The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  “I know; you will kill him. But you shall have to beat me to it,” she said with a charming smile. He laughed, and they didn’t speak again until the dance ended. Cassandra then curtsied to her partner, and went to sit with the neighborhood matrons while Ben went in search of the billiard room.

  The evening ended well after midnight, although Cassandra had been ready to leave earlier. Still, she was happy to indulge James as he danced. When the carriages were called and began to line up before the door, the Franklins’ mysteriously appeared before the rest, and Cassandra suspected, gratefully, that Ben had had a hand in it.

  As she and James rode home, she told him about her run in with Sir Robert. He was angry and, like Ben, threatened retaliation, but she was able to talk him out of it. James was, after all, less than keen about the idea of wielding a pistol in a life-and-death duel. In the end, they laughed at the thought and, through the soft August night, talked over the delights of the evening, all the way back to Sorrel Hall.

  Chapter 11

  Cassandra and James sifted through the invitations that were piled on the silver letter tray. Morning sunlight illuminated the remains of the breakfast that they’d pushed aside on the table to make room for the mail.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” grouched James as he opened the fifth invitation to dine.

  “It has only been three days since the ball!” exclaimed Cassandra. “I guess you made quite a splash. Everyone wants to know you better now.”

  “Who are these people again?” asked James, holding out a card to his mother.

  She took it and read it over. “Oh, this is from the Clarkes.” She thought gratefully of the chivalrous man of the family. “They are very nice people. They have a lot of children—you should remember Edward, who was at the ball. I saw you talking to him.”

  He started at her blankly.

  “He’s got blond hair, freckles across his nose, a soft-spoken, but friendly young man.”

  “Ah, yes, Edward, capital fellow!”

  Cassandra flashed him a wry grin. “There is also a daughter about sixteen, and lots of little ones.”

  “All right, give them a yes.”

  Cassandra took the card and placed it in a pile in front of her. “They are all yes, James. It would be rude to decline.”

  “Ugh! What about these people?” He held up another, and Cassandra took it from him.

  “The Moores. They have two daughters in their early twenties, but they were not at the ball, so you have not met them. I heard they had colds that night. The invitation is for dinner a week Saturday.”

  “Are they, you know—”

  “Attractive? I would not use that word, no. But I love to visit with them because they are the picture of young, silly English women and they amuse me to no end. Oh, what is this?” She picked up a pale pink envelope. “Ah, it is from Charlotte…Lady Holcomb.”

  “Jeffrey and Jane! I like them both a lot.”

  “Miss Holcomb, to you. Charlotte is asking us for tomorrow afternoon. I think we can do that after my practice with Ben.”

  Cassandra and James arrived at Lady Holcomb’s cottage at four the next day. Their hostess saw to it that the young people were set up with lemonade and cake, then urged Cassandra outside to peruse her rose bushes.

  “My dear Cassandra,” she began as soon as they stepped into the garden. “Whatever could you mean dancing four sets with that Mr. Johnston? It was the most shocking display!”

  “Was it?” replied Cassandra, examining a dark red rose. “I had no idea.”

  “But my love, you know how people will talk—everyone thinks you are engaged to him!”

  Cassandra stood up straight. “They do?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Charlotte, I have told you a hundred times that Mr. Johnston and I are only friends.”

  Lady Holcomb put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Cassandra, you must tell me the truth. I have eyes, and I can see the way that man looks at you and you at him. Everyone could see, my dear. And if you believe that the two of you are just friends, then you are the only ones who believe it. Please, Cassandra, be honest with me. I know I have a reputation as a gossip, but I promise you, it will go no further than this rose garden.”

  Lady Holcomb led her to a stone bench in the shade. They sat down and Cassandra took a deep breath. “He has asked me to marry him,” she said, “and I refused.”

  “Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Lady Holcomb. “Why will you not marry him?”

