by Gayle Buck
Undoubtedly, it was already filtering through the servants’ grapevine that Miss Belle had a spitting image of herself staying at Sir Thomas’s. A sealed note from Miss Belle to that other young lady could well lead to unwelcome speculation that they had somehow met. It would be a very short leap to question whether they might have exchanged places, for that would certainly make sense of whatever mistakes Belle must be making in her role and explain Cassandra’s own gaffes to those at the Hall.
Having ruled out a sealed correspondence, Cassandra went riding daily and always made her way back to the old crofter’s cottage on the chance that she might run across her sister. However, she saw nothing of Belle. She felt a confusing mixture of relief and guilt. Instead of her sister, she was the one who was up at the Hall keeping vigilance over her grandfather.
Belle was not due to meet her yet, as she very well knew. Though she wanted more than anything else to remain at the Hall until she at least knew how her grandfather was going to be, she yet hoped that Belle would somehow suspect that something was wrong. Foremost in her mind was the thought that her sister must be made aware of the crisis in Sir Marcus’s health. If he was to die while Belle was away, Cassandra did not know what she was going to say to her sister. It was Belle’s place to be with their grandfather at such a time. They simply had to trade places again, even though it pained Cassandra to think about leaving her grandfather.
At the crofter’s cottage Cassandra left a note for Belle concerning their grandfather, in the event that her sister did happen to ride out before the date of their rendezvous. Cassandra did not know what else she could do, short of the desperate notion of riding over to Sir Thomas’s manor and demanding to see her sister.
“That would put us in the basket,” she said to herself, thinking of the certain scandal that would arise as a result. Every one of Sir Thomas’s guests would be privy to their deception, and the tale would almost certainly find its way to London, just in time for her come-out. Her uncle and aunt would not be pleased, to say the least.
In addition to Cassandra’s uncertainty about what to do concerning her sister, she was uncomfortable also with the situation at the Hall. In a word, with Mr. Raven.
She took pains to avoid the gentleman, hoping to discourage any other references that he might make to a mutual childhood. She saw Mr. Raven as more dangerous to her than perhaps any other personage at the Hall, for he was the only one who made attempts to reminisce with her. She sought twice to take refuge in the library.
Once he entered and discovered her reading. Mr. Raven stopped short, his hand still on the doorknob, and regarded her with surprise in his eyes. “Reading, Belle? You?”
“Pray address me as Miss Weatherstone,” said Cassandra primly, instantly closing the book. She stood up, still holding the volume and wishing very much that she could hide it. Her cheeks burned. She was annoyed to have been caught by Mr. Raven, for he would certainly recall that Belle had not cared for books.
Mr. Raven walked over to her and gently took the book out of her reluctant hands. “May I, Miss Weatherstone?” He glanced at the title, and his brows rose.
“The Classical Ages, pertaining to Rome and Greece. I am bowled out, I must admit. You were never one to give much attention to history.”
“I ... I have discovered that I like reading about Rome and Greece,” stammered Cassandra. An inspiration struck her. “The Colosseum games and Grecian athletic contests and wars are rather fascinating.”
“Now that sounds more like you,” said Mr. Raven, a smile curving his lips. His eyes reflected amusement. “You always had plenty of nerve and had a liking for vigorous exercise.”
“Really, you make me out to be some sort of Amazon,” retorted Cassandra.
“When I look at you, it is scarcely a heathen woman warrior that I see,” said Mr. Raven quietly. A new expression came into his eyes as his gaze traveled slowly over her.
Cassandra’s heart gave a bump. She was unnerved by his regard, and she turned away. “Perhaps I should go upstairs and discover from Weems whether there has been any change.”
“Pray do not run away on my account,” said Mr. Raven softly.
Cassandra turned around, raising her chin a little at his challenge. She saw that he had leaned against one of the steps of the moving ladder, his hand resting on the railing, and that he was regarding her with open amusement. “I am not running away,” she stated with dignity.
