The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  What a different a world it was, she thought, without rapid-rail lines, highway systems, and ground vehicles. By the year 2075, when Cassandra was ten years old, the rapid-rail system in the United States had been completed. She thought fondly of it now as she rode in the jolting carriage with no warmth other than the scratchy wool blankets provided. The rail system was elevated high off the ground and ran noiselessly. The cars were comfortable and sunny with domed roofs of flexi-glass to allow for an optimum view. It could deliver Cassandra from Boston all the way across the country to her grandmother’s in Portland, Oregon in only twenty-four hours.

  How odd, she thought, to be riding for so many hours with literally nothing to do but look out the window since it was too bumpy to read, or write in a journal. When the driver stopped to let the horses rest and drink water from a half-frozen pond just off the main road, she stepped out to stretch her legs. She pulled her arms inside her cloak for warmth and meandered a ways out into a meadow, brown with dead grass. There were no birds in the bare trees, no wind blew, no houses were near, and there was no one else traveling on the road. The only sounds to be heard were the cajoling of the coachman as he unhitched the horses one by one and led them to the water, the light jingling of their bridles as they drank, an occasional soft whinny. It occurred to her that in her future world, one was always aware of the hum of civilization no matter where you were, even though relatively noiseless cars ran along grooved roads that provided the needed energy; the super-sonic jets that streaked through the skies were nearly silent, and in the cities, sleek, efficient subway trains whooshed quietly underneath. But here, outside of the major towns, the silence was absolute.

  They were soon on their way again and as she rode and observed the countryside she realized that it was also strange to be seeing so few buildings. In her world, she thought with satisfaction, at least billboards were now forbidden in most countries, and power lines unnecessary, but progress marched ever onward and Cassandra knew there was hardly a place on earth anymore where it didn’t leave its mark. In this world there was nothing to mar the vista of fields, woods, stone fences, and hedgerows, just an occasional farm or manor house and the small towns that they traveled through.

  They rode into the Village of Selborne with a short row of shops along High Street. She pressed her forehead against the window as they passed the house she recognized from her research as the Wakes, large and rambling with peaked garrets and multiple chimneys jutting up into the darkening sky, surrounded by gardens that she imagined infused with color in the spring. Its previous owner, renowned naturalist Gilbert White, had died two decades before, but was still considered the father of modern scientific documentation, meticulously journaling his thoughts and observations on the natural world.

  Not long after they’d left Selborne behind, they turned onto a road surrounded on all sides by bare trees and shrubs, just wide enough for the coach to pass through. She was feeling nauseated from the ride and also hungry. She had the blankets wrapped around her tightly but her feet and face were frozen. She hoped it wouldn’t be long now. Ten minutes later the coach passed between high evergreen hedges, and Cassandra felt it must be entry to the Sorrel Hall grounds. Moments later, the view opened out onto the vast browns, greens, and yellows of the gardens and parkland, and there was the house in the distance. It was set on a slight hill and flanked by a sentinel of oaks, their branches reaching up past the roof. Beyond the house, Cassandra could perceive a massive stretch of lawn and a silver glimmer of lake, and surrounding it, rolling hills and dense forests. A gazebo was off to the left, perched elegantly on a hill, and to the right, down a gentle slope at the edge of the woods, she spied a fairy tale cottage that could have been made of gingerbread, a ribbon of smoke rising from its chimney. The sun was setting and the world glowed in a soft, pink light.

  Sorrel Hall was more beautiful than she ever imagined. It was two stories, built of pale yellow stone. Garrets on the two front corners and the peaked roof of the nursery in the center added a third story. Tall windows lined both levels, and on the two front, lower corners, bay windows jutted out from diminutive towers. Jake and Cassandra had considered, in the days between his return from 1820 and her own departure, driving down to Hampshire to see the grounds, as the manor was now an elite boarding school. She had decided against it, for she wanted to experience it in its original glory. She was grateful she had waited.

