by Gayle Buck
“Bravo, my dear! I see that some of my admonishments toward caution have not gone for naught, after all. You are learning discretion, Belle,” said Miss Bidwell.
“Oh, bother,” said Cassandra under her breath, irritated. Once again she had acted out of character for her sister. Without further ado, she took up the letter opener and slit the green wax seal securing the envelope. She slipped out the sheets and began to read the letter.
When she was done, she looked up. Her brows were knit in a frown. “I do not understand all the fuss. There is nothing here of any great import that I can see.”
“Er ... would it be out of bounds of me to ask about the subject of the letter?” asked Miss Bidwell with nicely restrained curiosity.
Cassandra shook her head. “No, of course not.” She was immensely relieved that she had not been forced into being made privy to some matter of paramount importance. “There is nothing here requiring anyone’s decision, including Grandfather’s. Apparently, Grandfather had suddenly taken it into his head that he had to discover the present whereabouts of his godson, Mr. Philip Raven, and he had written Mr. Petrie-Downs to request that an inquiry be set afoot. Mr. Petrie-Downs writes that he has been successful in locating Mr. Raven, and that he is on his way to the Hall now.”
“Philip Raven! Why, it has been years since I saw him. As I recall, he was a dark-haired, handsome boy a few years older than you. He stayed here at the Hall for a year or two. He was a much easier student to tutor than you, my dear! Do you remember him?” said Miss Bidwell.
“N-not really,” stammered Cassandra. She suddenly remembered something from one of her sister’s letters. “Though I do seem to recall that when I was nine years old, my grandfather’s godson and I pledged ourselves to be wed.”
“That would be Philip,” said Miss Bidwell, nodding. She looked curiously at Cassandra. “I don’t believe that you ever told me that before. Belle.”
“Have I not? Why, I suppose it wasn’t important. Such childish stuff, really,” said Cassandra airily.
“Undoubtedly, Sir Marcus wished to find his godson because he was feeling very mortal just at that time. I imagine that it had something to do with his will,” said Miss Bidwell reflectively.
“His will?” repeated Cassandra, feeling rather stupid.
“Of course, my dear, what else? Philip Raven is your grandfather’s godson, after all. I would be surprised, indeed, if Sir Marcus did not intend to provide something for him,” said Miss Bidwell. “I wonder how Sir Marcus lost contact with him at all?”
“I think that I can answer that,” said Cassandra, glad to be able to offer something that would not place her in an uncomfortable position. “Mr. Petrie-Downs says in his letter that Mr. Raven had sold out of the army, but had remained on the Continent because of business interests.” She looked up at Miss Bidwell. “I wonder what sort of business interests?”
“An interesting question, indeed. Mr. Raven is apparently not anxious to return to his native shores. One wonders why, really,” said Miss Bidwell. “Of course, I understand now why Sir Marcus had lost contact. That war was such a hurly-burly affair. No one quite knew what to believe. Was Wellington retreating, or was he gaining ground? Well, Boney has abdicated at last, and that’s the end of it, thank God. Belle, it will undoubtedly ease Sir Marcus’s mind to know that his godson has been located and is alive. You will naturally let him know when you go up to visit him.”
“Yes, of course I shall.” Cassandra refolded the sheets and slipped them back into the envelope. She was glad to have come off so well in her first encounter with one of the household who could be considered to know Belle intimately. “I suppose Weems will let me know when I can go up.”
Miss Bidwell looked up quickly and stared fixedly at her for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that he shall,” she agreed.
Cassandra tapped the envelope nervously into her palm. She knew that she had made another misstep, but intuitively she hit upon the right note. “I shan’t wait on Weems. I shall go up in a bit and see for myself how Grandfather is.”
Miss Bidwell smiled without comment. Her agile fingers worked the tatting needles, growing the bit of lacework.
