“Yes, wasn’t some maiden distracted by them along a race so she would lose?”
“Atalanta. She was not supposed to marry, yet she was distracted by golden apples and lost the race, so her suitor won her hand, but it never turned out well for them.” Remembering the rest of the myth was not proper for polite company, he stopped.
Miss Irving laughed. “The moral of the story is, do not be distracted by golden apples.” She pushed open the door to the great hall and joined the others.
“Or just gold,” Whittaker murmured.
Of course God would not wish for him to marry for money alone. He had promised to provide, and He would.
Provide for one’s needs, though, not necessarily a wife. As the men who had forced him into his current mission had pointed out, he had heirs to the title. He did not necessarily need a wife.
Seeing Cassandra with Mama at the far end of the room, though, he knew he wanted one, and which one. Forget heiresses. He was going to win her back, God willing.
He walked up behind the ladies in time to hear Mama say in a low voice, “He has lost his reason if he thinks to dangle after that heiress.”
“I should think she is a wise choice. She is quite beautiful and has nice manners.”
Lady Whittaker sniffed.
“She has been very kind to Honore,” Cassandra continued.
Mama frowned. “It would be wise from a fiscal perspective, yes, but not . . . Marriages based on financial needs met in exchange for a title are unwise. I know they are as common as fleas on dogs, but they rarely turn out happily.”
A stark reminder of how his mother had managed her own unhappy marriage—with infidelity, come to haunt him thirty years later.
“My father would agree with you,” Cassandra said.
“I know he would. Your father and I—ah, Whittaker, have you not heard that eavesdroppers hear nothing good of themselves?”
“Yes, I have, and I apologize for listening. Where is Miss Honore?”
“In her room weeping her heart out.” Cassandra glanced around at the company refreshing themselves with the oranges and an assortment of sweet biscuits and tea or lemonade. She lowered her voice. “Your friend Major Crawford should know better at his age.”
“I expect he does.” Whittaker glared across the room at the officer engaged in dialogue with Sorrells. “Is Miss Honore all right—other than being mortified by being caught?”
“She is well enough,” Cassandra said. “He was doing no more than kissing her rather . . . er . . . intensely.”
For a heartbeat their eyes met, held, flashed a memory or a hundred between them. Then Whittaker’s gaze dropped to her lips, and she blushed, mumbled an excuse, and limped away to join Major Crawford and Sorrells under the guise of fetching a cup of tea.
“That was nowhere near subtle, my son.” Mama rapped his knuckles with her fan.
Whittaker kept watching Cassandra, her face suddenly aglow, her hands gesturing to accompany her words. “No doubt she is talking of her infernal balloons. If she loved me half so well as she did those machines, she would never once believe we are not supposed to be together.”
“Then love them with her.”
“I cannot. The idea of going up in one makes me ill. And they are dangerous.”
“But the more you try to stop her, the more she wants to do it. Bainbridge is a strict father who gave his daughters so little freedom to think for themselves, they have all rebelled. And when you tell her not to do something, you sound just like her father.”
“He has always allowed Cassandra to pursue her studies,” Whittaker pointed out.
“Because she sneaked around, stealing books from his library to do so.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me, with a bit of pride, I do believe.” Mama smiled. “The more he told her not to do it, the more she did.”
“Not an admirable trait.” Whittaker smiled, his heart soft. “Perhaps her only dishonorable trait.”
“And one that has kept her alive since August, or do you not realize how close to death she was?”
“They would not let me see her or tell me anything, at her request.”
“Of course she requested it. She did not want you to see her emaciated and ill. And you meekly went away.”
“I never—”
But he had. She’d told him to go and he had not stayed to fight.
“Was I supposed to fight my way into her bedchamber?” he asked in self-defense.
“At the least, you could have written her every day. But you take no for an answer because you have always been the best and most obedient of sons, never going beyond anything you think we expect of you.” Mama spoke with a blend of gentle reproach and affection.