  The coach pulled up to the front of the building, and the footman leapt off to open the carriage door and help her out. She flexed her stiff knees and stretched her back, then paid the driver and turned to face the house. The grand front doors opened, and the housekeeper stepped out, greeting Cassandra with a stony stare. She was a woman of about fifty, sturdy, and handsome, with strong bones, clear gray eyes, and steely hair pulled back neatly into a bun.

  “Mrs. Franklin.” the housekeeper stated without expression as Cassandra walked up the steps.

  “You must be Mrs. Merriweather!” she replied, remembering the woman’s name from Jake’s notes.

  “Yes. Welcome. Footman!” she commanded. “Bring that in here,” and directed him to carry the luggage inside. Cassandra tipped him and then nervously stepped through the doorway. She pulled herself up straight and tried to feel like the mistress of the manor. The walls of the entryway were paneled in golden oak, and the floor was pale green marble, worn from a hundred years of use. There was a chandelier wrought of intricate ironwork and countless crystal teardrops suspended from the high ceiling. There were two small, marble-topped tables on either side of the door, and a few steps beyond, a large, elaborately carved, cedar armoire for coats. The entryway culminated in a grand stairway to the back of which, and on either side, were two sets of French doors, candlelight sparkling invitingly through the glass. On the left and right sides of the entryway were four more sets of French doors, the closer of which were delicately curtained in lace. Mrs. Merriweather led her through the first set of doors on the left.

  “Please sit down if you care to; I shall order tea. Mary,” she called to a short, plain-looking maid, “come take Mrs. Franklin’s cloak.”

  “Thank you very much,” Cassandra said to Mary, “but I shall keep my cloak for now.” She clutched it against the chill of the interior. “I shall have tea in a while, but at the moment would very much like a glass of water.” The maid scurried off to fetch it. “I should like to examine the house if you do not mind.” Her tone was commanding and Mrs. Merriweather nodded her assent. Cassandra then turned to admire the room she had just entered. Her nerves were getting the better of her, and she had to fight the urge to giggle as she beheld the beautiful space. It was not as formal as she had expected. The chairs and sofa were plump and newly upholstered in rich fabrics, with carved, marble-topped low tables of mottled gray placed conveniently about. The fire in the large fireplace was blazing—ineffectually. It reflected off a shining, wood parquet floor, scattered with Turkish carpets of vivid reds and rusts. The front of the room faced out onto the approach of the house, and through the many tall windows the countryside beyond could be seen in the waning light. There was a built-in seating area within the circular bay windows in the right front corner of the room. It was covered with velvet green cushions where, Cassandra imagined, she would lounge and enjoy the view from the gothic windows framing it.

  She turned her attention to the grand piano, a Broadwood, one of the finest English pianos ever made, she well knew, situated near the front windows.

  “I must take a moment to try the instrument,” she said to Merriweather.

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Cassandra detected resentment in the woman’s tone. Pretending not to notice, she sat down, opened the cover, and began to play a little minuet by Mozart. She had only meant to play a few measures to test the piano’s quality, but once she began, she couldn’t stop. She ended the last chord and glanced over at Mrs. Merriweather to see her face soften before she turned away.

  Cassandra wondered how
the housekeeper felt about the landowners. Jake had told her that the Collins had raised five children in the home; three of them married girls, and there were two boys. The parents had managed their finances badly, and the eldest son’s debts from gambling were so great that they decided to move to Bath where they could live less expensively in a townhouse. The younger son was a parson, unmarried, and still lived in the rectory on the property about a mile away. Cassandra imagined that Mrs. Merriweather had been displeased about the family’s decision to leave and turn over the house to a stranger.

  She rose from the piano and asked if she could be shown the rest of the house; the housekeeper nodded her assent. “Though you will want to look it all over again in the light of the day,” she commented, “I will take you through now, so that you can admire the rooms by lamplight.”