Cassandra picked up the rest of the post and sat down in a wing chair near the fireplace. The crackling of the burning wood was a quiet accompaniment as she sorted through the envelopes. There were communications that she recognized to be bills against various household accounts. Those she set aside for the housekeeper or steward to attend. The remainder were personal correspondences addressed to Sir Marcus, but there was one addressed in her own hand to Miss Belle Weatherstone. It was rather a shock to see the letter. She knew its contents, after all. And yet she was supposed to open it and read it as though she was completely ignorant of what she, Cassandra, had had to say to her sister, Belle. What a very odd situation she was in, to be sure.
“There is a letter from Cassandra,” she announced casually, taking up the letter opener.
“Oh, how nice. Her letters are always entertaining,” remarked Miss Bidwell. “I am always reminded of my own times in dear Bath.”
Cassandra threw a glance at Miss Bidwell, surprised. She had never given a thought to Miss Bidwell’s personal history. She racked her memory. Had Belle ever mentioned that Miss Bidwell had family in Bath or perhaps had some previous place of employment there? Cassandra could not recall anything of the sort, and hoped that she was not expected to comment on Miss Bidwell’s past confidences. She bent her head, pretending that she had not been listening, and opened her letter to her sister. She spread apart the sheets, scanning the lines quickly for anything that could possibly be incriminating. Of course Belle could not have confided their secret to Miss Bidwell, and so obviously she had not read everything from Cassandra’s letters to Miss Bidwell. Cassandra thought she would be safe if she gave Miss Bidwell only bits and pieces. It would probably be very out of character for her to read the letter in its entirety. “The subscription rate for the balls has gone up,” she offered.
Miss Bidwell exclaimed disapprovingly. “What nonsense! As though one was made of silver! What else does your sister say?”
Encouraged, Cassandra went on to tell Miss Bidwell what she had written about the latest romance from the Lending Library and whom she had met in the Pump Room and the ravishing bonnet that she had bought. When she was finished and proceeded to fold the letter, Miss Bidwell sighed.
“Do you mind very much not living in Bath, Biddy?” asked Cassandra, feeling very bold to be posing a personal question.
Miss Bidwell shot her a glance. “Certainly not! I am perfectly content at the Hall.”
“But you would like to go to the Pump Room and to the Lending Library again,” ventured Cassandra, hoping to discover a bit of Miss Bidwell’s history, something that Belle probably would already have known.
Miss Bidwell did not deny her statement, only giving a dismissive sniff. “And you, my dear, would undoubtedly spend all of your time trying on bonnets!”
“Oh, no. I would try on gloves and gowns and stockings, too,” said Cassandra with a smile.
Miss Bidwell chuckled. “I have little doubt of it, Belle. Aren’t we a pair, to be mooning over something that we cannot have? Well, your sister’s letters are always welcome and entertaining, but I discover that they also rouse a bit of envy in my breast.”
“In mine, too, Biddy,” said Cassandra, feeling that her sister would have certainly expressed such a thought.
“Never mind, Belle. I told you that I have talked to Sir Marcus about letting me take you to Bath or some other fashionable watering spot for the summer. He has not yet consented, but I do not give up hope yet. I shall speak to him again, once he has recovered sufficiently,” said Miss Bidwell. “In the meantime, we must be cheerful and patient.”
“Oh, and let patience have its perfect work?” asked Cassandra, smiling.
Miss Bidwell raised her brows, a surprised expression in her blue eyes. “Belle, I don’t believe I have ever hear
d you express sarcasm before. It does not suit you, my dear.”
Cassandra felt her face grow warm. She was dismayed that her little play on words had been taken in such error. Obviously, Belle was not clever with phrases or quotations. She would have to remember that. Cassandra stood up. “I ... I think that I shall go talk to Weems,” she said, and on that pretext she fled the sitting room.
* * *
Chapter 4
Cassandra held her skirt up in one hand so that she did not trip on it as she hurried back upstairs. She felt like running, but naturally one did not succumb to such temptations no matter how shaken one’s nerve had become. She started for Belle’s bedroom, wanting nothing more than to hide away until she felt it was safe to emerge. And when that would be, she thought morosely, was anyone’s guess. It wouldn’t surprise her if she decided to remain cowardly in the bedroom until it was time to meet Belle again at the crofter’s cottage. It was certainly safer than seeing anyone or talking to anyone in the house. Every time she opened her mouth she betrayed herself. She could not believe that there was not someone who was going to point a shaking finger at her and accuse her of duplicity.
