by Gayle Buck
“And you haven’t a trace of remorse, either,” exclaimed Miss Bidwell. “I am angry with you, Belle. You have shown a lack of judgment that I never expected of you. What’s more, you have probably given Mr. Raven a very odd notion of the sort of hospitality that may be had here at the Hall.”
A sliver of irritation ran through Cassandra at Miss Bidwell’s scolding censure. Really, her sister was treated exactly like a schoolgirl in this house, she thought. However, she dared not allow her real feelings to surface. Instead, she said calmly, “I admit that I hoped that Mr. Raven would choose to remove himself to the village, but Steeves made it quite impossible. He had already assigned rooms to Mr. Raven and his servant.”
“Whyever would you want Mr. Raven out of the house?” asked Miss Bidwell in amazement.
“I was thinking of my grandfather, of course,” said Cassandra. She was already regretting her frankness. When she noted Miss Bidwell’s expression of disbelief, her innate honesty made her try to make the lady understand at least a little. “And my time with him. I know that sounds horridly selfish, but— Oh, Biddy, I do not know this man. I really do not wish to know him, not right now. I have too much else on my mind.”
At once Miss Bidwell’s expression softened. “I do understand, Belle. I do not fault you for it, though I could wish— However, I shall say nothing more. Why do you not run along now? I know how difficult it is for you to sit about, and it has been a trying day. No doubt you would do better for a period of solitary reflection. If Mr. Raven returns downstairs before luncheon, I shall set myself to entertain him.”
Cassandra smiled at Miss Bidwell through a mist. “Thank you, Biddy.”
* * *
Chapter 6
After Biddy departed, Cassandra wondered what she was to do with herself, given what was left of the morning. Obviously, she could not spend more time with her grandfather until that evening, which meant that she had to occupy herself otherwise. But what would Belle do in similar circumstances? Certainly Belle would not sit in her bedroom all day, thought Cassandra, and so neither could she. Cassandra would still have liked to take refuge in the bedroom, emerging only for luncheon and supper. However, that really was not an option, Cassandra felt certain, overriding her trepidation.
Refuge. What a lovely word. It conjured up a place that was peaceful, out-of-the-way, safe. A tiny smile flitted across her face. She could think of nowhere better suited to her purposes than the library. She could sit down at the writing desk and write a letter to herself in reply to the one she had written to Belle. That would be an interesting exercise, indeed. She almost laughed out loud at how nonsensical it all was. She felt as though she were surrounded by mirrors and had to turn this way and that to discover which of her images was the real one.
Cassandra found the library after a little difficulty. Her sister’s description of the house had not been as detailed in every respect, or perhaps she had simply not paid close enough attention when Belle was instructing her. However, as she had assumed, there was a writing desk that held ample supplies of paper and pens and inkwells.
Before sitting down at the desk, which was situated between two long narrow windows through which the late autumn sun shone, Cassandra quietly walked about the room. She had closed the door behind her when she had entered, and she felt perfectly at ease in exploring a little. The bookshelves had been built into the walls and extended almost to the high ceiling. A railed ladder on metal casters was attached to a railing that extended the length of the shelves so that a browser could slide it along to whatever location that was desired and climb up to the uppermost shelves quite comfortably. Cassandra was impressed. She had never seen such a thing. It was obvious that Sir Marcus and his ancestors had taken pride in collecting such a substantial library and had used it.
Cassandra experimentally rolled the ladder back and forth. Then she grasped the rail with one hand and pulled up her skirt out of the way so that she could climb up. She picked up a random volume here and there from the shelves closest to her. There were several of the classics in the original Latin or Greek, an informative text on animal husbandry and a treatise on the law.
Cassandra made a face. Such reading did not appeal to her, and she suspected that her sister would not have found it interesting, either. Just as she was climbing down, Cassandra paused and pulled out one other volume. It was a hand-tooled leather-bound volume, the title quaintly scrolled in Old English. Cassandra took the time to make it out, and realized with a spurt of excitement that she held a family history written by none other than her grandfather, Sir Marcus Weatherstone.
