by Lori Wick
“Why is that?”
“I’ve just never known you to be so fussy about the table setting.”
“This is not just any meal.”
“Why is that, Tate?” Harriet asked, her voice telling of her very real desire to know.
“It’s not something easily explained. I’ve become so accustomed to her visits that I fear she thinks I expect them. I want this meal to express how much I appreciate her time.”
“That was very nicely put. If you tell her that, she’ll understand just what you mean.”
“I hope I won’t have to say anything of the sort. Such words would probably ruin the party. I hope she’ll just understand.”
You sound like a man, Harriet thought fondly but saw what he meant.
She glanced at the clock on the dining room wall and hurried to check a few more things. Their visitor would be coming any moment.
The carriage arrived, always making better time than Cassandra anticipated, and just moments later Hastings was opening the front door.
“Welcome, Miss Steele. Please come this way.”
“Thank you, Hastings.”
Cassandra was taken to a room in the opposite direction from the library. The door was closed, and when Hastings opened it, Cassandra was in for a surprise.
“Oh, my,” she breathed, taking in the huge windows that looked out to the garden and the walls that appeared to be painted in gold.
“I think she likes it, Harriet,” Tate said, bringing Cassandra’s gaze to the room’s occupants.
“Welcome, Cassandra,” Harriet offered.
“Thank you. This room is marvelous.”
“We like it,” Harriet said simply. “Don’t we, Tate?”
“Yes. Have a seat,” Tate gestured to the cushioned chair on his right. Harriet went to sit on the other side.
A servant was standing ready to assist, and in moments the three were seated. Food began to appear. Instantly Cassandra could see that she was being treated to a feast, with conversation to match. The three of them talked on all subjects, barely pausing to rest. Cassandra learned of Harriet’s travels and how she had met her husband. Some of the things she shared were very romantic, and Cassandra found herself captivated.
On a number of occasions, she was glad Tate could not see her. Throughout the luncheon she looked to him, working to gauge his reactions to stories he must have heard before but also to see if he was enjoying himself. Why that was important to her just now, she wasn’t certain.
Not even when the luncheon ended and she was headed for home did she understand exactly why Tate needed to have a good time. Technically he was the host, and it was his job to entertain her, but Cassandra wasn’t seeing it that way. All the way home in the carriage she asked herself if he had had as good a time as she had. She fell asleep that night still wondering.
“What does she look like?”
Cassandra was hardly out the door when Tate asked this of his aunt. Harriet stared at the man across from her, weighing her thoughts.
“I just realized something, Tate,” she admitted. “That’s not an easy question to answer.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“I don’t know exactly. I guess it has to do with the fact that looks are based on so many things.”
Tate took a moment to digest this.
“All right. I’ll question you.”
“Do.”
“Is she dark like Elizabeth, or blonde like Charlotte?”
“Neither. Cassandra is a redhead.”
Tate’s brows went up, but he was smiling.
“And her eyes?”
“Like brown pansies.”
“Is her hair dark red or light?”
“Quite dark. Russet.”
“Freckles?”
“She’s covered with them.”
Tate’s white teeth flashed as a full-blown smile lit his face.
“She’s not very tall.” Harriet became expansive. “I think you can tell that. Her eyes light up when she talks or listens, and if she’s feeling something, it shows on her face. ‘Pretty’ or ‘beautiful’ really doesn’t describe her.”
“What does?”
“ ‘Adorable.’ Like a child who melts your heart. But then she speaks, and her voice is that of a woman, almost sultry. I could listen to it for hours.”
Tate felt his heart turn over, his mind thinking, I could too.
“Any more questions?”
“Yes. Does she have any awareness of me, or is she only being kind and polite?”
“She’s very aware of you and watches you closely, probably because you can’t look back. I suspect that if someday you are able to see her, Tate, she won’t be anywhere near so comfortable.”
“So you don’t think she cares for her looks?”
“She’s done nothing to indicate that. I just thought you should be warned.” Harriet was swift to add, “I’m not saying she’s bold, Tate—nothing could be further from the truth—but her eyes stray to you often. Could you see her, you would probably find it flirtatious, and I know she’s not that.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve watched her with some of the young men in the church family.”
“Is she seeing someone?” Tate couldn’t hide the note of anxiety in his voice.
“Not that I know of.”
With that, Tate was worn out. He’d enjoyed the meal tremendously and hearing about Cassandra had been like finishing a lovely painting, but it had taxed him emotionally. He thanked his aunt and retired to his room, reminding himself that he was supposed to be resting.
Blackburn Manor
“This is spectacular,” Walker said, his head bent over the de Witt atlas Cassandra had given Henry for his birthday. “And you say Benwick had this?”
“Yes. Cassandra found it for me.”
“She beat me to it, Henry, or it would be in my collection.”
Henry smiled and sat back, well satisfied with the comment.
