March 18, 1820—It’s all more of the same. Getting together with the different families in the neighborhood, chatting awhile, coming home, doing nothing much of interest. I’ve been to some dinners and have thrown a few myself, but the conversation is always the same, and I tell that damned story endlessly. I’m starting to wonder why I thought this was going to be such a fascinating scientific exercise. I can’t even muster up the interest to comment further.
March 25, 1820—The weather is dreadful and I’m going out of my mind. I miss my home in Boston, my son, my friends, and activity!
April 7, 1820—Last night I dreamt I was standing in a room with a single window; a gauzy curtain fluttered. When I saw my reflection in the full length mirror, I was only wearing my chemise and bloomers. I was being dressed by several maids whose faces I could not see. One pulled a dress down over my head, another yanked on the sleeves, while another one was buttoning up the back. The fourth immediately went to work on my hair. They weren’t listening to my requests, but treating me as if I were a doll. Exasperated, I ordered them away and they fled in tears.
I woke up in a sweat, realizing that the dream bore a resemblance to a simulation sequence I had practiced with Shannon again and again. In reality, nothing so extreme has occurred in my dealings with Mary and the other servants. And that’s just the problem. Nothing of interest has occurred. I’m crawling out of my skin with boredom. It’s been three months since I arrived at Sorrel Hall and they’ve been three months of being cooped up inside this freezing cold house with nothing to do but go out in the cold to visit neighbors in their cold houses, and sit stiffly and reply graciously to their mundane observations on the cold weather. Well, that’s not entirely true; I do like Lady Holcomb, who lives nearby, and have made new friends with her, the Moores, and the Clarkes.
I’m probably a better pianist now than ever, having little else to do for the last three months. Other than that, and the challenge of constantly striving to say and do the correct things, there are no balls, no handsome officers coming to town, no scandals—nothing that Miss Austen led me to believe I could expect. At least today there is some warm weather, so I can get out into the garden. This is not going at all like I thought it would.
Chapter 5
Cassandra flung open the western door that led out onto the flower garden. The cool, morning air of spring rushed in and blew her hair about her face. She brushed it away with a pang of guilt for not having allowed Mary to put it up. She simply hadn’t had the patience. She grabbed her sunbonnet from the rack next to the door and slapped it on her head, glancing quickly in the mirror. What she saw was a fresh, pretty face with a few too many freckles and wild, reddish curls breaking out from under the bonnet. She decided it would have to do.
She marched across the damp lawn to the long, rectangular greenhouse; then hesitated before opening the glass door. The building was Mr. Merriweather’s domain. He was the Head Gardner and not even Cassandra’s own title of Mistress of Sorrel Hall could quite make her feel comfortable enough to intrude without invitation, though in the last two weeks, she’d talked her way in a handful of times to help him with some of the flowers and vegetables he’d started from seed. She took a breath and went in.
The old man, upright and slim with a shock of thick, white hair on his head was standing at a work table in brown wool trousers and a muslin shirt, transferring the flower seedlings into crates for Cassandra to plant in the garden. He snapped his head around to look at her as she entered.
She tried her most winning smile. “Good morning Mr. Merriweather!”
He turned back to his work and grunted.
“Are those for me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Got some young peony bushes, wallflowers, sweet williams ”
“Oh, thank you!” She went to a tall, wooden cabinet, gray with age, and removed her gardening gloves, a spade and a few brown paper packages of seeds she’d bought in Selborne the week before. She returned to the gardener.
“Are they ready?”
“Yes ma’am,” he croaked. She added her things to one of the boxes. “Let me carry it for you, now.”
“No, no,” Cassandra replied with purpose. “I can do it, please do not trouble yourself.”
He frowned at her. “I shall bring out the shovel and the hoe then.”