Cassandra toyed with the idea of pretending to be ill. That would allow her to hide in the bedroom. But such a plan of action had its distinct disadvantages. First of all, it would undoubtedly draw unwelcome attention because she could not imagine her vivacious sister ever becoming sick. And of course, if she were pretending to be ill, ever visiting with her grandfather was completely out of the question. She would not be allowed to leave her sickroom and “infect” Sir Marcus with whatever complaint she was pretending to have.
“Bother,” said Cassandra to herself, annoyed and frustrated and afraid. She felt trapped. It was all supposed to have been so simple. Belle was going to let her quietly into their grandfather’s room so that she could spend an hour or two with him. Then she would have returned to her uncle and aunt. Cassandra could not imagine how simple a plan could have ballooned up into such a horrid monstrosity as this masquerade.
She had almost reached Belle’s bedroom when a short, supercilious little man came quietly out of an oaken door into the hallway. Upon seeing her, he nodded in a stiff manner. “Miss Belle, I was just coming to find you. Sir Marcus would like to see you.”
Cassandra stopped. Her heart felt as if it were plummeting to her toes. “Does ... does he?”
The valet nodded. A smile flickered across his clever face. “The turnaround was quite sudden this time, Miss Belle. I am glad to say that Sir Marcus has regained his full faculties, though he is naturally very weak from the fever.”
“Perhaps I should wait until later to go in, then,” said Cassandra diffidently. “He might wish to sleep.”
The valet’s brows twitched upward, and he stared very hard at her. “Normally, I might agree with you, miss. However, Sir Marcus will fret himself to flinders if he does not have his way, as you well know.”
“Yes,” agreed Cassandra, as seemed expected of her. She felt very nervous. “Then I must see him at once, of course.”
The valet opened the door and ushered her through the dressing room to the bedroom beyond. Cassandra entered her grandfather’s bedroom with both curiosity and trepidation. She blinked at the lavish brocade draperies hanging at the windows and the velvet curtains that had been corded back from around the massive four-post bed. All of the furniture was imposing in size and handsomely carved. Several deep Oriental rugs covered every corner of the floor so that no step could be heard crossing them. Bunches of candles in candelabras lit the room almost to full day, despite the drawn drapes. On one wall a bookshelf had been built from ceiling to floor. Strange figures of brass and beautiful vases of obvious value cluttered every shelf. Cassandra had not known what to expect, but certainly not this extravagant splendor. She recalled that her grandfather had been said to have traveled extensively as a young man in foreign parts and had returned with many curious pieces.
“Belle? Is that you?” The deep voice was whispery and fretful. “Come closer, child. I cannot see you.”
Cassandra drew a breath. She had reached the true test. If anyone could tell the difference between Belle and herself, surely it would be their grandfather. Sir Marcus had raised Belle almost as his own daughter. Almost cringing within, she approached the four-post bed. She grasped one of the posts, her fingers curling on the heavy gold cord that held back the rich wine-colored velvet. “Yes, Grandfather. Here I am. You ... you wished to see me?”
“Weems told you so, so I must have,” said Sir Marcus, almost growling. He tried to pull himself up higher on his pillows. The valet appeared instantly to lever the elderly gentleman into a more comfortable position.
While the two men were occupied, Cassandra studied her grandfather with open curiosity. She had vaguely recalled a tall, wide-shouldered gentleman. Her memory had served her well. Sir Marcus was but a shell of his former self, but his bones were long and large, and Cassandra could well understand why all of the furniture had been built on such heavy lines. It had been built to match the man. Her uncle was also tall, but she did not think that he could ever have been as large a gentleman as her grandfather had once been.
“What are you staring at, puss? Don’t I pass muster?” asked Sir Marcus, his bushy brows forming an unbroken line across his long nose. His eyes were winter blue, with no lack of awareness in their depths.
Cassandra thought she had better be more careful. “I suppose you look better than you did,” she said casually.