She climbed down off of the ladder and blew dust from the thick volume. The leather was a trifle brittle along the spine when she opened the book, but Cassandra paid not the slightest attention. She had found a treasure. Before she left the Hall, she would be able to take something very precious with her. She would be able to take some knowledge of who she was and where she had come from. Her uncle had rarely spoken about his family, so Cassandra had never had the opportunity to feel a sense of roots. She had always felt awkward at the girls’ seminary when others had talked about their relations and their own place in the scheme of things. Cassandra had had very little to say. That probably went a long way in explaining her desire to come to know her grandfather, who was, after all, her only other link in the world.
At one end of the library loomed a massive fireplace. A fire had been built in it and warmed the chill air. A settee and wing chairs had been arranged near the hearth. Cassandra was glad for the heat as she curled up on the settee and began to turn the pages of the book written by her grandfather.
It was hours later when she heard the bell sounding for luncheon. She looked up, blinking at the clock on the mantel, and disbelievingly took in the time. She would have to hurry if she was to change her dress.
Cassandra left the book upstairs on the bedside table in her bedroom, but her thoughts were still filled with the images conjured up by her grandfather’s history. As she entered the morning room, she greeted Miss Bidwell almost absently. She sat down at the table, completely free of the anxiety that had dogged her from the beginning of the masquerade.
Miss Bidwell greeted her in return, then said, “You appear preoccupied, my dear. Is everything quite all right?”
“Oh, yes. I was just thinking of something that Grandfather wrote in his family history. I am up to the Crusades now,” said Cassandra. She indicated her preferences to the serving man that waited on her and turned her attention to the barley soup.
“Family history? I was not aware that Sir Marcus had written such a thing,” said Miss Bidwell, obviously surprised.
“Nor I,” said Cassandra. “I found it quite by accident this morning in the library. It is absolutely fascinating. Did you know that the name Weatherstone according to legend is said to have originated because the family had a reputation for weathering trouble like so many stones? One must wonder how much truth there is to such old tales.”
“You were in the library?”
Cassandra became aware that Miss Bidwell was staring at her with a stunned expression. Cassandra regretted her inattention. She simply had to be more cautious. “I was going to write a letter to Ca ... Cassandra,” she said in hasty explanation. “And then I started amusing myself with the ladder, you see. One thing led to another and I ... I found this book ...” Her voice trailed off, and she covered her inadequacy by picking up her teacup and putting it to her lips.
Miss Bidwell smiled and nodded. “I do see, Belle. It is very natural to desire to reaffirm one’s sense of identity when one’s world threatens to change.”
“Yes,” agreed Cassandra, scarcely understanding what Miss Bidwell was saying, but quite willing to go along if it meant that suspicion would be averted.
Miss Bidwell reached her hand across to pat Cassandra’s arm gently. “My very dear girl, you mustn’t worry so. I am certain, even if our worst fears are realized, that Sir Marcus has made ample provisions for yo
u.”
Cassandra stared at Miss Bidwell’s earnest face. “But I never gave a thought to—” She shook her head. The very thought of her grandfather dying was completely obnoxious to her. As for provision, she was very sure that that would have been Belle’s least concern. “I shan’t think anything of the sort, and I do not wish you to either, Biddy. Grandfather made a surprising turnaround. Weems said so. He will be fine once he has gotten his strength back, I am sure of it.”
Miss Bidwell nodded. “Of course he will be, Belle. Of course he will be.”
There was only the sound of spoon against china for a few moments. Cassandra’s reflections had been firmly turned into less diverting channels. She could not forget what her grandfather had said about expecting death. But surely he was not completely resigned to it if he had invited his godson to come to see him, even if he had said it was for a deathbed visit. Following her train of logic and in an effort to reassure Miss Bidwell that the future was not as gloomy as that lady apparently believed, Cassandra said, “This morning Grandfather told me that he had requested Mr. Petrie-Downs to send for his godson. I doubt that Grandfather would have done so if he had not believed that he was strong enough to outlast Mr. Petrie-Downs’s search for his godson.”
