The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  He gazed about with interest. “What a cheerful aspect this room has.” He walked to the window seat and looked out. “A wonderful view in spite of the mist.”

  “Yes, I enjoy it immensely.”

  He continued to stroll around the room, touching objects and letting his hand linger. His fingers were long and he moved his arms slowly, as if engaged in a dance. He walked behind the sofa, running his hand along its back. “I appreciate a comfortable salon, where objects are placed for pleasure rather than style. Yet this room is ultimately very attractive.”

  Cassandra felt vindicated for having decided to receive him in the sitting room rather than the parlor as Mrs. Merriweather had strongly suggested. “Thank you, would you like to sit down?”

  As she spoke, he spied the piano and immediately went to it. “This is an excellent instrument,” he stated. “Do you play?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “May I look at your music?”

  Before she could reply, he began to leaf through the stack she kept on top of the piano.

  He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “Really, now, you must play more than a little if these are the pieces you have on hand.”

  She wanted to say that she played as well as most ladies, but stopped herself.

  “Would you mind choosing a favorite to play for me?”

  Cassandra was relieved. She was feeling shy around him, and playing would give her something to do. She chose a simple Bach prelude—she didn’t want to appear to be showing off—and launched into it confidently.

  When she was finished, Mr. Johnston stood silent for a moment. “Mrs. Franklin, you have been toying with me.” She opened her mouth to object but he cut her off. “Your musicianship is exceptional!”

  “Thank you.” Her heart beat faster.

  “Please, I would not like to burden you, but would you mind playing something else for me? I have been so delighted by the piano music I hear of Ludwig van Beethoven and I see you have some sonatas here. Would it be too much to ask you to indulge me?”

  She considered for a moment then spoke: “I usually do not perform such lengthy pieces for an audience. I find that most people say that they enjoy music, but their ability to sit and listen has its limits, though perhaps you are different.”

  “I could listen all day to the music of a performer such as yourself, but if it is really not too much, I will just request of you the one.”

  “Then I shall be delighted, but only if you sit down and relax over there, in the window seat.”

  He raised his eyebrows and took a step back, and for the hundredth time she made a mental note to try to express herself more delicately.

  He obediently walked to his seat and arranged the pillows to suit him. She closed her eyes and let herself be still, then attacked the first dramatic chords of the “Pathetique” Sonata. She played effortlessly, flawlessly, all three movements, the temperamental first, the achingly beautiful second, the passionate third.

  When she finished, his applause startled her. “Magnificent!” he exclaimed. He leapt to his feet and darted over to the piano. “I have not heard this piece performed often and certainly never as well! Congratulations on your playing, Mrs. Franklin, you are…I dare say you are a virtuoso!”

  “My goodness, thank you.” Cassandra looked down at her hands where they still fluttered at the keyboard.

  “And Van Beethoven—he absolutely plumbs the depth of human emotion. Some call him a modernist, you know, as if it is a negative thing. But I find his music immensely stirring. I see that you must too.” He stood by the instrument, looking at her expectantly, his eyes piercing.

  She met his gaze. “There are no words to express how I feel about his work. When I hear his Ninth Symphony, for instance, I always think to myself that just that one masterpiece makes life on this earth worth living.”

  His brow furrowed. “His Ninth Symphony?”

  “Yes, of course, the ‘Choral.’ You know, of course, you must be familiar…” her voice trailed off.

  “I do not wish to contradict, but I believe he has only written eight.”

  Within a half of a second Cassandra mentally went though her music history but could not remember when Beethoven wrote the Ninth Symphony. Obviously sometime after 1820. “Oh the Eighth! Yes I meant the Eighth! Sheer ecstasy it is!”

  “You called it the ‘Choral?’ There is no singing in it…”

  “I misspoke. I sometimes feel lightheaded after I play, and I also feel myself becoming peckish. Let us call for some tea.” She rose from her seat and went to ring the bell for Mary. The young woman stuck her head in the door immediately and Cassandra wondered how long she’d been hovering there, listening.

  “Some tea if you please Mary, and some sandwiches.”