“Yes, thank you. I do appreciate your help.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Cassandra hefted the crate and turned to go, Mr. Merriweather following with the implements. They walked back across the grass, Cassandra more aware, now that he was behind her, of the dew moistening her hem and her tousled hair. She saw Mary waiting for them in the garden, bonnet slightly askew, holding a tray of lemonade, glasses, and biscuits. Cassandra smiled at her as they approached. Mary returned a self-conscious grin, her lips barely clearing her crooked front teeth.
“Please set down the tray there on the bench, Mary, and relax. I do not expect you to dig in the dirt with me.”
“Whatever you desire, ma’am.” Mary set the tray down with a rattle and plopped onto the bench. Cassandra winced. In the nearly three months she’d now been at Sorrel Hall, she still wasn’t used to all the servants calling her that.
“Thank you, Mr. Merriweather,” she said. “I know you have much to do with your day. I shall be quite well taken care of by Mary here.”
“Ma’am,” he began hesitantly. “I wish you would let me do the work. It is my job. A lady should not be performing such a dirty task.”
“Sir, there is nothing in the world I would rather do. I cannot sit in that house one moment longer doing nothing of use. Please, allow me to work. I know what I am doing. I am used to tending my own garden in the States.”
A flicker of approval passed over his face. “Very well, then.” He turned and walked away.
Cassandra pulled on her gloves and crouched in the dirt with her plants. The sun rose in the sky as Mary drowsed in the shade and Cassandra worked, humming to herself. She was snipping away at a rosebush, trying to keep her hair and clothing from snagging on the thorns, when she heard the clopping of horses’ hooves on the drive and glanced up to see a man approaching on horseback, so near that she wondered she had not heard him before. She was startled, recollecting that she was not presentable for visitors, especially men.
“Pardon me, miss!” he called. Mary jumped up from her seat, and for a moment, Cassandra wasn’t sure if he was referring to her or her maid.
“Yes, can I help you?” Cassandra replied, and in the process of disentangling herself from the rosebush, stumbled over the shovel that was lying in front of her. Mary reached out to steady her mistress, grabbed the offending instrument, and hurried off to the greenhouse with it.
“I am so sorry to disturb you.”
She tried to smooth her mass of curls.
“I seem to be lost.” The man continued, “I am looking for Gatewick House, and I must have made a wrong turn.” He sat tall in his saddle. A tan greatcoat fell to his knees, and sable riding boots covered trousers of the same hue. A broad, tan hat sat on his head, shading his features.
“It is very easy to overlook,” she said. “The entrance is partially obscured by the shrubbery and is probably quite overgrown by now.” She looked around for Mary, surprised to see that the girl had deserted her. “Are you thinking of buying it?”
“Well, really, I do not know, just looking, I suppose.”
“It is a lovely place. Just go up to the road, turn right, and continue back about a mile. Look carefully on the left; you should see the drive.”
Cassandra could see his eyes narrow, lingering on her face before he spoke.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “So sorry to have disturbed you.”
“It is not a bother,” she replied. “Would you care to stop to eat? It must be nearly one.”
He stammered, “That is very kind of you, miss, uh, madam, uh, I believe the housekeeper at Gatewick is expecting me; I had best be on my way. But, please excuse m
y rudeness; my name is Johnston, Mr. Benedict Johnston.”
“Very nice to meet you,” she said, smiling, “I am Mrs. Franklin.”
“Are you the lady of the manor?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied, following his glance over the muddy apron, her dirty hands, her gloves, tools, weeds, and empty plant crates strewn on the ground.
“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “perhaps we shall have the pleasure to meet again.”
“That would be nice,” she said simply.
He began to go but stopped. “May I ask where you are from?”
“America.”
“Funny, I knew an American fellow once, he spoke nothing like you.”
She paused and bit her lip. “He may have been from the southern region.”
“Ah, that must be it. Good day.” He turned his horse and rode away.
Cassandra looked around again for Mary and sighed. She gathered up her things and took them back to the greenhouse. Mr. Merriweather had gone.