Whittaker glanced at Cassandra again, now deep in conversation with Sorrells. “Not always, Mama. I have been—”
Mrs. Dunstan headed their way.
“We must talk soon, I think,” he said hastily. “I want to tell you something. You and Cassandra.”
But not that night. He had to meet with the rebels again in less than an hour. He would need all of that time to return to his other persona and get to the tavern.
“I must take my leave now,” he said.
Quickly he bade good night to his mother’s guests, then slipped away. In three quarters of an hour, he was up the oak tree and into the first-floor chamber, the second man to arrive.
“Geoff, so glad to see you,” Jimmy greeted him. “I was gonna look you up after t’meeting, but since t’others aren’t here yet, now’s as good a time as any.”
“Good enough for what?” Whittaker propped one shoulder against the window frame, where he could watch the movements of the other man and anyone approaching at the same time but still appear relaxed.
“How we can get out of this gang.” Jimmy approached slowly, hands in front of him, a signal of his noncombative intentions. “I’ll help you find out who the ringleader is if you do me a favor.”
The man sounded sincere, but Whittaker did not wish to step into a trap. He shrugged. “Maybe I should go along with Rob and Hugh. After all, the French got rid of their king and queen through riots and rebellion.”
“And found themselves with Napoleon Bonaparte. Do we want that in England? Surely you’re not suggesting treason, getting rid of the king—or regent now, I s’pose.”
“No, but the loom owners have taken note. Some changes have occurred.”
“Not many for the good. Fewer looms may mean higher prices, but it also means more men out of work, which means more for the mill owners to choose from and lower wages. We won’t make ourselves heard thatta way.”
“So you’re more intelligent than the rest of th—us.” Hearing a footfall crunch below, Whittaker leaned a bit toward the window.
Jimmy grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back. “So are you, so stop pretending,” he whispered in a rush. “You know this is stupid and will probably get us all killed with a gun or a rope. Or a knife between our shoulder blades.”
Whittaker’s skin crawled. No time for further discussion as to what Jimmy’s favor might be. The oak tree rustled, and Whittaker and Jimmy moved to the table. By the time Rob and Hugh arrived in quick succession, Whittaker and Jimmy discussed nothing more interesting than which local inn or tavern made the best pork pie.
The other men debated where to make their next move. When asked his opinion, Whittaker simply glared at them through the scanty light and shrugged. “I have no opinions other than those you’ve already heard.”
“Then it’s the Melton mills again,” Rob said. “Just one change. We won’t go at midnight like we a’ways does. We go at dawn. The guards’ll be tired by then and think they got through another peaceful night.”
Having stood guard, Whittaker knew this was sound advice and started to push back his chair, ready to leave. He wanted some sleep himself.
“Can’t go at dawn,” Hugh broke in. “Those fools with the balloon are going up in the morning.
They might spot something.”
Whittaker’s hands froze on the edge of the table.
“Then stop ’em,” Rob said and stood. “I’m for my bed for a bit.”
Whittaker gripped the table so hard he expected the pine to crack.
“You coming, Geoff?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, sure I am.” Whittaker made himself release the table, rise, go to the window. “Feeling a bit fatigued is all.”
“Ain’t we all.” Jimmy yawned. “I’m for my bed too.”
“Sounds fine.”
“I’ll walk with you a bit,” Jimmy said. “Keeps us all safe to stick together in pairs or more, eh?”
“Yes, that it does.” In thinking of how to warn Cassandra in time, Whittaker forgot to disguise his aristocratic accent.
They reached the road and strode along in silence until certain they were out of earshot of the other men. Then they remained silent until they reached the slit in the hedge, where Jimmy stopped before slipping through the gap first.
Whittaker was frowning as he followed. “You’ve followed me before.”
“I was paid to.” Jimmy grinned.
“By whom?” Whittaker wished his knife were at his waist instead of in his boot. He braced himself for a blow, Jimmy’s hand darting for a blade, a pistol.