  “Yes ma’am.” She shut the glass door with a bang and Cassandra shivered.

  “Are you chilly, shall I light a fire?”

  “Oh no, that is, I can call the servant—”

  “No, please do not bother, I enjoy doing it.”

  Mr. Johnston set to work arranging kindling and wood from a bin near the fireplace and Cassandra settled back down at the piano bench. She picked up a piece of music by Carl Phillip Emmanuel Bach, and struck the opening notes.

  By the time Mary returned with a tray of light fare, the fire was blazing. Cassandra finished her piece and went to sit with Mr. Johnston on the sofa in front of the hearth. They ate companionably and discussed their favorite pre-1820s composers. He mentioned that he played the violin and could manage at the piano as well. When they finished their tea, they took turns performing on her instrument. The rain increased as the afternoon wore on, and Cassandra invited him to dine with her to which he readily agreed.

  They feasted on a fresh leg of roasted spring lamb from the Sorrel Hall pastures, with roasted potatoes, asparagus, wine from the cellar, Anna’s freshly baked rolls, and a selection of Welsh, Irish, and English cheeses imported from around the region.

  Before Mr. Johnston left, he extended to her an invitation to tea in the afternoon of the following day. She replied that she would be delighted to come, attended by her friend Lady Holcomb. He smiled, kissed her hand at the door, and rode away in the rain.

  After he left, Cassandra sent off a note to Lady Holcomb informing her of the invitation. She then spent the evening reading in the library. She could hear the rain pounding on the windows and her mind meandered away from her book as she found herself wondering if Mr. Johnston had arrived home tolerably dry.

  She finally realized that she was getting nowhere reading so she rose to call Mary to have her attend her to bed. Before she could ring the bell, a soft knock on the door told her that the girl had come already. Mary walked in and delivered to her mistress a note in reply from Lady Holcomb containing an enthusiastic affirmation for the morrow.

  The next day Cassandra ordered the carriage to come for her at three o’clock, and then drove to Lady Holcomb’s cottage. Cassandra would have preferred to walk, but it was a good mile to the lady’s home and then two miles beyond to Mr. Johnston’s property, and not only could she not expect her friend to walk so far, but a six-mile round trip walk when the weather was uncertain was even beyond Cassandra’s hearty constitution. After all, she thought wryly, why not play the part of the grand lady for a change and arrive in style, rather than with her hair all disheveled and her hem and shoes muddied.

  To approach Gatewick House, it was necessary to cross a wooden bridge that spanned a narrow moat. When the coach stopped before the entrance, Mr. Johnston was there to greet them and guided each out of the vehicle by their hands. Cassandra was the last to exit, watching with interest as his eyes lingered on Jane’s pretty face. When he turned to offer Cassandra his hand, he smiled broadly.

  The ladies stopped to take in the mansion. It was truly impressive, thought Cassandra, three stories of tan brick, with castle-like turrets along the flat roof and a broad, unornamented front, save for a carved, stone doorway. Green i
vy covering the walls and framing the rows of many windows softened the overall effect, and the moat (Cassandra had never seen an actual moat before), choked with water lilies, encircled the entire structure.

  Lady Holcomb and Jane gaped.

  “Yes it is big for one person I grant you that!” Mr. Johnston laughed. “I bought it, you know, because I needed an escape from London!”

  Lady Holcomb quickly recovered her capacity for speech. “Do you intend to spend more of your time now in the country, Mr. Johnston?”

  He led them through the door where they beheld the white-marble floor of the entryway and were confronted with a double staircase which led to an open landing lined with portraits. Cassandra looked up at the two-storied ceiling, where afternoon light poured in from the windows above.

  “My parents live in town,” Mr. Johnston was informing them, “as they always have, and I keep a townhouse there.”

  “Do you expect them to visit you in your new home soon?” Lady Holcomb inquired.

  His smile faded and his jaw tightened. “No, probably not. I will see them when I next visit London.” He turned and led them into a sitting room themed in blues, golds, and creams.

  “Did you decorate yourself?” asked Cassandra.