After washing up, she went downstairs into the dining room and glanced at the elaborate place setting for one. It was positioned at the head of the table, her chair facing the tall, many-paned windows. Candles brightened the dark wood of the room. A slight servant with light blond hair, dressed in the house livery, stiffly walked over and pulled out Cassandra’s chair. She nodded and sat down on its gold-brocade seat, resting her hands on the darkly stained wood of the armrests. She stared at the gilt-edged china that was covered with small, painted red roses, and at the three silver forks at her left, the two knives and two spoons at her right, and the spoon and small fork set above the plate. All the silver was embossed, amongst many curlicues, with the letter “C” for Collins. Above the knives were arranged three crystal goblets, and a small bread plate and knife awaited her use on the right. Such a fuss, she thought. How many times had she hinted to Mrs. Merriweather that she preferred to take her meals in the cheery breakfast room, no matter the time of day, whenever she wasn’t out dining or entertaining at home, and that she could dispense with at least half of the dishware? Each time, the housekeeper had regarded her stonily with a tight smile and a nod.
Cassandra shoved the chair back out while the servant, who’d been standing rigidly against the wall, scurried to grab it. “Never mind, Thomas, you can relax,” she said to the pale young man. She marched out of the room and into the kitchen where she found the Anna, the cook, ladling a green-colored soup into a tureen held by Mrs. Merriweather.
“Is that for me?” Cassandra asked Anna innocently.
“Yes, Mrs. Franklin,” Mrs. Merriweather replied. The woman seemed to look right through her with slate-colored eyes.
“And all of this?” Her hand swept over platters of beef, potatoes, rolls, cheeses and sundry side dishes, resting on a massive, wooden table.
“Yes, Mrs. Franklin,” replied Anna. Her hand was poised, holding the ladle over the bowl. Her face was flushed as red as her hair, and her blue eyes grew larger in her wide face.
“Anna, Mrs. Merriweather.” Cassandra took a deep breath and made an effort to speak patiently. “We are expecting no luncheon guests.”
“Yes, ma’am, that is true,” said Mrs. Merriweather.
“But I can never eat all this food!”
Anna lowered the ladle into the soup pot on the stove. She looked at the housekeeper.
“Well, Mrs. Franklin,” Mrs. Merriweather began, “It is proper to serve a luncheon befitting the mistress of the house. It is the way things are done.”
“Yes, but,” Cassandra said with a smile, “it is not how I want them done. Now then.” She peeked into the tureen. “What is this?”
“Asparagus soup.”
“Good. I will take a bowl of that. She went to look over the platters on the kitchen table. “I shall take a piece of the beef, a small helping of potatoes, some of …whatever this is; it looks good; a roll, and that is all.”
The two women exchanged looks. “Very well, Mrs. Franklin,” said Mrs. Merriweather with poise.
“Whatever is left over—well, I shall leave it to your imagination, Anna, for I do not presume to do your job for you, but I am sure the meat and potatoes would make a fine hash. Please make sure the servants enjoy as much of the food as they would like first. If there is still any left after that, I would like to see it delivered to one or more of the farmers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Anna replied. Cassandra winked at her while Mrs. Merriweather was looking over the food. Anna grinned.
“Any salad greens yet from the greenhouse? I meant to ask your husband, Mrs. Merriweather.”
“No, but in just a few more weeks, he says.”
“Ugh! I can hardly survive much longer without a nice green salad!”
Anna and Mrs. Merriweather exchanged glances. Cassandra turned and walked back to the dining room and Thomas leapt to grab her chair. She smiled at him. A diminutive female servant walked in with the soup tureen and began ladling the steaming liquid into Cassandra’s bowl, until her mistress held up a hand for her stop. “Lydia, when you have a chance, please remove these wine glasses and inform Mrs. Merriweather that I shall not be taking wine with lunch.” The girl curtsied and left the room, rushing in a moment later to pluck the glasses from the table.
Cassandra began to eat, with nothing else to do but stare out the window and try to not be aware of Thomas’ presence against the wall. She longed to be able to read a book while she took her meals.
