The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  She hurried into the sitting room while pulling off her bonnet. Benedict was sitting coolly in a chair, absorbed in a copy of Tom Jones that she’d left on a table. He looked up at her, amused. “This is a fascinating bit of fiction you have been partaking of.”

  Heat crept up over her neck and face. “Yes, it is not what I usually read, but I have been finding it…interesting.”

  He stared at her, eyes twinkling, lips pressed tightly to hide a smile. “Interesting? Is that what they call such things in the states?”

  “You are making fun of me!” She went to him and playfully snatched the book from his hands, flinging it onto the table.

  “I would never do such a thing.”

  “At any rate, I am sorry to be late.” She turned her back on him, hoping the pink in her face would recede, and went to lay her bonnet on the mantle.

  “It is of no importance. I was receiving a welcome education at the hands of Mr. Fielding.”

  She ignored his remark as she removed her gloves. “The ride back from MacIntosh Farm took longer than I imagined it would. It made me think that perhaps we could sometimes meet at Gatewick House to practice, rather than you always coming here.”

  “Would the neighborhood not be scandalized?”

  “To blazes with them, as Mrs. Merriweather says!” She immediately regretted the outburst.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I see.”

  “I mean to say—”

  “Oh no, quite perfectly said. And I agree with you. Meeting at Gatewick would suit me just fine.”

  “Oh good,” she sighed with relief and moved toward the piano.

  “Do you need a moment to refresh yourself before we begin?”

  “No. I am most eager to start.” She plunked herself down on the piano stool and positioned the music to her liking.

  Benedict removed his violin from its case, which had been resting on the piano, and began to tune it. Cassandra arranged his music for him on the flat piano lid. It was the Bach Violin Sonata in G, the same they had been working on since they started playing together.

  After the violin was tuned, she looked up at him and their eyes locked. Benedict tapped his foot to set the pace; Cassandra looked down at her music, took a breath, and began to play. It was a piece that required great precision. The first movement flew at an incredible pace, and the concentration that was necessary from both musicians consumed them for the three and a half minutes. The second movement was slow and mournful, a brief interlude. Cassandra lifted her eyes from her music and found Benedict’s. She felt herself connect with his emotions: sad, longing, hopeful. She sensed the barriers of formality drop away and in doing so, felt suddenly vulnerable. Then the movement ended and the connection shifted. The lengthy and complex Allegro permitted the musicians to only glance up from their music occasionally, smile, nod, check their tempo, and continue. Cassandra felt her heartbeat keeping time, racing with the exuberance of the bond she felt with her companion. Then came the Adagio, slow, though not sad, almost romantic. Cassandra closed her eyes, confident of the music, and as she played imagined a dance from the 18th century—two lovers, eyes locked, hands barely touching, stepping in sync, communicating with only a blush, a downcast glance, a shy smile, a searching look. The dancing couple resolved into her and Benedict. She opened her eyes and shook the image away. It was time to concentrate on the final movement: joyous, exalting. There was an exchange of power, one minute the violin took lead, the next the piano. It was a chase in Cassandra’s mind, lovers racing through the woods, now hiding behind a tree, now jumping out to surprise, laughing, playful, hungry with desire. The movement culminated in a rousing finale. Benedict pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Cassandra stood, went to a table bearing a porcelain pitcher and glasses, and poured water for herself and Benedict. She took his glass to him and he drank without a word.

  Finally he spoke. “Again?”

  She nodded, took her seat, and the performance was repeated. This time they stopped and adjusted where necessary, playing over again one part or another until they were both satisfied. They then continued on to one of Benedict’s favorite works of Mozart’s, and when they’d played that piece three times through, Cassandra needed a break.

  “Would you do me the honor of staying for dinner, Benedict? We shall have it early, I think. I had a late breakfast and seemed to have skipped lunch.”

  “Are you going to be serving one of those famous salads of yours, or will it be an actual meal?”

  “I thought you enjoyed my salads!”

  “Oh, very much!”

  She had got in the habit of sometimes having nothing midday but fresh lettuce from the garden, sprinkled with roasted chicken and sheep’s cheese, or whatever meats and vegetables were left over from the night before.

  “Well, for your information,” said Cassandra, “I do not know what Anna has planned for the meal, but let us go and annoy her. She so loves when I intrude on her kitchen sanctuary.”

  Benedict put his violin in its case, and the two of them tip-toed through the house, being careful to avoid Mrs. Merriweather or the other servants, until they arrived at the kitchen. Cassandra opened the door slightly and peaked in. Anna’s back was to them as she stirred something in a pot over the fire. Two roasted partridges sat cooling on the table in the center of the room and a variety of raw vegetables lay nearby. A ribbon of steam rose from a pot of boiled potatoes. They could hear the clank of dishware in the distance, which meant Mrs. Merriweather was probably organizing dishes in the dining room. Lydia sat in a chair snapping peas into a bowl in her lap. When she saw Cassandra’s face peering in through the door, she exclaimed, “Oh! Mrs. Franklin!” She leapt to her feet.