  “No, I am afraid not.” His smiled returned. “Like most creatures of my sex, I am not adept in this area. Much of the furniture and décor was left by the former owners, a lovely older couple, Sir John and Lady Astor. You must have known them,” he directed to Lady Holcomb.

  “Yes!” she declared, “I did, but it has been many years since I have been in this house. They moved to town at least ten years ago, and rarely returned here, so I hardly recall what it looked like. They never had any children, poor things. They must have got lonely rolling around in this huge place.”

  “I am afraid,” said Mr. Johnston, “that they both recently passed away, she within six months of him and so the house and land were sold.”

  “I am so sorry to hear that!” cried Lady Holcomb. “But I suppose they had got quite elderly.”

  “I suppose,” replied Mr. Johnston, “I never met them. It was their nephew who sold the place. Apparently he has his own land, and had no need for it.”

  “You certainly did snatch the place up quickly, Mr. Johnston,” quipped Lady Holcomb playfully.

  “I, well…” He paused. “Sir John’s nephew had no objection to moving quickly through the transaction; there was no reason for delay. When I saw the place, I knew it was for me, so I paid him and it became mine. It all happened within a few days.”

  “But Mr. Johnston,” Lady Holcomb pressed, “surely a bachelor like you does not need all this space. How many bedrooms does it have?”

  “Ten, madam,” he replied. “I would be happy to show you them.”

  “Oh, no,” Cassandra began, but Lady Holcomb cut her off.

  “Of course we would love to see them! There is nothing I adore more than exploring these grand old houses. Now, Mr. Johnston, as I was saying, why does a bachelor need so many rooms? Do you plan to entertain many visitors?”

  “Not really,” he replied. “But I do hope to marry and start a family soon. I cannot remain a bachelor forever.”

  Lady Holcomb looked at Cassandra, Cassandra looked at Jane, and Jane looked at her mother.

  “Do you have a particular young lady in mind?” returned Lady Holcomb.

  Jane blushed at her mother’s forwardness, and Cassandra issued her friend a look. Mr. Johnston simply laughed good-naturedly. “No, ma’am, I do not.”

  Lady Holcomb let it go and the group continued to explore the house. Cassandra was impressed, even after the grandeur of Sorrel Hall. Each of the ten bedrooms was handsomely fitted up as if awaiting a family. There was a nursery and various sitting rooms as well as bedchambers on the upper floors.

  “I do know that Lady Astor so wanted to have children,” mused Lady Holcomb. “All this space merely to entertain nephews and nieces. It must have broken her heart.”

  Mr. Johnston did not reply to her observation but continued the tour, taking them back downstairs, through the ballroom and the informal and formal parlors where Cassandra noticed that the furniture was elegant, yet solid-looking, rather than the spindly French-inspired style that was currently the fashion. They continued through the library, study, dining room, billiard room and breakfast room, and Mr. Johnston continued to talk about his relocation, explaining that he had removed the Astor family portraits from the downstairs rooms and asked his sister to help him choose new wallpaper here and there, freshen up and modernize the curtains, cushions, and other decorations, choose china and cutlery, and hire the servants that the household would need, since it had been functioning with little more than a caretaker and a few maids for several years. This sister, his only one, a few years his elder, had gone back to London just two days before, where she lived with her husband and children, he said, apologizing that not all the work had been finished. But, he explained, he spent most of his time in the conservatory practicing his music, or the library, as he loved to read. The conservatory was where they finished the tour. It was at the back of the house and overlooked the shimmering moat and the shadowy woodland beyond. A large rug of a dark floral pattern intertwined with leaves and garlands covered the oak floor. The walls were paneled in the same golden wood. Tapers perched in candelabra on two low tables, next to which were situated armchairs cushioned in soft green brocade, all nestled near a rectangular piano. Next to it was a music stand, a sturdy wooden chair, and a green velvet-covered table upon which rested a violin case.

  They strolled outside through the back doors of the conservatory so their host could acquaint them with the grounds. They found there an extensive rose garden and waited while Lady Holcomb ran about among the bushes, examining the newly formed buds and identifying each variety.