After lunch, she submitted to Mary’s fussing over her hair. She sat in her bedroom at the dressing table while her maid arranged her curls on the top of her head. She then chose a dark blue, silk gown for afternoon wear and allowed the maid to button it up the back and tie the ribbon that graced the seam under the bodice. When Mary finished with the bow, Cassandra made a step for the door.
“Wait, if you please, ma’am.”
Cassandra sighed. She was anxious to get to her piano.
Mary walked around her mistress plucking at the dress, arranging the folds of the high-waisted gown so that they fell prettily into their proper place.
“Okay!” Cassandra blurted.
Mary jumped back. “Beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“I mean,” Cassandra remembered that ‘okay’ was not an expression they would know. “That will do, Mary.” She smiled to soften the command, patted the girl on the hand, and walked out of the room. Mary scurried after her.
“Mary, is there not something else that needs doing up here?”
“Um, no ma’am, now that the Collinses is no longer here, there is nothing needs doing.”
“Very well, why do you not relax for a while? Take a nap.”
“No, ma’am, if Mrs. Merriweather were ever to—”
“Very well, but I do not wish you to accompany me to my piano. I would like to have some time to myself while I play.” She’d explained this to the girl a hundred times.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She went to her instrument and settled herself down on the seat. She selected the music she was to play, ran her fingers through a few scales, then, clearing her mind, struck the tender opening notes of the first movement of a Beethoven sonata and became absorbed in the music.
Cassandra heard a sound behind her that made her clang a foul note. She turned and beheld Mary, brown eyes staring, her receding chin set in determination.
“Mrs. Franklin…”
Cassandra took a deep breath. “Yes?”
“Madam,” the maid continued, “You have visitors. Lady Charles, Miss Charles, and a Miss Fairchild have come. I have shown them to the parlor.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Cassandra. “What could they want?”
“I am sorry, I do not know. Should I tell them you cannot be disturbed?”
“No, of course not,” replied Cassandra, surrendering to a kinder tone. She got up and preceded the girl into the formal parlor. She did not dare entertain the regal Lady Charles in the inferior sitting room.
�
��Lady Charles! Miss Charles!” she exclaimed as she entered the room. “No, no, do not get up! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Franklin, we came to introduce you to my niece, Miss Fairchild, who is visiting from Birmingham. Say hello, Eunice.”
Miss Fairchild whimpered, “Good afternoon.”
“We have been telling Eunice about your fascinating life,” said Lady Charles. “She has never met an American before.” Eunice agreed by shaking her head. The girl looked upon Cassandra with awe.
The two young cousins presented quite a contrast to each other. Miss Charles, at eighteen, was bright-cheeked and the slightest bit plump. Her shining blond curls bounced around her face when she moved or spoke, and her blue eyes danced with youth. Miss Fairchild was thin and sallow. Cassandra guessed she was about a year her cousin’s junior, but had yet to bloom. Her hair wasn’t quite blond, rather an ashy light brown. Her eyes were also blue, but her pale lashes did not set them off. Her features weren’t unpleasing, but she had little charm.
Lady Charles was the picture of her daughter, thirty years, about thirty pounds, and many gray hairs later. One could see that she had once been attractive, but now solely devoted herself to running the finest home in the county and marrying off her youngest daughter.
“Please, Mrs. Franklin,” said Lady Charles. “Would you be so good as to recount to my niece the particulars of why you left America and came to reside in England? I could not remember all the details, and besides, it is so much more interesting coming from you. You have a way of saying things that is so very…I mean your manner is so—”
“I am honored that anyone would be so interested in my humble life,” she offered, all smiles. Inwardly, she felt weary about recounting the story yet again. The emotional toll it took on her was considerable, though it was a necessary part of her creation of the character of Mrs. Cassandra Franklin. Before the journey, she had practiced the story numerous times in simulations and finally underwent hypnosis to key her in to the feelings she would need to talk about a painful past that never existed. Even the many acting classes she’d taken in school couldn’t prepare her sufficiently.
The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) Page 5