“Are you not, Miss Weatherstone? Haven’t you been running away from me ever since I arrived?” asked Mr. Raven.
“Of course not,” said Cassandra, half afraid that she was betraying her inner nervousness.
Mr. Raven held the book out toward her. “Here is your history, Miss Weatherstone,” he said gently.
Cassandra snatched the book from him and hastily retreated. “I shall undoubtedly see you at supper, Mr. Raven.” She made good her escape before it occurred to him to ask her something else.
Another time, it was she who interrupted Mr. Raven. She went in to the library and found him seated at the large desk. He was dipping a pen into the inkwell and a sheaf of sheets was under his hand. “Oh! I am sorry, sir.”
Mr. Raven had looked up with a frowning expression, which dissipated upon seeing her. “You are not disturbing me, Miss Weatherstone. I am merely in the throes of composing the latest installment of my ongoing correspondence.”
Cassandra came a bit farther into the room, her interest roused. “Has it to do with your business on the Continent?”
Mr. Raven’s expression became more closed, something unreadable in his eyes. “Yes, I fear so.”
Cassandra did not feel able to pry any more closely, though she was still curious to know the nature of his business. “I hope that all will transpire just as you wish, Mr. Raven.
“As do I, Miss Weatherstone,” said Mr. Raven on a sigh. “Was there something that you wished of me?”
“Oh, no! I had just come in with the intention of— Cassandra bit back what she had been about to say, appalled at her own stupidity. She had very nearly told him that she had come in after another volume about Rome. That would be so unlike the Belle Weatherstone that he had known. She said hurriedly, “That is to say, I came to inquire whether you wished to ride with me!”
Mr. Raven grinned suddenly. His eyes lit up as he chuckled. “Now that brings back a score of memories! I could not begin to count the number of times that you tried to persuade me to leave my books in favor of some excursion or other!”
“Yes, and no doubt I asked more often than you ever consented!” retorted Cassandra.
Mr. Raven threw back his head and laughed. “Well, yes,” he admitted. His expression was at once rueful and contrite. “Forgive me, but I must refuse the treat again.”
“Very well, but I shall not easily forget how hardly you have used me, sir!” said Cassandra teasingly.
Mr. Raven laughed again as she left the library. Cassandra had closed the door with a small smile and a warm feeling. At least this once she had acquitted herself well.
She had not tried to use the library again to hide. Apparently, Mr. Raven was comfortable in such an atmosphere, and Cassandra had thought it wise not to put herself in his way.
Meanwhile, true to Sir Thomas’s prediction, Sir Marcus’s most recent bout of fever proved to be more violent than the previous episode. The constant care that the sick gentleman required was exhausting to Weems, so much so that he enlisted Miss Bidwell’s help in the nursing.
The valet categorically refused to consider Cassandra’s own offer to sit with her grandfather. “Begging your pardon, miss, but you would be made too upset in seeing the master’s thrashing about and moaning and such,” he had said apologetically.
When Cassandra tried to convince him otherwise, Miss Bidwell took her firmly to task. “Really, Belle, I thought you had more sense than to badger poor Weems at such a time,” she said with asperity. “He is stretched to his limits now, and you are certainly not helping matters
by adding to his burden.”
“I only wish to help in some way,” said Cassandra with a helpless gesture.
“I know, my dear. However, you would only be in the way, as I suspect you probably already know.” Miss Bidwell patted Cassandra on the arm consolingly. With the air of someone throwing out a crumb but not really expecting it to fall on receptive ground, she said, “Now do be good enough to take over for me in dealing with the household. That would be the greatest service that you could render your grandfather at this point.”
Cassandra acceded to the suggestion, relieved to be given something to do. She had felt useless. She could scarcely stand just waiting about while upstairs her grandfather, with whom she had been able to exchange no more than a few sentences in her entire life, was fighting for his very existence.