  “Because I cannot. Not now, maybe someday, I do not know. I am not ready to be married again. Charlotte, you know how wounded I was by the death of my husband and the subsequent painful enlightenment about his business dealings. I am not ready to trust another man. I have not put it to Mr. Johnston in those words, but he understands that I have not yet been a widow two years, and it is too soon for me to think about marriage again, if ever. Also, James’ future is uncertain, but I am determined that he will return to Harvard, and frankly, well, he may need me to go with him.”

  “You are thinking of leaving us?”

  “I may have to.”

  “Oh, this is very distressing. Just when you have become such a necessary part of our little circle here.”

  “Yes, I know, I would hate to leave, but let us not think about it just yet, and please, please, do not say anything to anyone about it.”

  “I promise I will not.”

  Cassandra could imagine that her friend was mentally eliminating James as a prospect for her daughter’s marriage. She was not as picky as Lady Charles, but Cassandra was certain that she would want her daughter and son-in-law to remain in England.

  “Is your leaving another reason why you are refusing Mr. Johnston?”

  “Well, not really, because he has offered to move to America.”

  “My!”

  “But all talk of marriage must cease. I cannot think of it now, I simply cannot.”

  “Well, then, all the more reason for a possible scandal, Cassandra, if you know what I am saying. You and Mr. Johnston looked as if you could devour each other, to speak crudely, when you were dancing together.”

  Cassandra blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “So you admit that you love him, then?”

  Cassandra stared at her friend. “It is not accurate to say that I love him, but I do care for him. At any rate, I know how to practice restraint, and so when I say that Mr. Johnston and I are friends, I mean that we enjoy each other’s company, we play music together, we laugh, we talk of our lives, and our pasts and our families, but that is all. We are platonic. It may be difficult, but we are.”

  “Just so you know, that is not how it appears to others. Be careful. Tongues are wagging. And I especially advise you to be wary of letting Lady Charles observe your behavior with the man. You are lucky that she was too distracted at the ball to notice how many times you danced with him and the flush of your cheek when he looked at you. If she thinks that something untoward is going on, she will waste no time in making things very unpleasant for you in this neighborhood.”

  “Yes, she let me know as much a few weeks ago.”

  “I would take her seriously if I were you.”

  “I thank you for your advice, Charlotte, and I will heed it.” She thought to herself that she and Ben had been careless at the ball, and they must be more cautious now. She wondered if Jeffrey had said anything to his mother about the incident at the gamekeeper’s cottage. If so, she admired Charlotte’s tact for not mentioning it.

  When she and Lady Holcomb returned to the house, they found Jane diligently pounding away at the piano, and Jeffrey and James loudly discussing hunting. Jeffrey had only one week before embarking upon his sailing career, he expressed to James, and he was anxious to do as much hunting as possible during that time. Cassandra stood in the doorway to listen as Lady Holcomb went to find a vase for the roses she’d picked.

  James explained to Jeffrey that gentlemen did not hunt in America, that only
wild men, or pioneers hunted, and then strictly for food or pelts, but not for sport. Cassandra knew this was not entirely true, noting that he hadn’t done his research well on the subject. But as hunting (or even eating meat that was not humanely raised and killed) was a rarity in their reality of the future, she knew that such a sport would be difficult for her son to stomach.

  Jeffrey then suggested that James stay the night and that they ride out together in the morning. James looked at his mother.

  “Of course, my dear,” she said, “I shall have a servant send over your riding clothes.”

  “Are you sure you can spare me?” She saw a twinge of panic in his eyes.

  “Certainly.” It gave her a small amount of satisfaction that he was getting more than he bargained for. “I would not dream of denying you the pleasure of hunting with Jeffrey.”

  “Thank you,” he replied dryly.

  Lady Holcomb came in to call them to dine at that moment, and they all followed her out of the room.

  ******

  The following day Cassandra received a note from her son around noon, letting her know that the hunting was fine, though he had not had success with killing anything, and would she mind if he stayed the weekend. She happily replied that it was not a problem, and later that day escaped to the gameskeeper’s cottage with Ben.