Walker looked at him and laughed a little, but he hadn’t forgotten his assignment. He took a seat close by and leaned toward his younger friend.
“I’m glad you brought that so I could see it, Henry, but I have to tell you that I’ve asked you here today for a different reason.”
“All right.”
“We’re very comfortable talking about maps and such, but it has occurred to me that in all this time we’ve never spoken of spiritual things.”
“No, I guess we haven’t.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I for one regret that. I’ve never asked you about some of the most important things in your life.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your parents, and what they believed, and how it’s affected you.”
Henry stared at him for a moment.
“If you don’t mind my asking, Walker, what brought this on?”
“A number of things, the first of which is that I’ve heard you’re very quiet. You’re not quiet with me, so it makes me wonder how you live the rest of your life. Are you unusually talkative with me, or unusually silent with others?”
“The latter, I would have to say.”
“Why is that?”
“As my sister says, I don’t need words to live.”
“But how do you share your faith? How do you show people the joy Christ brings?”
Henry began to look uncomfortable, but at the same time he was very humbled by the calm caring he saw in James Walker. Given a choice, he would have avoided this subject like the blight, but the man’s voice and manner caused him to listen carefully and to think about his life.
“I try very hard to be an example in my dealings, Walker,” Henry offered. “I’m careful to be fair and honest in town and with workers who come to Newcomb Park. And certainly with the staff.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Steele,” Walker said calmly, but he was done with tact. “But if your own sisters doubt your salva
tion, something is wrong.”
These words shook Henry. He took a moment to ask, “Has Cassie come to you?”
“Yes. Did she tell you?”
“No, but when I noticed that a coach was gone, my man told me she’d come here.”
“She cares desperately for you, Henry. I hope there won’t be any hard feelings against her.”
“Against Cassandra? Never. She’s the sweetest woman who ever walked the face of the earth. She seeks my company out, even though I have nothing to say.”
The thought—Henry’s own words—shook him even more.
Coming to his feet, Henry went to the window. He was not a man of great outward passion. It was true that he didn’t need conversation to be content, but that didn’t mean he could follow his heart.
“What caused her to come exactly?”
“She’s confused by you. She said you value things above people.”
Henry turned from the window.
“In truth, I don’t, but since I never share my thoughts, how much I love and pray for my sisters and Edward, they never know.”
Walker remained quiet. He had decided to speak to Henry, assuming he was a believer, not knowing it would open the floodgates. In the next three hours Walker learned how Henry had come to Christ at his father’s knee, Charlotte, just two years younger, right beside him.
He learned of the way he’d met with Pastor Greville in Bath for personal Bible study but now did all of his studying alone. For long stretches Henry talked nonstop, telling Walker of the truths he’d learned from Scripture and the way God had changed his heart in many areas.
“But you never tell any of this to your siblings?”
“No, I guess I don’t. I’m a kind person, generous even, and not easily angered. I assumed that they understood the reason I was able to be such a man.”
“What would Cassandra say if she was to hear all of that?”
Henry knew in an instant.
“She would ask me why I never inquire about her day or her shopping trips. She would ask how we can go for our morning rides and not say two words to each other.”
“So she doesn’t speak either?”
“She’s only doing that for me.”
Walker smiled at Henry Steele.
“Henry, you’re one of my favorite people. I feel that way because you’re intelligent and we can talk on any subject. I don’t know why you haven’t been able to do that with your family, but God can change you. I’m sure of it.”
Henry sighed. “This might be more than He’s ever asked of me before.”
Walker was still smiling.
“But if He requires it of you, and I suspect that He does, He’ll help you. You know He will.”
Henry could not help but agree. He and Walker talked on for the next hour, mapping out a plan and looking at verses that spoke to the man of the family and how much he needed to lead. By the time Henry left for home, he was well and truly spent, but he was also determined to change. He and Walker would meet at the same time next week.
Thinking once again that his sisters had doubted his salvation made his heart ache.
“I don’t know how to talk to them, Father. I don’t know how,” Henry said softly in the coach as it moved toward Newcomb Park. And from that point on, he prayed until the coach pulled into the drive.
Chapter Eight
Pembroke
The sun was up and warm in a cloudless sky when Cassandra arrived on Friday morning. Hastings told her at the door that Tate was already on the veranda. Cassandra headed that way.
“Hello, Mr Tate.”
“Hello, Cassandra. Can you stand to be outside today?”
“Yes. I might have begged for this if I’d found you inside.”
Tate waited for her to sit and then handed her the book he’d been holding.
“Here you go.”
“What’s this?” Cassandra looked down at the new volume.
“Our next book. Have a go at it.”
A moment later Cassandra’s laughter bubbled out. She didn’t know if it was Japanese or Chinese, but she knew one thing: She couldn’t read it.
“Where did you unearth this?”