“Some lordship who said to keep you safe.”
Bainbridge? No other “lordship” would care what happened to him. Not that Bainbridge cared. Yet what other nobleman knew of Whittaker’s involvement with the rebels?
“No lordship cares about my welfare.”
“This one does. Says he wants you with us rebels, but you can’t get hurt.”
Whittaker curled his upper lip. “You have done a poor job of it.”
“I know. That’s why I warned you about Rob or Hugh knowing about you. Maybe the both of ’em. You keep slipping away and I can’t watch after you, and I won’t get my pay if you’re killed. So I have to stop you from slipping off.” Jimmy’s fist flashed toward Whittaker’s jaw.
Whittaker ducked, leaped away, then kicked Jimmy in the middle.
“Unfair fighting,” Jimmy gasped out as he folded.
Whittaker smashed his fist into Jimmy’s jaw. “You will not stop me from going to save her.”
“You . . . dead man.” Jimmy’s eyes rolled up, and he slumped to the ground. Whittaker dragged him beneath the hedgerow for his protection, then raced across the field.
Regardless of—no, because of—Jimmy’s warning, he must risk whatever necessary to reach Cassandra in time to stop her from going up in the balloon.
27
Before the first bird commenced its morning song, Cassandra sprang from bed and began to dress in the gown she had commissioned with fastenings up the front—not fashionable for a lady but practical for her. Her ankle was healed so much she was tempted to don her half boots, then decided against it. She could not again risk her barely healed scar rubbing into an open sore.
Wearing her sturdiest leather slippers, she slipped through the orangery and out of the house. Memory of Whittaker saying someone had followed him into the parkland gave her pause at the inner gate. But the person had followed him, not her. She was safe away from him, he claimed, though why made little to no sense. Then again, nothing about Geoffrey Giles, Earl of Whittaker, made any sense these days—his odd comings and goings, his peculiar clothes, the fact that someone wanted him dead at all. He was the kindest, most generous man she knew. She could not work out how he had made enemies.
Cassandra had made, if not an enemy, at least an adversary. One who had kept her awake until well past midnight, who begged, pleaded, and finally walked into her bedroom and slammed the door when Cassandra remained adamant.
“I will write to Father about your behavior—again,” Cassandra had persisted in telling Honore. “To enjoy a flirtation is one matter. To slip away during a party and commence kissing a gentleman like that in a private place is quite another. And if you think it will force Father’s hand to allow you to wed Major Crawford, you are quite mistaken. On the contrary, he is more likely to forbid an alliance with a man who gives you no more respect than to treat you that way.”
“He did not forbid your marriage to Whittaker when he knew.” Honore pouted, as she had all evening.
Cassandra gave her sister a twisted smile. “But he did. He told Whittaker to go away after my accident because—because of how we behaved in the carriage before I . . . fell out into the fire.”
“You also told Whittaker to go away.”
“Of course I did. Would a man want to marry a woman with my scars? But I did not know about Father at the time.”
“Because you two engaged in a bit of kissing?” Honore shook her head. “I think not.”
“Yes, well, um . . .” Cassandra turned away, but not before her cheeks had begun to heat.
Honore gasped. “Cassandra, you . . . !”
“Not that,” Cassandra hastened to clarify. “But . . . we were wrong and now I am scarred as a reminder of my sin.”
“But that has nothing to do with forgiveness and repentance.” Honore sounded more panicked than placatory. “Surely God would never do such a thing.”
“He allowed it to happen. I was already poor wife material for Whittaker, preferring balloons and books to balls and dinner parties.”
“I think that is all nonsense. And I will have Major Crawford. He is not at all like Mr. Frobisher.”
“We shall let Father be the judge of that. You are still a minor.”
And so the battle raged until Honore simply stomped away and slammed her door.