Besides, it gave her a very good excuse to avoid Mr. Raven.
That same hour Cassandra plunged into all the household affairs with not an ounce of trepidation. She knew she was well taught in housewifery. Her aunt had made certain that she understood how to run a house, and in fact had groomed her to be the chatelaine of a large estate. Cassandra might not be her daughter by blood, but that had not dimmed Margaret Weatherstone’s ambitions for her niece in the least. Mrs. Weatherstone was determined to see that her niece made a good marriage and became well established in the world.
Cassandra called the housekeeper and the steward to her and talked to them about the running of the household. She saw the servants’ incredulous expressions as they exchanged glances, but she ignored the obvious indications that her sister would probably never have embarked on such a course.
Out of character for Belle though she now knew it to be, Cassandra was determined to become familiar with the workings of the Hall. She felt certain that she would become just a bundle of exposed nerves if she did not occupy herself in some fashion, and at least her thoughts did not dwell on Sir Marcus when she was busy.
Cassandra dove into all of the business connected with the household. She consulted with the cook about menus. She began to handle the household accounts and bills. She requested that the housekeeper give her a tour of the Hall from attic to cellar, ostensibly to inform her of what was needed, though it also served the purpose of making Cassandra thoroughly familiar with the Hall and all of its environs. In the process, Cassandra discovered an old trunk with every color thread and size hoop imaginable, and she conceived the happy notion to cross-stitch new chair covers to replace the worn ones in the dining room. For the first time since she had begun the masquerade, she actually began to feel at home.
It was several days before the fever broke, and Sir Marcus was pronounced by Sir Thomas to be very weak but recovering. Cassandra expressed heartfelt thanks. Miss Bidwell agreed, saying that it was a testament to Sir Marcus’s formidable constitution that he had once more cheated death.
“I am only sorry that I have neglected you, my dear,” said Miss Bidwell.
“I am not complaining, Biddy,” said Cassandra with a smile.
“No, of course not. It would be totally out of character for you to do so,” said Miss Bidwell.
While Cassandra was still absorbing the lady’s statement, Miss Bidwell continued, “What have you been doing with yourself, Belle? I understood Steeves to say something about touring the house and making a list of items that were needed or of things that needed to be done?” she asked with a raised brow, her expression dubious.
“Yes, I have done my best to keep the house running just as smoothly as you would, Biddy,” said Cassandra.
“My dearest girl,” said Miss Bidwell, embracing her with a suspicious moistness in her blue eyes behind her spectacles. “I am certain that you did the very best that you could.”
“Is my grandfather well enough for me to sit with him?” asked Cassandra.
Miss Bidwell squeezed her hand. “Dear Belle. He is very weak, and he sleeps most of the time now. Weems and I discussed it, and we agree that it would be best to wait until tomorrow. Can you wait that long?”
“Just knowing that Grandfather is better is enough to carry me through,” said Cassandra with a trembling smile. She felt immense disappointment. Tears stung her eyes suddenly, but she managed to say, “You cannot comprehend how very relieved I am, Biddy.”
“Can I not, my dear? Now go on with your ride on Rolly. No doubt you will benefit from the fresh air,” said Miss Bidwell.
Cassandra, who had already attired herself in her habit and had her gloves and whip in hand when Miss Bidwell had found her, nodded and ran down to the stables. She made short work of mounting and riding out of the stable yard.
* * *
Chapter 9
As Cassandra headed into the wind, she had very mixed emotions. She wanted desperately to see her grandfather, but she knew that she could not wait until the morrow.
This was the day that she was to meet Belle and return to her own life. She would not be returning to the manor that afternoon, so she would not see her grandfather again.
At the crofter’s cottage, as she had expected, she found Belle already waiting for her. The sisters embraced, then Belle said anxiously, “I found your note but a moment ago. Is Grandfather all right? He hasn’t worsened, has he?”
