“Oh, it is so much more exciting than anyone else’s life that I know of,” piped Miss Charles. “Mrs. Franklin related it to us upon our first meeting her,” she continued, speaking solely to her cousin, “and I felt like I was listening to an adventure story!”
“You exaggerate, my dear.” Lady Charles’ gaze traveled over Cassandra’s gown.
Cassandra glanced down at herself to see if anything was amiss. Mary came in with the tea and Cassandra served them all. When they were settled, she took a deep breath and commenced her story. Eunice leaned forward in anticipation.
Cassandra told how she’d left England with her mother and father and had gone to reside in America when she was a child of six, for reasons of her father’s business. “My mother and I enjoyed a fashionable life in New York.” She related. “My brother was born about two years after we settled there, and to me, he was a charming addition to our family.”
“I did not know you had a brother, ma’am,” said Miss Charles.
“Oh, maybe I have never mentioned him. At any rate, when I was eighteen, I became engaged to my husband, Zachary Franklin.”
“Americans have such odd names!” exclaimed Miss Charles, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
Lady Charles glared at her daughter.
Cassandra laughed. “Let me see, where was I?”
“You had just become betrothed,” the young woman offered.
“Oh, yes. So we were engaged and very happy, and soon we were married. Zachary was a printer of fine books and we set up house not far from my parents in a situation somewhat more modest, but very comfortable. A year after we were married, my son James was born.”
“May I ask how old is James now?” ventured Miss Charles.
“He is nineteen, almost twenty.”
Miss Charles and Eunice exchanged a look.
“My life was happy, but about three years ago, when James was sixteen, there was an outbreak of yellow fever in New York.” ‘Yellow fever’ was the trigger word to drop Cassandra into a deeper emotional connection.
“Oh dear,” peeped Eunice.
“Zachary insisted that James and I remove to my parents’ summer home in the country, far from the closeness and contagion of the city. We did so at once, and Zachary told us that he would soon follow, but first had to wrap things up at his printing shop. Fearful for my son, we left.”
“When may we meet your son, Mrs. Franklin?” Miss Charles broke in, the color in her cheeks high.
“Probably not for a great while,” Cassandra replied, knowing that time would never come.
“My dear, do not interrupt,” the girl’s mother chided, her voice shrill.
Cassandra continued, her face somber. “My husband should have left with us; he died of yellow fever a few weeks later. I was devastated to have not been with him at the end.” Her voice filled with emotion, “I should have nursed him myself, yet if I had stayed with him, I probably would have caught the disease myself.”
“How horrible!” Eunice was bold enough to say.
“Well, needless to say, I felt my life was over, so much did I love my husband.” The room was silent. A tear trickled down Cassandra’s cheek and she caught it with a linen napkin. “My son and my close family were my only comfort. When the city was safe again, I returned to the home that I’d shared with my husband. It was a very sad time for me, but I made the best of it. Then day, I decided to finally set upon the task of cleaning out Zachary’s desk.” A shudder went through her body. “While doing so, I chanced upon bills of sale for five different slaves.”
“How appalling!” exclaimed Eunice.
“It is simply barbaric,” agreed Miss Charles.
“Surely you must have known, Mrs. Franklin, how could you not have?” asked Lady Charles.
“I assure you,” said Cassandra, her eyes moist, “That I never had the slightest idea this was going on. I ran to my parents’ house and showed my father the receipts. He confessed that he knew Zachery was dealing in human flesh but kept it from me in the interest of protecting my feelings. He knew, though I did not, that Zachery’s printing business had not been doing well.”
Lady Charles clucked.
“And so, I asked my father to remove Zachery’s money from those horrible investments, and, not able to live any longer amongst the scenes of my former happiness, I took my dowry and the inheritance I had been promised and set sail to settle here in County Hampshire. It was a terrible ordeal, and I am trying to put it behind me.” She closed her eyes and took another deep breath, repeating her grandmother’s name, Chloë, three times to herself, a trick she had used during hypnosis to bring her back to the present. Her mind flooded with calm, and the emotions receded. She felt herself return fully to her surroundings.
