oh!” said Cassandra. “How many children will you care for?”

  “Four, ma’am.”

  “Girls or boys?”

  “Three girls and a boy. The eldest girl is seven. The boy is the youngest; he is two.”

  “Ah.” Cassandra felt inadequate in her response. Her questioning was not having the enlivening effect she had hoped.

  “Have you met your employer?” She asked in a last effort.

  “No,” said Rosalind with a tremor in her voice. Her pointed chin began to quiver.

  Cassandra gently touched her arm. “Oh, I am sure they are a lovely family.”

  “I am sure they are, ma’am.” The young woman retrieved a hankie from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Please excuse me,” she said, pushing her half-eaten supper away. “I am terribly exhausted. I think I shall retire. Goodnight.” She hurried out of the dining room.

  Cassandra sighed and finished her meal in silence. The men finally took their leave to go smoke cigars, and, fatigued, Cassandra went upstairs to her room.

  She pulled out her journal. It looked exactly like any lady’s diary of that time, and though she’d begun practicing the archaic art of putting pen to paper a few months ago, the pages remained blank. There was a slim, golden bookmark attached with a clip to the book. Whenever she made an entry containing anachronistic information, she would run the bookmark over the page and her entry would disappear into the microscopic chips, residing both in the bookmark and the page. She dipped her pen into the inkwell.

  January 15, 1820 – I met a young woman tonight, Rosalind, who is going to work as a nanny, obviously traveling alone, probably because there was no money for a maid or a companion. At least she has good lodgings, possibly paid for by the new employers so maybe they will be kind to her. The poor thing wasn’t unattractive; I suppose she has a chance of meeting a man and marrying, but if her family is so impoverished that they had to send her off to be a governess, that means she doesn’t have a dowry. I imagine she hasn’t had any marriage prospects thus far.

  It makes me think that perhaps my own invention of a life as a wealthy widow is unrealistic. Most of these women had no say over their destinies—so often their husbands’ estates were left to surviving male relatives, whom their wives became dependent on. As the independent American, I am in an envious position.

  At any rate, my year’s experiment has begun. This will be a fascinating time, learning from a perspective that no other research on the time period could ever hope to reveal. My one day here has already proven so interesting, so challenging. I am elated at the prospect of what lies before me.

  ******

  Cassandra wiped out the final two paragraphs of her entry with the bookmark. She stretched. The room was warm and cozy from the fire that had been maintained while she was at dinner. She went through her nighttime beauty routine and climbed into bed. She had brought a couple of reproduced books with her, some of the Gothic novels Miss Austen so loved to satirize, so that she’d have them on hand and wouldn’t have to spend time in London searching for them. By the light of the candle, she read Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho until she finally blew out the flame. As the complete darkness enveloped her, the thrill of the story remained. For a moment, in Cassandra’s dreamlike wakefulness, fog swirled around a woman in a hooded cloak—the frail governess standing alone in the heath on the moors. In the next instant, without assistance from any potion, the time traveler fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 3

  In the morning, Cassandra rose early, stirred up the fire, began to dress and pack up her things. She felt disgusting from not having had a proper bath. Hopefully I don’t smell too bad, she thought, God knows it’s going to be hard to go a year wi
thout a shower.

  At eight Betsy appeared with her breakfast. The coach arrived precisely an hour later, and within a few moments, she bid farewell to the White Hart. A footman guided her step into the black, polished carriage pulled by four horses.

  She stared out the window as the coach rattled on the cobblestone streets, passing closely packed shops with residences above them. The steps were well swept, the hanging signs brightly painted, and smartly dressed patrons hurried along, clutching their cloaks. The coach headed south and soon they were following the river. The spires of Westminster Abbey rose in the cold morning sun and Cassandra peered around to identify which other major landmarks of London had not changed between then and three hundred years in the future. Big Ben was not yet part of the skyline, nor certainly the London Eye or Grant Tower, the tallest building in Europe since the year 2100. But the Houses of Parliament were there, and farther south across the river she could just make out the top of Lambeth Palace. Her view of the Thames was suddenly blocked by a high brick wall that continued on for some time; it gave her an uneasy feeling of confinement and she was relieved when it was behind them.

  The smell of rot began to penetrate the closed windows of the carriage. The streets ceased to be cobblestone and grew muddy with the urine of horses. The houses became narrower, squeezed more tightly together, some leaning against each other for support. A butcher exited his shop and flung a bucket of blood into the street, barely missing the coach. Children in rags scurried through the streets and Cassandra feared they would be crushed by the wheels of the many rushing vehicles. Once the coach was beyond the city proper, she noticed the neighborhoods grew prosperous again with large stone homes surrounded by gardens, now winter bare. The horses climbed a bridge over the Thames and Cassandra watched boats glide under and out from the other side. The countryside opened before her and she was struck by the stillness of it. The road narrowed, fewer people were walking, some on horseback, some in carts and coaches, all bundled against the freezing air, the sun impotent in the bright blue sky.