  She led Cassandra across the entry hall, through the opposite French doors and into a parlor, identical in dimensions to the one they had just left, but furnished with stiff, brocade chairs and sofas, spindly side tables and flowery rugs and draperies. Cassandra knew she would never use this room for herself. This was the parlor for receiving company, and it seemed cold and uncomfortable compared to the opposite room.

  “The Collins much preferred the sitting room to this parlor,” said Mrs. Merriweather.

  “And so do I,” replied Cassandra. “Though it is lovely,” she added politely.

  A glimmer of a smile flitted across the housekeeper’s face. Mary arrived with the water and Cassandra drank it in a few great swallows then handed the glass back to the maid. The girl looked from the glass to Mrs. Merriweather, while Cassandra instantly regretted her action. The housekeeper nodded Mary away and turned to lead her new mistress back into the entry hall and through another set of doors into the dining room. Beyond it was the breakfast room with windows facing to the east. A door to the left led them into the warm kitchen, where the servants had gathered to eat. The kitchen was capacious, had a pump sink, a wide hearth hung with pots, copper pans lining the walls, and herbs and strings of garlic and onions dangling from the ceiling. Cassandra liked the look of it; she enjoyed cooking, but although she would be helping to plan the meals, she would not be expected to help prepare them.

  Mrs. Merriweather introduced Cassandra to the assembled staff, at once on their feet upon her entering the kitchen. She nodded at them with a smile and they each nodded in return. As Mrs. Merriweather began to lead her back out again, Cassandra tapped her shoulder, and whispered to her that she required the water closet. The woman indicated a door off the kitchen, which Cassandra hastened to open. There she found a narrow hallway and the first door she opened revealed nothing but a wooden seat with a hole in it. With some difficulty she gathered up her cloak, petticoat and skirt, yanked down her drawers and sat. Cold radiated up from some unknowable source and she gasped. She finished peeing and looked around for something to wipe with. There were a pile of clean rags next to the seat, so she used one and deposited it in a bucket on the floor with others. The room stank and she hoped that the water closet she would be using on a regular basis would be more pleasant than this one, which she assumed was for the staff’s use.

  When she rejoined Mrs. Merriweather, the servants were all bent to their dinner and did not look up as Cassandra passed. She felt their embarrassment. She and the housekeeper continued out through the breakfast and dining rooms, through the entry hall, past the staircase and into the library. The room was old and comfortable, with the smell of paper and leather from the books lining every wall, and large, inviting leather chairs, slightly cracked with age. There was fire burning in a small fireplace on the north end of the room. The room was far warmer than the rest of the house and Cassandra found herself looking forward to perusing the bookshelves. Perhaps she would even find first-edition Jane Austens, she thought, and her heart leapt at the thought of reading her favorite author in England, just three years after her death.

  Beyond the library was a small study with a heavy desk for writing and conducting business, and from that room a door opened onto the west side of the grounds. The housekeeper then led Cassandra back into the library and through a doorway to the left, into a long and echoing space which was the conservatory, with burning candles in sconces along the walls. The west and north ends of the room were lined from floor to ceiling with windows, looking out across the great lawn to the lake, barely visible now in the last few moments of daylight. The conservatory was sparsely furnished. Two chaise lounges were placed at either end of the room, flanked by small, wrought-iron end tables. A white spinet piano stood in one corner. There were plants growing vigorously in Grecian planters along the windows, and more French doors opened out onto a brick veranda.

  “This room is used for balls and parties,” said Merriweather, seeming to think an explanation was required, “Since it is so very spacious. The Collins girls enjoyed many dances here.”

  “It is absolutely enchanting!”

  “I am pleased you like it,” the woman replied blankly. “Shall we continue upstairs?” She led Cassandra on without waiting for consent. “I will show you two of the best rooms. Both have their own sitting areas. Of course, there are eight bedrooms altogether, but you may want to look those over in the morning. I cannot think you would like any of them more than the two that I shall show you now.” It seemed more of a command than an observation.