  “Please, Lydia, sit down. Do not mind me.”

  Anna turned to observe the trespasser. “Hello, Mrs. Franklin,” she said kindly. “What can I do for you?”

  “May we come in? Mr. Johnston and I?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” She quickly wiped her hands on a towel.

  The two entered the kitchen. Benedict looked about with interest. “I perceive this is quite a privilege you have allowed us, Anna. My own cook never lets me set foot in my kitchen,” he said.

  “Mrs. Franklin is always my honored guest,” the woman replied smiling. Her eyes nearly disappeared into her red cheeks as she did so. “I have never known a lady so interested in cooking and such.”

  “Yes,” Cassandra replied. “In America we participate much more in the preparation of meals for our families.”

  There was silence as the three others in the room stared at Cassandra.

  “How odd,” Anna remarked.

  “I suppose. Anyway, we did not come merely to harass you,” Cassandra continued. “I came to let you know that Mr. Johnston will be joining me for dinner and to ask you how soon we could eat. We are hungry.” She breathed the wonderful aroma wafting about.

  “Well, everything is nearly ready. The soup is done, and the fowl. Potatoes simply need mashing, and I was going to boil up these peas and put together a side salad for you as I know you like. Bread was baked this morning, and I have fresh butter churned.”

  “How heavenly,” uttered Benedict. “I do not know if I can wait!”

  “Well you must,” Cassandra said, turning to him. “We do not want to rush Anna and her magic.”

  “Nonsense,” Anna said, her cheeks rising even higher. “A half an hour should do it. Now, if you two would get on back to the parlor where you belong, I shall have Mary bring you some sherry and some newly cracked walnuts that I toasted to hold you over.”

  “Thank you, Anna, you are a saint!” Cassandra declared. She and Benedict turned to walk back to the sitting room and nearly ran into Mrs. Merriweather coming through the breakfast room door. The woman issued them a brisk curtsy as they passed and then hurried on.

  The conversation over dinner ranged to deeper topics than usual. Benedict asked about her life in New England, and Cassandra found herself relating again the story
she so often shared with her neighbors and acquaintances, though she omitted the information about her husband being involved in the slave trade. He listened thoughtfully. They lingered at the table, drinking wine and talking until the sun was nearly set.

  ******

  Two days later, Cassandra went to Gatewick House, accompanied by Jimmy, and spent the morning there, while he lounged around the stable with the other boys. She and Benedict exchanged locations for their practice very nearly every day until Cassandra began to feel like she was neglecting her other friends and acquaintances in the interest of spending time with him.

  At the end of June, the weather was hot and muggy. It was a Thursday, and Benedict was coming to Sorrel Hall that afternoon for a practice session. Cassandra had chosen her lightest gown, a diaphanous mist green. In her bedroom mirror, she admired how it clung around her legs and showed off their shape when she moved. She toyed with her shoes on the floor, slipping them on and off, but could not resign herself to keeping them on. Just the thought made her feel hotter. She finally kicked them aside and walked downstairs barefoot. Mary, coming up to help her fix her hair, stopped and gaped at her feet.

  “Yes, Mary?” Cassandra asked pleasantly.

  “I…was… just coming to help madam with her hair.”

  “No, I decided to do it myself this afternoon, do you like it?” It was halfway pulled up in back, with curls and tendrils falling past her shoulders. Cassandra laughed. “I daresay it will become the latest fashion!” She continued lightly down the stairs, amused at the thought that if she started a new trend, it could conceivably change the course of women’s hairstyles forever.

  She was walking into the sitting room just as Mrs. Merriweather was admitting Benedict. The two both stopped and regarded her, Benedict’s eyes lingering on her neck and shoulders, and the housekeeper’s pausing on her feet with a frown.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Johnston!”

  He held the glass door open for her as she entered before him. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Franklin.”

  “Will you be requiring some refreshment, ma’am?” Mrs. Merriweather asked.

  “Only water for me. Benedict? Could you do with a cup of coffee or tea?”

  “Water will suit me fine. It is too warm for anything else.”

  Mrs. Merriweather nodded her head and retired.

  Cassandra observed the sky from the window. “It looks as if it wants to rain.”

  “I wish it would. Perhaps it would not be so damned muggy if it did.”

  “You do not seem much in the mood to play.”

  “Perhaps I could listen to you for a while. I am feeling most lazy, and the ride over did not cure me of it.”

  “Of course.” Cassandra sat down at the piano, selected a piece by Scarlatti, a fast-paced tune she hoped would energize him. He had taken off his jacket and lounged on the sofa in his shirt and trousers, boot-clad feet hanging off the edge. When finished, she noticed he was still unmoved. She began a light piece of Beethoven’s, which inspired him sufficiently to rouse and join her in a sonata they had been working on by the same composer.

  Mary came in with lemonade and sandwiches, and Cassandra and Benedict ate and talked little and did not resume practice for more than an hour. Benedict played, but without conviction. He finally set down his instrument and let her continue while he went back to the sofa. It had begun to drizzle, and the light from the windows shone softly through the mist.