“How astonishing,” sighed Eunice. “It really is like what one reads about in books.”
“I told you the story was fascinating,” said Miss Charles to her cousin. “Are you not glad to have heard it directly from her?”
“Oh, yes,” declared Eunice. “Mrs. Franklin,” she continued, “I am amazed that you can have a son of nineteen, when you look scarcely above thirty yourself. My mother is thirty-five and she looks abominably old.”
“Eunice!” cried Lady Charles, her nose in the air, “One does not discuss a lady’s age! I am sure Mrs. Franklin is every bit as old as she says she is. I would not guess her a day over forty-five.”
“I am thirty-eight,” stated Cassandra.
“It is impossible,” insisted Eunice.
“Perhaps the water in America has a youthful effect,” said her cousin. “After all, Ponce de Leon went there in search of the fountain of youth.”
“So he did,” smiled Cassandra.
“Enough of that subject. Come, girls,” sniffed Lady Charles. “Let us not keep dear Mrs. Franklin any longer. She has been most obliging.”
“It is my pleasure,” returned Cassandra.
“I am sorry to say,” offered the lady, heaving herself up from the delicate chair on which she had been seated, “that we shall probably not be seeing you for some weeks. We are off to London in a few days to enjoy the rest of the spring season there. I do wish you could join us.”
“Oh, that is a lovely invitation,” replied Cassandra. “But after so many years in New York, I tend to now prefer the quiet life of the country.” She coughed into the back of her hand.
“Yes, I understand. I much prefer the country as well, but Parliament is in session and my husband, Sir Robert, you know, has been there attending to the business of the government for over a month now. I know he misses us desperately.”
“I am sure that he does,” said Cassandra. “I wish you a safe journey and a delightful visit in town.”
“Thank you,” responded Lady Charles puffing out her chest. “We shall call on you the moment we return.”
“I look forward to it,” said Cassandra.
“Oh, and I do hope you will make use of the wisdom of our curate, Mr. Collins, now that the weather has warmed. I realize that the cold keeps many from Sunday service during the winter, but I admonish you not to neglect your religious instruction, Mrs. Franklin.”
Cassandra raised her eyebrows. “I did not know that you were…that is…it had not occurred to me—”
“What, that a lady of my rank could benefit from a good sermon? Those of us who are well provided for, Mrs. Franklin, must not forget our relationship with the Almighty. You know what they say, ‘It is harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven, then for a camel to enter the eye of a needle,’ or something like that.”
Cassandra saw Miss Charles roll her eyes at her cousin, and Eunice smothered a snicker with her handkerchief.
“I shall certainly heed your advice,” she told the lady.
“Yes, do not fall down in your religious duties as some of the others that you hobnob with have done. Mrs. Clarke, Mrs. Moore and her daughters, whom she ought to have married off well before now, and that Lady Holcomb. I cannot th
ink of the last time I saw her at the parish church.”
“Well, I shall not fail to follow your example.”
“Mother—” Miss Charles prompted.
“Ah yes, we must be on our way. Good day, Mrs. Franklin!”
Her voice was beginning to grate on Cassandra’s ears like the screech of a cat in heat.
“Good day.” She led them to the entryway and Mary let them out.
Cassandra sighed and returned to her piano.
Around sunset, she was lounging in the window seat, watching a storm brewing in the west, The Romance of the Forest by Mrs. Radcliffe lying closed in her hand. Her gaze traveled out across the gentle rise and fall of the land—so different from the closeness of New York where, in reality, she’d grown up. Cassandra’s family had spent summers at their home in the Hudson valley and she often considered that the landscape there was similar to that of England’s, even though there was a difference between them in the quality of light and the severity of the angles. The English countryside had a more ancient quality, as if it had been worn and softened by so many more years of use.