Cassandra shook her head. “The fever broke just a few hours ago. Biddy assured me that he was weak but sleeping peacefully. She and Weems seem to think that our grandfather has made the turning point.”
“Thank God! I was so afraid that—” Belle put her gloved knuckles to her lips, stopping what she had almost uttered; but Cassandra knew exactly what her sister would have said.
“Yes, so was I,” said Cassandra quietly.
Belle broke the silence that had fallen between them. She almost appeared to shake herself free of the worry that had weighed on her. “But did I not tell you that Grandfather would recover? He is too stubborn to die,” said Belle, her expression lightening with her natural optimism.
“Yes. I only wish that I could have spent more time with him. He was able to see me only for a few minutes one evening,” said Cassandra on a sigh. She determinedly pushed aside her regret and put on a smile. “Well, how is the house party? Have my uncle and aunt suspected anything at all?”
Belle chuckled. “Oh, I don’t believe that they have suspected anything precisely. However, I have confused them once or twice. It is due to my ‘unusual liveliness,’ you see.”
“Oh, dear. I do see,” said Cassandra, slightly dismayed. “We are different in some of our mannerisms.”
“Since Aunt Margaret’s remark, I have tried to subdue my speech and my ways,” said Belle, frowning slightly. “But it is so hard to remember to be so very cool and to watch what I say before I say it.”
“I know precisely what you mean. About watching what you say,” said Cassandra, nodding. “I have put my foot into my mouth nearly every time I have opened it.”
Her sister looked at her in surprise. “I don’t understand how that can be. Why, I told you all that you needed to know about everyone.”
Cassandra laughed. “So you did! But you didn’t tell me everything about yourself! I have discovered that you do not make literary allusions and you do not enter the library for any reason. Nor do you read family histories. However, you do drink chocolate at bedtime, and I don’t! Oh, and you are expected to be rude to Philip Raven for some reason that I have yet to discover.”
Belle blinked. “My goodness, have you really fallen foul so badly? It is a wonder that Biddy or Weems or Steeves haven’t tumbled onto you yet. But I suppose that you have managed.”
“Yes, I have managed,” said Cassandra dryly. She thought it was characteristic of Belle not to dwell on the problematical.
“But what is this about Philip Raven? Philip Raven! Why, I haven’t seen him in years,” said Belle.
“Grandfather asked his man of business to locate Mr. Raven some months ago. He arrived the very day that you and I traded places,” said Cassandra.
“How discon
certing for you!” exclaimed Belle.
“Yes, very,” said Cassandra. “Especially when Mr. Raven kept trying to jog my memory.”
Belle laughed, but there was a sympathetic expression on her face. “No wonder you have had such a difficult time of it.” She frowned. “But I wonder why Grandfather sent for Philip. He left the Hall so many years ago.”
“Why was Mr. Raven at the Hall at all?” asked Cassandra curiously.
“Oh, there was something about the delicacy of his lungs and the salubrious effect of our air here. However, I think that was just an excuse given out. Philip was as healthy as you or I,” said Belle. Her brows knit, deepening her frown. “I seem to recall talk about a new stepfather who didn’t want him around and some sort of agreement between the gentleman and our grandfather. Finally, Philip went away to school, and we saw little of him after that.”
“Well, he is back. I don’t know why, however. When I was with Grandfather, he did not tell me, and he fell into that horrid fever the very next day,” said Cassandra. “Biddy seems to think that the reason our grandfather sent for Mr. Raven has to do with his will since the gentleman is his godson.”
“I suppose that must be it, then,” said Belle, leaning negligently against the stall gate. Her gelding put his head over the top rail and snuffled at her hair, giving a whinny of recognition. She reached up to rub his nose, murmuring endearments.
Watching her sister, Cassandra said, “That is another thing. Roily doesn’t like me half as much as he does you. He’ll take the treat from my hand, but very stiffly as though I am just a friendly stranger. Young John looks askance, let me tell you.”