  She could feel his eyes on her as she played. Eventually, she forgot about him, completely lost in the music. After some time had passed, however, she became aware that he had gotten up from the sofa and approached the piano where he stood looking down at her. When she finished the piece, she raised her eyes to him. He reached out, took her hand, bent over, and kissed it. Then, gently, he pulled her to her feet, took her in his arms and kissed her. It was what she wanted—she suddenly knew it—and she returned the eagerness of his kiss. It was delicious and sweet, and as it grew more passionate, she became fully aware of the fact that it had been a long time since she’d been with a man. She pulled back from him and looked at him in wonder.

  “Cassandra,” he whispered. “I want you to marry me.”

  She gasped. “Oh my God.” She sat back down on the piano seat.

  He went to his knees. “Cassandra, I love you, more than I have ever loved anyone. I need to be with you forever. Please, please tell me you will be my wife.”

  “But what about Jane?”

  “Jane?”

  “Miss Holcomb.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I thought that perhaps she—“

  “Was of interest to me? Are you joking?”

  “Well, why not? She is young and I am not.”

  “What are you talking about? To me you are the perfect woman in every way! I have no interest in Jane Holcomb.”

  “But, but,” she went on, desperately reaching for a plausible reason for refusing him. “I cannot bear more children, and I know you want many, children that a young wife can give you.”

  “Cassandra, I thought that was what I wanted because that is what others wanted for me. I only want to have you as part of my life always. Your son can come and live with us. He can marry and fill the house with children. I do not care; I just want you.”

  Her mind raced. Did she love him? And what if she did? She certainly could not marry him. “Benedict, I do not know if I love you. I have not known you long.”

  “Yet I am certain of how much I love you. We have known each other long enough for me to know my heart completely.”

  “But I cannot marry you. It is too soon, too soon after my husband’s death. I am just not ready, and I do not know when I will be.”

  He went pale, and moved to a nearby chair to sit down.

  “But Benedict, I value our friendship very much, and I do not want to lose that.”

  “Our friendship? Is it no more than friendship to you?”

  “Well, perhaps it is. But my future is uncertain. I may have to return to America for my son. I do not know yet.”

  “Then I will go with you,” he said, brightening. “There is nothing to keep me here.”

  “Benedict, please, we must slow down. You must respect my widowhood. I do not know if I will ever marry again.” This, she knew, was the truth.

  He sat for a moment, thinking. “I understand. I understand that you do not wish to marry, though I hope to someday change your mind, but I do not want to lose you. If we must remain only as friends, then I choose that rather than nothing.”

  She remembered just then all the hours of boredom and frustration that she had experienced in the first few months of her experiment. She could not bear it again. “Maybe there is another choice.” She watched hope bloom on his face. “Perhaps,” she began slowly, “we could be lovers.”

  He blinked. “Are you proposing that you be my mistress?”

  “Well, no,” she said. “I do not think mistress is the word.” Miss Austen hadn’t prepared her for how to talk about physical intimacy. She stood up from the piano bench and walked to him. He instinctively rose as she did. “I mean I want to—”

  He pulled her close. She looked up into his sea-colored eyes. He kissed her again, letting her feel the intensity of his emotions. “I am yours,” he murmured simply, and they lost themselves in the kiss. Finally she began to be aware of the possibility of being seen by Mary or Mrs. Merriweather or any of the other servants, and gently pushed him away.

  “We must be careful,” she said, softly. “We must be thoughtful of my reputation and yours.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. He looked down at his trousers and quickly turned away. They both laughed.

  “You must go,” she said with a smile, “and when we next meet, we will plan how we can be alone together.”

  Cassandra,” he said, looking at her tenderly, “are you sure this is how you want it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I am a respectable woman, but I am a woman who has li
ved life and I know my mind. I hope your respect for me will not wane as a result of this.”

  “Never,” he replied. “I could not admire you more, as a musician, as a lady, and as my dear friend.”

  Cassandra threw herself into his arms again. They embraced for a moment, and he took his leave.

  Cassandra spent her evening walking from room to room without being able to focus on any particular activity. Every time she happened upon Mrs. Merriweather, the woman would eye her curiously, nod, and go about her way.

  ******

  June 21, 1820—The hour is nine, much later than I usually sleep, but I am lazy this morning. I spent all night half dreaming, half wakefully thinking about yesterday. I have to ask myself, do I really want this man, or am I just infatuated with the idea of living out a story from some kind of romance novel? Or perhaps the summer solstice has infused me with a certain pagan wildness. Well, no matter what, next January I will go back to my life and out of Benedict’s forever. I wonder if he will have had a change of heart since last night; perhaps my proposal was disgraceful after all.

  ******

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. Cassandra quickly wiped the bookmark over the page and closed her journal.

  “Come in, Mary.”

  The girl entered with a note. It was from Benedict, asking if she would do him the honor of paying him a visit that afternoon. She smiled to herself, and mentally congratulated him on his good thinking; their meetings always felt more private at Gatewick House.