In a flight of imagination, inspired by the black clouds roiling overhead and the torrent of rain that suddenly smacked the windows around her, she saw herself in her mind’s eye as some interesting character in a book: the widow of Sorrel Hall, the expatriate looking for a home, the mysterious American. She began to feel a sense of purpose in being there.
Chapter 6
April 17, 1820 – While the weather was too cold for outdoor activity, I did yoga most mornings, and now continue to do it a couple of times a week. This morning, as I was lying on a blanket on the floor in my bloomers and chemise with my legs flung over my head, Mary walked in. I had forgot to lock the door. I leapt up as quickly as I could manage while Mary wildly apologized for not knocking, and I tried to explain how I’d been trying to work out a pain in my back. I think it’s time I learned to ride a horse. I hear it is excellent exercise.
******
Close to one o’clock Cassandra set off quickly on foot to cover the mile or so to the Holcomb cottage, which lay across the road from the grounds of Sorrel Hall and arrived there in less than twenty minutes. When Lady Holcomb’s husband Sir Arthur died, his extensive parklands and most of his money had gone to their eldest son. In keeping with custom, the lady had moved into the cottage on the grounds. It was well-placed at the foot of low, green hills, near enough to a stream that Cassandra could hear it burbling as she approached. Built of stone, the house was two stories with a peaked roof of shingles. Blue shutters graced the many-paned windows that were numerous on the first story. On the second, the windows were framed by gabled dormers. Cassandra walked through a white gate, past a garden of yellow daffodils, pink tulips, purple pansies, and under a willow tree that shaded a carved stone bench. Before she reached the steps of the cottage, Lady Holcomb flung open the rounded, wooden door and dashed out to meet her.
“Cassandra!” The lady took her friend’s arm. “How charming you look! What a lovely day it is, do not you think? Was the walk tiring? I have some delicious cakes and fresh watercress sandwiches. You will not mind a light repast at this time of day?”
“No, and no, the walk was not tiring in the least. What a beautiful gown! The blue matches your eyes perfectly.” Inwardly, Cassandra observed that the dress masked the woman’s heavy-set frame well.
Her friend patted her chestnut hair, streaked with grey. “Thank you, my dear.”
“And I see your maid has discovered a flattering new hair style for you.”
“Do you think so? You are most kind to say.”
They stepped inside the cottage. Roses abounded everywhere: on the fabric of the chairs, sofa and curtains, in the pattern on the rug, on decorative plates situated on the fireplace mantle and in still life paintings on the rosebud wallpaper. A slim vase with one pink rosebud graced the oval-shaped marble table upon which sat a rose-themed tea set.
“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Holcomb, once she was settled on the sofa, and the tea and delicacies had been delivered. Cassandra sat on an opposite chair. “Did you hear about the gentleman that purchased Gatewick House? He is to move in any day!”
“I think I met him,” said Cassandra.
“You met him? How on earth?”
“He was lost the other day, and came by asking for directions. I was in the garden looking a fright.”
“Oh no, I am sure you were not.” She paused. “I heard he was a bachelor.”
“Well, we did not discuss his marital status,” said Cassandra, stirring one of her tiny pills into her tea.
“His marital status!” Lady Holcomb cackled. “You have such a way of putting things. So, what was he like?” She teetered on the edge of the flowery cushion.
“Well, I couldn’t see his face very clearly under his hat, but he seemed about thirty-five or forty, very pleasant, but, you know, we did not get that familiar.”
“Oh, Cassandra, really! You should visit him. You are just bold enough to do such a thing!”
“I am not!” cried Cassandra. “How would that appear, an old widow calling upon a gentleman? He will think I am looking to catch a husband.”
“And are you not?” She laughed.