Cassandra wrote Father a letter suggesting he have a care for his youngest daughter’s courtship by a military man:
She has been indiscreet, you must know. And you need not concern yourself with me. You may trust me to remain on my best behavior despite Whittaker being here after all. He accepts that our betrothal is ended.
Then she slept for no more than an hour or two, woke, and headed for the rendezvous with Mr. Kent and Mr. Sorrells. They were enthusiastic about her flying on her own, both having taken solo flights and extolling the virtues of being alone in the heavens.
“Nothing is better,” Mr. Sorrells had said the night before. “One feels so close to God.”
Once she exited the second gate, she spotted the balloon, filling nicely, rising up against a gray predawn sky with the merest hint of brightness along the eastern horizon to assure her no rain should be forthcoming. As she arrived halfway across the field, she noticed the strength of the wind and the slant of the balloon. Not too high for floating through the heavens, but the tilt of the balloon indicated they would drift in the wrong direction.
“Do you still want to go?” Mr. Sorrells greeted her. “We think you should be safe enough, as you can set down long before you reach the water, but if you’re uncomfortable, we understand.”
“I’ll go.” Mr. Kent chuckled. “Maybe I can cross the Irish Sea.”
“Or the Atlantic.” Cassandra smiled and shook her head. “No, I still want to go. It will be a good opportunity for me to test the sails.”
“True.” Mr. Sorrells looked a bit dubious. “If nothing else, they should slow your progress.”
“We will follow on horseback as best we can.” Mr. Kent gestured toward a pair of horses tethered a hundred feet from the fire fueling the balloon.
“In the event you find yourself in difficulty,” Mr. Sorrells added.
A common practice. Many persons followed balloon flights on horseback, jumping over walls and streams to keep the flying machine in sight. Thinking of her two friends below warmed Cassandra. She experienced no anxiety about her flight and took comfort in knowing she would not be completely alone.
Pulse beginning to race like the wind, she approached the wooden box they had set beside the tethered basket. “Then let there be no more delay.”
“Let me lend you a hand.” Mr. Sorrells held out both his hands.
Cassandra took o
ne to give her stability as she stepped onto the box. She needed the other hand to manage her skirt and petticoats. From there, climbing into the basket proved easier than mounting a horse. Inside, she found a flask of water and half a dozen apples, a hunk of soft cheese, and a loaf of bread.
“I thought you might get hungry,” Mr. Kent admitted, “if you make this a long flight. I know I did the last time I went up. It’s all that fresh air.”
“You are so thoughtful.” Cassandra leaned over the side of the basket to offer him her best smile. “I had no breakfast, and I rather like the idea of having it a mile off the ground.”
“We’ll get the ropes then.” Mr. Sorrells strode to one end of the balloon and loosed the first rope.
Mr. Kent went to the diagonal corner. The basket began to bob and sway with the inflated balloon tugging upward, its filling of hot air anxious to lift up and up.
“This is glorious!” Cassandra cried out and lifted her arms. “If we cannot create wings for men to fly themselves, then this is the next best way to go into the air. It is positively—”
Hoofbeats thundered across the field at a speed too fast for the lack of light in the sky and the roughness of the terrain. “Cassandra, do not go!” a shout carried on the wind. “Do not—”
“Quick,” Cassandra said, doubting she was strong enough to unhook the ropes herself now that the balloon was rising. “Loose the other ropes.”
But neither Mr. Sorrells nor Mr. Kent did so. They stood watching the approaching rider.
“Cassandra, come out of there.” Geoffrey Lord Whittaker reined in a dozen feet away and flung himself from the saddle.
“Now,” Cassandra commanded.
Perhaps her voice held authority. Perhaps they simply did not want their morning’s enjoyment spoiled by someone who did not appreciate their balloon travel experiments. Whatever the reason, Mr. Kent and Mr. Sorrells sprang into action, unfastening the last two ropes. The balloon began to rise.
Laurie Alice Eakes - [Daughters of Bainbridge House 02] Page 25