  “I am afraid you are the expert, Lady Holcomb; I leave it to my gardener to tend the plants, though I enjoy how they look very much.”

  “Oh, you bachelors are all the same!” she exclaimed, and Cassandra wondered where her great knowledge of bachelors had suddenly come from.

  They crossed the moat by another bridge.

  Jane, mostly silent until now, commented: “I do so love a moat.”

  “Yes!” Mr. Johnston replied. He took the young woman’s hand and helped her down the step at the end of the bridge.

  They continued through a shrubbery garden, across a great expanse of lawn, and eventually came upon the stables.

  “Now this is where my one of my great interest lies,” said the gentleman, “with riding and hunting. I am now building up these stables, as the horses were not sold with the house.”

  They entered the wooden structure. Stacks of hay were piled about and bridles, saddles, and various tools hung neatly upon the walls. The pungent smell of manure hovered in the air. Mr. Johnston led them to a stall where Cassandra recognized the shimmering chestnut mare he had ridden twice to her house.

  “Gloria,” he said lovingly, and stroked the white star on the animal’s nose. She whinnied softly. He took a handful of oats from a bag on the wall and fed them to her from his palm while the ladies watched. “Are you a great rider, Mrs. Franklin?”

  Cassandra stammered. “Um, well, in America, ladies do not ride quite as much. In New York, I had not much opportunity—”

  “Neither did I in London, though I tried to take Gloria out into the countryside as often as possible. Now that I am here in Hampshire, I ride every chance I get, that is, when I am not absorbed in my indoor pursuits. Do you ride, Miss Holcomb?”

  “Yes, certainly,” replied Jane. “My horse is at my brother’s stable.”

  “Good. Well, that is a fine thing. Mrs. Franklin, there must be many worthy animals at Sorrel Hall. I venture to say you shall become a fine horse-woman soon if you put your mind to it.”

  There was a glimmer of amusement at the corner of his eyes and Cassandra wondered if he was making fun.

  “Thank you for the s
uggestion,” she said with an arch smile. “I think I shall do just that.”

  They left the stable and walked until they reached the summit of a small hill, where they could appreciate a broad sweep of the surrounding countryside. There was a chilly breeze, but as they stood for a moment in silence, the sun burst out from behind the clouds, showering them with its rays. Mr. Johnston spontaneously uttered a sigh of contentment, and almost to himself declared, “This is what my soul has always needed!”

  Cassandra looked at him in wonder. Jane and her mother exchanged glances. Walking back to the house, Cassandra ventured a request of Mr. Johnston to play the violin for them. He politely declined, stating that he liked to play in the mornings, and besides, it was time for tea. Perhaps Mrs. Franklin or Miss Holcomb would do them the honor, after refreshments, of trying the piano.

  By the time they entered the conservatory again, the candles had been lit. They reflected light off the golden walls and illuminated the pale wood of the piano. Cassandra deferred to Miss Holcomb for their musical entertainment, and Jane regaled them with some of the cursory pieces that young ladies were taught to perform in such circumstances. Afterward, Lady Holcomb applauded enthusiastically, and Cassandra and Mr. Johnston joined her, though with slightly less vigor.

  Cassandra observed it was getting late. The ladies took their leave, and in the carriage Jane and Lady Holcomb chattered all the way to the cottage about Mr. Johnston’s charm and the lovely house. Cassandra was only thinking about the violin and wondering how she could get him to play for her. She returned home anxious to spend time at her own instrument, and happily played until suppertime.

  ******

  Cassandra determined upon waking the next morning that the weather looked promising, and so, after breakfast, she wandered out to the stables to find William, the stablemaster. It was the first time she’d ventured inside the space. Once there, inhaling the smells of horse and hay and oil and leather, she wondered why she’d never come before. The raftered ceiling was high, and the wide doors open at either end let the fresh breeze waft through. She wandered past stalls of horses that observed her with mild wonder. Finally she discovered William, a man of about fifty years, mostly bald, with a lined face, but a strong, stocky body, examining the hoof of a grey, dappled equine.