Suddenly, Cassandra realized that Mr. Raven had not joined them at table. She looked around, a small frown knitting her brows. “Where is Mr. Raven, Biddy?”
“Steeves informed me that when Sir Marcus woke from his sleep and learned that Mr. Raven had arrived, he insisted that his godson take luncheon with him in his rooms,” said Miss Bidwell.
“Indeed! Well, there you are, Biddy. I don’t expect Grandfather to pass on just yet,” said Cassandra.
“No, I quite agree with you, my dear,” said Miss Bid-well with a thoughtful nod.
Cassandra smiled, feeling somewhat relieved that her companion had concurred. “Perhaps we should all be grateful for Mr. Raven’s arrival, after all.”
Miss Bidwell looked fixedly at her for a moment. “Er .. . how do you really feel about Sir Marcus’s invitation to Philip Raven, Belle?”
“Why, how should I feel about it? I think it a good sign that my grandfather wishes company.” Cassandra realized that was not quite what her companion had meant. “Biddy, surely I am cognizant enough of what is due to a guest that I shall be able to make him feel comfortable.”
“Of course you shall. There is no question of that, naturally,” said Miss Bidwell hastily.
Cassandra looked at her companion, who was busying herself with a small piece of chicken. “Biddy, is there something that I should know?”
“About what, my dear?” asked Miss Bidwell, glancing up momentarily before returning her gaze to cutting her chicken.
“About Philip Raven,” said Cassandra. She rather thought, after what her grandfather had said about his godson’s visit and now Miss Bidwell’s odd reaction, that there must be something that she was missing. Perhaps Belle already knew what it was; but then again, Belle might not, in which case it was her sister’s duty to find out what was in the wind so that she could warn Belle.
“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Miss Bidwell with a studied indifference.
Cassandra’s suspicions were confirmed. Something was in the wind, something connected with Philip Raven. She decided to press Miss Bidwell a little. “It is very odd, you know. Grandfather seemed concerned that I might not be civil toward Mr. Raven. Now why should he think that, Biddy?” asked Cassandra.
“I cannot presume to read Sir Marcus’s mind, dear,” said Miss Bidwell briskly. She signaled to the serving man for another serving of the poultry. “The chicken is very well prepared, don’t you think? So tender and flavorful. I wonder what herbs were used? I must remember to ask Mrs. Fleming when I see her. Would you like another piece also, Belle?”
Cassandra had no difficulty in recognizing the attempt to change the subject. She said dryly, “No, thank you. I have had quite enough, I think. Of everything.”
Miss Bidwell looked up, a look of startlement in her blue eyes.
Cassandra laid aside her napkin and rose. “If you will excuse me, Biddy, I believe that I shall return to my reading.”
“Belle-“ Cassandra paused at the door, looking back at the elderly lady. Miss Bidwell had a perturbed expression on her face. “Yes, Biddy?”
Miss Bidwell seemed to hesitate, as though it was difficult to form the words that she needed. She cast a glance toward the serving-man, who was moving about at the serving board. Miss Bidwell sighed. “Never mind, my dear. I shall speak with you later.”
“Of course, Biddy,” said Cassandra coolly. She left the morning room, still determined to find out what Miss Bidwell knew and was concealing from her.
She rather thought that her strategic retreat had taken Miss Bidwell by surprise. Apparently, the lady had been prepared for an interrogation from her charge, not a gently delivered setdown. The unexpected tactic had seemed to shake Miss Bidwell’s resistance. In view of that, Cassandra had every expectation of being able to persuade Miss Bidwell to confide in her; and if that was not characteristic of her sister’s personality, then so be it. She would be gone within a few days, and Belle would be reestablished in her rightful place.
As Cassandra made her way back upstairs to retrieve the history, she wondered what there could possibly be about Mr. Philip Raven that was so unusual or undesirable that Belle should object to his coming. Sir Marcus and Miss Bidwell had both assumed that his arrival would be frowned on by her sister. It was very curious, indeed.