“Charlotte, I have told you a hundred times, I have no interest in remarrying! Why do I need a husband to tell me what to do? You, on the other hand—”
“Need someone to tell me what to do? I should say not. Besides, I am too old for him.” Lady Holcomb lounged back into the sofa with her cup in her hand. “Well, anyway, if you have already met him, then it would not be improper for him to call on you, now would it, and I am sure he will, as soon as he gets settled. I shall ask Jeffrey to pay him a visit on our behalf and invite him to tea. I suppose Jane will consider him too old for her.”
“Charlotte, he is at least twenty years older than Jane.”
“Well, what difference does that make?” she laughed, “if he is handsome and he has money, which he obviously does.”
“You are terrible,” observed Cassandra.
“Really? Why? Here they are! Come, you two, say hello to Mrs. Franklin.”
Her children sat to eat after greeting Cassandra.
“Have I told you,” continued Charlotte, “that Jeffrey’s assignment is expected to come into port by the end of the summer? He will then be off at sea for who knows how long! He is sure to be made a captain in no time.”
“No, mother, it does not work like that!” He addressed Cassandra. “My mother seems to be an expert on naval matters.” At eighteen he was tall, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a crooked, yet engaging smile.
Jane listened quietly as her mother and brother disputed his future. She had a round face with a little round chin, thick, light brown hair and warm brown eyes. Her dimples flashed as she turned her smile from her older brother to Cassandra.
Cassandra nodded and made brief comments as she ate and drank her tea. She had heard the same conversation more than once before. She lingered a respectable amount of time, and then made her excuses to leave.
“I know you want to rush home to your piano.” Lady Holcomb said to her as they dallied in the entry way, waiting for the maid to fetch Cassandra’s bonnet and shawl. “I have never known a grown woman to be so devoted to her instrument. I thought young ladies became accomplished in order to impress young men, and then they gave it all up when the demands of home and children pressed in upon them. Only a true artiste devotes themselves to an instrument all their lives. I declare you are an eccentric!”
“Yes, maybe I am,” her friend admitted.
Lady Holcomb walked Cassandra out to the gate. The smell of wet earth filled the air, and the women breathed it in.
“Now, you must inform me at once if that Mr. Johnston calls on you,” said the lady.
“And you must tell me if Jeffrey has the opportunity to meet him,” replied Cassandra.
“Oh, you need not worry; you will be the first to know.”
&
nbsp; “Very well,” laughed Cassandra, “good afternoon, my dear Charlotte.”
“Good afternoon, my love!”
The two kissed good-bye and Cassandra walked briskly home in the mild afternoon sunlight.
******
Just before dinner the following Monday, she was perusing a London paper that she had picked up in Selborne over the weekend. A knock on the door announced a messenger. A card was presented, delivered from Mr. Benedict Johnston, asking for the honor of paying a call to Mrs. Cassandra Franklin. She replied with a note that the honor would be hers and that she would find the hour of eleven o’clock the next day a convenient time for a visit. Cassandra wondered if this call was a result of Lady Holcomb having shooed Jeffrey over to meet their new neighbor and that perhaps the boy had prodded him to call on Cassandra.
He arrived precisely on the hour. Mrs. Merriweather took the man’s things and showed him into the sitting room where Cassandra was waiting for him, picturesquely arranged in the window seat holding The Romance of the Forest.
“Mr. Johnston,” she pronounced, setting down the book, rising and going to him. “What a pleasure to see you again!”
She held out her hand which he took and bestowed with a brush of his lips. “The pleasure is mine.”
Silence ensued.
“Did you ride? The weather is not pleasant.”
“I did ride. I do not mind a little drizzle.”
“The temperature has been remarkable until today.”
“Very warm for this time of year.”
“Indeed, very.”
Now that Cassandra could observe him up close, without hat or riding cloak, she noticed that he had dark blond hair, peppered with gray, and bluish-green eyes that were framed with dark lashes. His features were defined, his jaw firm and his cheekbones prominent, though a slight asymmetry to his face made him just less than conventionally handsome. His skin was not pale, but almost olive, as if the spring sunshine had browned him. He was a few inches taller than her five and a half feet, and slim.
The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) Page 6