  Monday morning James returned bubbling with talk of his weekend. While Cassandra pulled weeds in the flower garden, he lounged on the bench and regaled her with talk of the get-togethers that had taken place Saturday and Sunday night with Lady Charles’ daughter and niece—one evening at the cottage, and the other at Darrington; of card games, impromptu dances, conversation and laughter.

  “And by the way,” he mentioned, “Bess suggested the idea of us hosting a garden party here soon.”

  “Who on earth is Bess?” inquired Cassandra throwing a handful of weeds into a pile.

  “Lady Charles’ daughter, you know, Elizabeth.”

  “I must say, in all this time, I never knew her first name. And you call her Bess? What did I tell you about that?”

  “She insisted on it!”

  “Then you must be getting to know her quite well.”

  “Oh, Mother, it is nothing like that.”

  Cassandra lifted an eyebrow. “Well, if ‘Bess’ has requested a garden party, then I suppose it must be. When would you like this event to take place?” She plucked at some errant blades of tall grass.

  “How about the weekend after next?”

  “That weekend is the Harvest Festival, we cannot do it then.”

  “Then the weekend after?”

  “All right, that gives me time to prepare, and hopefully, the weather will still be warm enough. Saturday or Sunday?”

  He took the time to think. “Saturday?”

  “I am glad that you, or rather, ‘Bess,’ thought of this. I have not entertained on a large scale since I came, and I think it is about time I did. I will talk to Mrs. Merriweather and Anna right away, and get started sending invitations. Is it all right if I invite my boyfriend?” She threw the weeds several feet towards the pile. They landed near it.

  “Yeah, as long as you tone it down. I thought you were going to start making out at the ball.”

  “Making out? James, you cannot use that expression.”

  “Really? I thought it was old-fashioned.”

  “Not old-fashioned enough. Besides, I do not know why everyone keeps saying that about me and Ben.”

  “Who else said it, for God’s sake?”

  “Charlotte. She knows he asked me to marry him, but I told her that I refused and that we are just platonic.”

  “So you lied.”

  “Well, I had to. Anyway,” she giggled, “we did make out at the ball.”

  “Oh, Mother, really, I do not want to know that.” He stood. “And there will be none of that sort of thing at the party.” He walked to the weed pile.

  “All right, but that goes for you too.”

  “I told you, Bess and I are just friends.” With his boot, he nudged the stray weeds into place.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, “tell me about it.”

  ******

  The second Saturday of September all of the village and farming families gathered on the lawn of the Selborne parish church for the Harvest Festival. Mr. Collins, the parson, was there, greeting people as they arrived, peeking into picnic baskets and copper pots, exclaiming heartily at the foods that were arriving.

  When the Franklin household pulled up in Mr. Merriweather’s wagon with their own offerings from the harvest, Cassandra looked around and realized that the only society family in attendance besides her own was the Clarkes. She turned to Mrs. Merriweather as she was being helped from the wagon bench by her husband.

  “Mrs. Merriweather,” she whispered loudly. “Is it proper for us to be here? You did not say that the gentry did not attend these festivals.”

  Mrs. Merriweather observed her with the same perplexed furrow of the brow that she often wore when faced with Cassandra’s lack of knowledge about suitable behavior.

  “It is perfectly proper, Mrs. Franklin, or I should have objected to your desire to come. However, many of the nicer families do not attend for they do not wish to mingle with the farmers. The Collins family always made it a point to attend, though, as the patrons of the parish.”

  “I see.”

  James hopped out of the wagon and grabbed two large jugs of cider. He carried them to a table covered with food and began to make conversation with the people who were gathered near. His gregarious attitude gratified Cassandra. She looked about and realized that there was no need to feel out of place. She was friends with many of the farm families, as well as the village shop owners. With a smirk, she imagined the look on Lady Charles’ face if she knew that Cassandra and her son were associating with the lower classes. All the more reason, she thought, to have a good time.