Sir Marcus gave a bark of laughter that was cut short by a coughing spasm. The valet picked up a goblet set on the night table and put it to his master’s lips. Once Sir Marcus had drunk a little, he waved the goblet away. “Enough, Weems! You tend me like an old nursemaid. Let me be, I say.”
“Very good, my lord.” The valet set down the goblet and adjusted the pillows once more. He bowed and turned away from the bed. Before he passed Cassandra, he gave her a significant look and the slightest shake of the head.
Cassandra interpreted the valet’s glance as meaning that Sir Marcus should not be kept long. She moved toward the chair beside the bed and sat down. She smiled at her grandfather, who had turned his gray head to regard her. Very boldly, she said, “And I, sir? Do I pass muster?”
“You always do, my dear. That blue gown becomes you very well,” said Sir Marcus, his deep voice but a thread.
“A compliment indeed, my lord,” said Cassandra with another smile.
“My lord? Why are we so formal, Belle? Are you perhaps angry with me?” asked Sir Marcus.
“Oh, no! Of course I am not,” said Cassandra, appalled. Once again, she had done something out of character for Belle.
Sir Marcus waved his hand. “No, no, do not deny it. I frightened you this time, I know. That is why you are angry with me, is it not?”
“Perhaps,” said Cassandra noncommittally.
Sir Marcus sighed. “I am sorry, Belle. I am an old man, and I have not long to live, I suspect.”
“Pray do not say so!” exclaimed Cassandra, her heartstrings touched. She took Sir Marcus’s hand between her own in her distress. His skin was wrinkled and cool, and his signet ring felt too heavy on his finger.
“You are a good girl. Always have been. I am glad you came to me,” said Sir Marcus. His eyes drifted past her. He stirred restlessly under the coverlet. “I wish I had some word from Petrie-Downs.”
“You had a letter from Mr. Petrie-Downs this morning,” said Cassandra, glad to be able to offer something helpful.
Sir Marcus’s gaze focused and sharpened again on her face. “A letter? From Petrie-Downs? You opened it, of course. What did he say?”
“Your godson, Philip Raven, has been located. He sold out of the army and remained on the Continent for business reasons,” said Cassandra.
“Business reasons! What possible business might he have, I should like to know?” exclaimed Sir Marcus.
“Mr. Petrie-Downs did not convey that information
, Grandfather,” said Cassandra. “He also wrote that Mr. Raven was en route to the Hall.”
Sir Marcus’s jaws worked as he stared beyond Cassandra out into the bedroom. His eyes suddenly returned to her. “You might as well know. I told Petrie-Downs to send word to Philip that I am on my deathbed.”
He threw up his hand at Cassandra’s involuntary protest. “Aye, you don’t like to hear it, my dear. However, facts are facts and must be faced. I am an old man and not likely to see the spring. You and I both heard that long-faced physician predict it. It’s not what one wishes to hear, but the truth has a way of getting down into a man’s spirit. I told you that I had matters to settle, and so I have. I am in hopes of seeing everything tied up nice and pretty before I die. So I had Petrie-Downs send for Philip Raven to come to us here at the Hall.”
Cassandra hoped that Mr. Raven would not arrive until after she and Belle had exchanged places again. “I wonder when Mr. Raven will arrive?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did. And I’ll not put up with any of your nonsense, Belle, so don’t think it,” said Sir Marcus, frowning at her.
“Of course not. I haven’t a clue as to what to think,” said Cassandra truthfully.
Sir Marcus snorted. He shook a long finger at her. “Aye, play off your tricks against me if you will, but I know better than to believe that look of blank innocence. You’ll be civil to Philip. He is my godson, and I wish to talk to him privately. That’s enough for you to know right now.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Cassandra with a smile. She noticed the valet had come back into the bedroom and was standing near the door. She took that to mean that her time with her grandfather should come to an end. Indeed, Sir Marcus did appear to be rather wearied. His energy seemed to have been sapped with the delivery of his scold. He had sagged back against the pillows, and his eyes had closed.
Cassandra stood up. She leaned over to brush a soft kiss against her grandfather’s cheek and then started to tiptoe away.