“Hastings is very resourceful,” Tate answered with a broad smile, clearly pleased with himself.
“And what if I’d been able to read it?”
“Ah, yes, that would have been fun. The joke would have certainly been on me.”
Cassandra laughed a little more.
“Are there other languages you can speak?” Tate suddenly wondered. He was as good with Italian and French as Cassandra was, but until that moment assumed there was nothing else in her repertoire.
“Now that would be telling,” Cassandra hedged. In truth, any other language she’d worked on was sketchy, but she didn’t want to admit to that just yet.
“You choose to remain a mystery.”
“For the moment.”
“I might have to keep searching for books.”
Cassandra laughed at this and was ready to reach for the nearby paper, but Tate had another question.
“Has anything been rectified in your painful situation?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How would you not know?”
“Because at times things happen quietly or slowly. I’m fairly certain that some talking has gone on, but it’s rather new, so time might be needed.”
“If I were to pray about the situation, for what would I ask?”
Wanting very much to continue to be discreet, Cassandra had to think on that.
“I think we can pray that all hearts involved be open, humble, and patient. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
“Do you want me to read now?”
“That’s fine.”
Cassandra reached for the paper but didn’t open it.
“Mr Tate, may I ask a question of you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you pray for yourself? How do you stay at peace when you don’t know what will happen with your eyesight?”
“I pray that I’ll keep trusting.”
“So the biggest issue for you is trust?”
“Yes. It helps that I was studying Moses at the time of my accident. God asked Moses to trust Him in so many ways. Sometimes he failed, and other times he was obedient. But what stuck out the most to me was God’s plan in Moses’ life. Clearly God knew what He wanted from Moses and how best to take care of His servant.
“As His child, I believe that God has a plan for me. God knows whether my having my sight restored will bring Him honor and glory. I can’t tell you that it wouldn’t be an adjustment to remain in darkness, but if I need to stay blind in order to be more pleasing to Him, I can’t fight that. If I don’t thank Him for whatever He has planned, I’ll be miserable and fruitless. I fail in my efforts—every day I fail—but my goal is to be righteous and trust Him.”
Cassandra found herself oddly choked up. Had she just met this man, all he’d said might have sounded like a lot of religious platitudes. However, she felt confident that he meant every word. She’d been with him for days, seeing his calmness, his sense of peace, and even his effort to put others ahead of himself.
“Are you still there, Cassandra?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t disguise the thickness of her voice. Indeed, tears were very close. She forced them back. “I’ll read to you now.”
Tate didn’t comment. He had no idea his thoughts would affect her, but he found it strangely comforting. Coming to need her warmth, sweetness, and sense of caring in his life, he suddenly realized that if she felt nothing for him, it would feel like a rejection.
He listened to her read, no particular emotion showing on his face, but he was pleased right then, very pleased indeed.
Newcomb Park
“How was Mr Tate yesterday?”
For several heartbeats Cassandra didn’t answer. She had heard Henry’s voice and seen his mouth move but still couldn’t quite manage t
he fact that Henry had initiated a dialog.
“He’s doing well. Thank you for asking, Henry.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Henry moved on his way then, Cassandra staring after him. Lizzy chose that moment to walk from the library with a book.
“What is it, Cassie?”
“I don’t know. Just something odd.”
“Henry?”
“Yes.”
Lizzy nodded. “He asked me if I’d visited with Anne Weston lately and how she was doing.”
“Did he go and see Mr Walker? Is that where he was on Wednesday?”
“I believe so.”
“What do you suppose happened? Should we ask Mr Walker?”
“No.” Lizzy immediately shook her head. “Let us take our cue from Henry. Clearly he’s trying, and we need to be as open and receptive as we can be.”
Cassandra only nodded, still feeling somewhat in shock.
Why do I pray for something and then feel amazed when You bring it to pass? she asked the Lord, a bit miffed with herself and her own lack of faith. I shall do better, Cassandra decided. I shall ask believing and be more willing to trust.
Having only just decided this, Cassandra realized she’d completely forgotten what she was about to do. She looked toward the library door but nothing jogged her memory. A moment later she gave up and returned to her room.
“How is it going?”
James Walker had slipped into Henry’s pew before he could exit.
“I’m exhausted,” the younger man admitted, even as Walker studied fatigue around his eyes. “Does God really want me to be someone I’m not?”
Walker chuckled a little, not able to help himself.
“Isn’t it like that for all of us, Henry? An emptying. A putting off of the sinful man we were and learning to walk in holiness?”
“Yes, I do see what you mean, but I must admit that I ask myself how talking to my sisters is a step toward holiness.”
Walker only stared at him.
“Yes, I know,” Henry acknowledged. “I’m showing that I put people ahead of things.”
“Did you work on it this week?”
“Yes. I realized I can say what I’m thinking.”