  She helped unload the food from the wagon, and laid it out with the rest on the wooden tables that had been set up. She helped herself to a cup of cider and looked around for Ben. He’d said he was coming. She guessed that, as he had grown up in London and didn’t know any more about country life and its traditions than she did.

  She saw James looking about, probably expecting to find Elizabeth Charles, but soon he fell in with Edward Clarke and his many brothers and sisters, all of them vying for a chance to impress the American. Mrs. Clarke, a pudgy lady with dark curls under a white cap and sparkling dark eyes, threw up her hands at her unruly crew and hurried in Cassandra’s direction. They sat together at one of the rough-hewn tables and were soon joined by some of the other women. One was Sarah Whitstone, a kind but overworked farmer’s wife that Cassandra knew, with a lined face, a few missing teeth, and an abundance of children. There was also Clara MacIntosh, Mary Tottenham, and Marianne Overstreet, all with their myriad offspring in tow. Cassandra could not make out whose children were whose.

  She looked upon the farm women with admiration, wondering how it was that they handled the work of the children and the household, the garden, the animals, the cooking, and so much else. She knew that even though they kept some servants, they still worked endless hours keeping up with all their tasks and educating their own children.

  The village shopkeepers and their families had it a little easier, this she was sure, though they still worked, long hard hours. But at least their work was confined to the shop that was usually on the first floor of their home, and their income was consistent. The two groups were sitting apart at separate tables. Cassandra didn’t know if it was because they considered themselves on a different social echelon or if it was just because they didn’t have much in common with the farmers.

  Mrs. MacIntosh, a tall, solidly built woman with sharp green eyes and a strong jaw, was asking Mrs. Whitstone about her health, and Cassandra listened eagerly, happy for the opportunity to learn about their lives. Mrs. Whitstone complained of nausea, swollen ankles, and another lost tooth, and
Cassandra realized that she must be pregnant again, though it was impossible to tell how many months along she was under the many folds of her dress. That makes eight children, thought Cassandra, at least eight living children. She looked her over thoughtfully, trying to guess her age. Then Mrs. Overstreet, a petite woman with a heart-shaped face and blond, curling hair, commented that she thought Mrs. Whitstone had gone past her childbearing time. Mrs. Whitstone replied that she had thought so too. Although she was only thirty-eight, she had not borne a child for eight years, and she’d assumed she was indeed past her time.

  Cassandra did not add much to the conversation. The ladies moved from the subject of childbirth to how best to assure that the chickens kept laying, to the quality of their servants, to the latest caper of one child or another. Cassandra had heard that Mrs. MacIntosh, Mrs. Tottenham, and Mrs. Whitstone had each lost at least one child. Mrs. Overstreet had a son that was considered slow, but no one seemed to think it was much out of the ordinary.

  She saw that Ben had arrived, and was making his way around the party, greeting those he knew and chatting amiably. He came by her table to say hello, but then moved on to speak to James and the Merriweathers.

  Soon it was time to slice the roast pig. The women helped serve the children and the men, and finally themselves. To Cassandra, the food seemed even more fresh and delicious than ever. She joined her own household to eat, at a table where Ben had also made himself at home.

  After everyone ate, Mr. Overstreet tuned up a fiddle, and the dancing began. James did not know the country reels, so he sat on the sidelines, clapping and stomping time. Cassandra thought she could pick up the steps, but was reluctant to join in, even if Ben asked. She saw Mrs. Clarke get up and partner with her husband, the two of them laughing as they cavorted to the music. Ben finally jumped up and offered her his hand, and they were soon whirling about with the rest. It had grown dark, the evening lit only by a bonfire and torches. Cassandra felt freer under the mask of darkness to enjoy the dancing with her lover and no one seemed to be paying them any mind.