  “I am sure I can trust your judgment,” Cassandra replied, and they went up the imposing marble staircase. On the second floor landing, portraits of ancestors stared in dark, murky palettes. She was grateful that Mrs. Merriweather forewent any historical explanations.

  She followed the housekeeper to south side of the landing, and through a door into a sitting room, done up in creams and blues. Through narrow glass doors, the bedroom was revealed. The floors were of smooth wooden planks. A four poster bed dominated the space, graced with a cream-colored eyelet bedspread and curtains. Tall windows were curtained with a blue floral print. A fire welcomed her.

  “Oh!” Cassandra cried, “I cannot imagine I should like any room better!” She removed her cloak and felt her body relax in the warmth of the space.

  “No, I did not think so,” replied Mrs. Merriweather. “This was Lady Collins’ room; the other belonged to Sir Frederick. That one is more suited to a gentleman.”

  “Well, this is perfect,” Cassandra decided.

  “I am glad you like it, ma’am.”

  “May I ask you a favor, Mrs. Merriweather?”

  “Anything you wish, Mrs. Franklin.”

  “I think I should like to take my supper here if you do not mind; I am tired and I would rather remain in my room for the night.”

  “Yes, of course, ma’am.”

  “And, finally, would it be terribly troublesome to ask for a bath to be drawn?”

  “Would you like it after supper?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  “I will have the tub brought up and filled for you then, when you are finished eating. In the meantime, I will send Mary to help you unpack.”

  “No, no, I would like to do it myself—I do not have much.”

  Disapproval flitted across the housekeeper’s face. “I shall send the bags up then, and leave you to yourself. Supper in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Cassandra replied. “And Mrs. Merriweather—I look forward to seeing more in the morning and to getting to know you better.” She wasn’t sure if it was the correct thing to say.

  “Goodnight. If you need anything from me, pull this cord,” she said indicating a red cord hanging on the wall. “The white one will bring Mary. She will be in charge of your supper and your bath.”

  “Very good,” said Cassandra, “Good night.”

  With that Mrs. Merriweather went out and closed the door. Cassandra was left standing and looking about, feeling at once relieved and bewildered.

  Chapter 4

  January 30, 1820—I met a Lady Holcomb and her two teenage children today, and e
njoyed their company very much. I visited just for a half an hour then returned home, played the piano, and read.

  February 3, 1820—Lady Holcomb returned the visit and we talked for more than an hour and had tea. She has a sense of humor and is very talkative. I was obliged to tell the fabricated history of what drove me from the U.S. to be settled here in England. It was the first time I’d related it, and I think I was convincing.

  After I returned home I did nothing but read and play the piano for the rest of the day. Mrs. Merriweather doesn’t want my input on meals or the running of the household, and since I have no idea what to do in that area, I haven’t tried to insist.

  February 5, 1820—Met the Moores, a wealthy landowner, his wife, and two silly young daughters, who regaled me with their stories of disappointed love. It was very amusing. Then I told them my woeful story, and they were suitably horrified.

  Afterward I came home, played the piano again, and read. There is no going outside for walks or other activities. It rains incessantly and is deathly cold.

  February 20, 1820—Met the Charles family, an insufferably overbearing and pretentious mother, a distant husband, and a vapid daughter. Was bored to tears and though I told them my personal history, since they wanted to know, I didn’t think they really cared. Well, the daughter seemed interested, but Lady Charles was more concerned with where I’d bought my gown. The husband only ate and then disappeared.

  I came home, walked throughout the house three times trying to get some exercise, played the piano, and went to bed.

  March 3, 1820—Met the Clarke family and entertained their pack of rambunctious children with stories and songs on the piano, which was fun. Avoided the long story, wasn’t in the mood. Came home. Read. Played piano.