Her sister must have liked Philip Raven well enough as a child, or otherwise Belle would not have made that childish pledge to wed him when she was old enough.
Something must have changed that. Perhaps it had to do with Philip Raven’s leaving the Hall after living with his godfather for so long. Cassandra then wondered why Philip Raven had lived at the Hall at all. Had he been orphaned? Was it an experience in common that had created the original tie between Belle and Philip Raven? These were unanswerable questions, of course, until she had an opportunity to speak to Belle.
In the meantime, Cassandra fully intended to finish the history that her grandfather had written. She had spoken the truth to Miss Bidwell. She did find it fascinating. It was intriguing to Cassandra to read about her ancestors. She had never known anything very much about her precedents. It probably should not matter to her, and perhaps it would not have if she had been raised along with her sister. However, Cassandra felt something like a pecuniary relative come to visit at the Hall. She was accepted, but she really did not feel at home.
After retrieving the book, Cassandra decided to take the volume to the sitting room. The light would be better there, and if someone should wish to find her, such as Miss Bidwell, she would be readily available. Cassandra rather hoped that Miss Bidwell would seek her out. She was very curious about Mr. Philip Raven and what his visit might mean to her sister.
Cassandra occasionally glanced up at the ormolu clock on the mantel, but an hour passed without Miss Bidwell making an appearance. Cassandra gradually forgot to look up at the clock as she became more and more involved in the history. She curled up on the settee in front of the fire, her feet tucked under her skirt on the cushion. Sir Marcus was a master storyteller. He had taken even the driest of facts and managed to weave them into a whole that would keep a reader’s interest. She was reading about Sir Marcus himself and his adventures when she heard a bell peal in the distance.
* * *
Chapter 7
Cassandra glanced up, startled. Almost immediately the door to the sitting room opened, and the butler entered. “What is it, Steeves?” she asked.
“Sir Thomas is here, miss.”
Cassandra straightened abruptly, bringing her feet to the carpet. Her heart was suddenly thudding. Sir Thomas—her host at the house party! Would he recognize her? There must have been a startled expression on her face, for the butler gave a slight nod, as though answering a question.<
br />
“He wishes to see Sir Marcus,” said Sleeves.
“I see.” Cassandra carefully marked her place in the history, giving herself a moment to gather her thoughts. She looked up. “Has Weems been informed?”
“I sent word up only a moment ago,” said Sleeves.
“What of Mr. Raven? Is he still with my grandfather?” asked Cassandra curiously.
“No, miss. Mr. Raven went riding this hour past.”
“Very well, Steeves. Then I think that we may allow Sir Thomas to see Sir Marcus,” said Cassandra with a smile.
The butler gave a slight cough. “I told Sir Thomas that you would wish to escort him upstairs yourself.”
“Of course I shall,” said Cassandra, sounding more assured than she fell. The butler’s meaningful statement had hinted strongly her sister’s probable course of action. Though she was grateful for the prompt on how to act out her part, she was also insecure about how well she could carry it out. For instance, what would Belle do if Sir Thomas decided that he could very well see himself upstairs?
As Cassandra stood up, a voice sounded behind the butler, and Steeves turned to reply. The next instant, the butler gave way before a short, portly gentleman. The visitor had put off his coat and gloves and was attired in a dark driving coat. His frowning expression deepened when he saw Cassandra.
She stepped forward, offering her hand. She had instantly recognized him. “Sir Thomas, I am happy to see you.”
“Very pretty of you, Belle,” said Sir Thomas with a lessening of his frown. He bowed over her hand. When he straightened, he directed a searching glance at her face. “You know why I have come, of course.”
For an instant, Cassandra thought wildly that he meant to tell her that he knew everything and that he had immediately recognized that it had been Belle, and not Cassandra, who had sat down with him and his guests at luncheon. Clutching her hands together unobtrusively in the folds of her skirt, Cassandra strove for mastery over herself.