by Gayle Buck
Instead, Mr. Raven’s conversation was filled with interesting sidelights about himself and his life in the army, his travels and the news that was in the newspapers. Cassandra responded with her own little anecdotes and expressed her opinions on the news and literature. She had always loved to read, and it was obviously a passion that Mr. Raven shared. They discovered a mutual interest in history, particularly in the classical ages of Rome and Greece, and debated often some obscure point of times past. Sometimes she caught an odd or arrested look in his eyes, as though he had been taken aback by some stray thought, but Cassandra was never made uncomfortable in his presence. In fact, her initial wariness had completely dissipated, until she had almost forgotten that she was in actuality masquerading as her sister.
Once, she started to tell Mr. Raven about someone she knew in Bath. He listened with an intent expression, then asked, “Tell me, Belle, when did you go to Bath? I was under the impression that you had never traveled away from the Hall.”
Cassandra was startled. She knew at once that she had made a major blunder. “Why, I haven’t been to Bath. Did you think that I had?” She managed a credible laugh. “I must be a better storyteller than I imagined. I don’t know Mrs. Knapes personally. I simply know of her through my sister’s letters. Cassandra is such a vivid writer that one could almost believe that one is in the same room with her!”
She knew that she was beginning to sound as though she was babbling, so she stopped, drawing a steadying breath. She tossed a glance up at Mr. Raven’s face. “I am sorry if I did not make myself clear. Of course I have never spoken to Mrs. Knapes myself.”
“I see. I had forgotten that you had a sister. A twin sister, I believe?”
“Yes; of course you never met Cassandra, have you? She was never at the Hall,” said Cassandra with a slight pang at the truth of it.
“Whom does your sister live with?” asked Mr. Raven.
Cassandra looked up at him, frowning a little at what she was beginning to think of as an interrogation. “Cassandra resides with my uncle and aunt.”
“That is a bit odd, surely, for twins to live apart?”
“Oh, perhaps it is. We are used to it, however. No doubt you will recall hearing something about the circumstance?” asked Cassandra, trying to draw him out without revealing her own ignorance.
“I seem to have a vague memory, now that I chance to reflect a little. Did I not ask you once how you came to be your grandfather’s ward?” asked Mr. Raven.
“Very possibly you did. My parents were killed in an accident when we were quite small. My sister and I were separated, one to live with my Uncle Phineas and Aunt Margaret and the other to live with Grandfather,” said Cassandra.
“It must be very difficult for you,” commented Mr. Raven.
“I don’t know,” said Cassandra, smiling. “My sister and I correspond on a regular basis, though we have never had occasion to visit.”
“Do you miss her—your sister?” asked Mr. Raven, watching her face.
“Of course I do.” Cassandra smiled at him again. “I trust that I shall see her again quite soon, though.”
“I trust that your hope is not misplaced,” said Mr. Raven gravely.
* * *
Chapter 17
When she was not with Mr. Raven, Cassandra found enough to occupy her time and thoughts in the running of the household. After their initial astonished skepticism, the housekeeper and steward had developed the habit of coming to her with any questions. Cassandra began to pay the household bills in her grandfather’s behalf and even perused the monthly accounts more than once.
She no longer felt any moral discomfort in managing her grandfather’s affairs. It would have been Belle’s place to step in, though it was doubtful to Cassandra that Belle would actually have exercised her right.
However, Cassandra felt that as long as she was supposed to be her sister, she would do what she knew she ought. When Cassandra recalled how petrified she had been upon having to open that first letter addressed to her grandfather, she had to smile at herself. Now it all seemed quite natural to her to sit at Sir Marcus’s desk and attend to estate business.
One afternoon, Miss Bidwell walked in on Cassandra when she was working at her grandfather’s desk. Cassandra looked up inquiringly. Miss Bidwell stood at the door, her hand still on the knob, and an expression of surprise on her face. “Oh! I am sorry, Belle, I did not realize that you had come into the study. Er ... what are you doing, my dear?”
“I am going over the ledgers for this month’s expenses,” said Cassandra absently. She dipped a pen in the inkwell and made a careful entry.
“Belle, are you quite all right?”
Cassandra looked up, surprised by the worried tone in Miss Bidwell’s voice. “Why, of course. Why do you ask?”
Miss Bidwell advanced on the desk. Her eyes behind her spectacles held an expression of bewilderment and anxiety. “It is just that— Belle! I have never known you to take an interest in anything having to do with the running of the household. Indeed, when I recall how I despaired of ever instilling in you the simplest lesson, I cannot but wonder.”
“Wonder what, Biddy?” asked Cassandra quietly. She watched her companion’s face. Her heart was beating fast, for she thought that this might very well be the moment that she had both dreaded and anticipated.
Miss Bidwell made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. Such thoughts have gone through my mind. I really don’t know what to think. It is just that you have changed so. I don’t know what to make of it, my dear.”
Cassandra smiled a little. “Is it so strange that I should wish to keep busy just at this time, Biddy? Or that your lessons did not fall on completely deaf ears?”
“No, no, I suppose not. Well! I shall just leave you to it, I suppose.” Miss Bidwell turned away and started toward the door. As she reached it, she exclaimed, “Oh, I had almost forgotten why I came in! Weems said that Sir Marcus wished for his favorite snuff to be brought up. He recalled that he left it here in the study. Have you seen it, Belle?”
“Why, I don’t believe so. Where would it have been?” asked Cassandra.
“No doubt in the desk, don’t you think?” said Miss Bidwell, coming again toward her.
Cassandra opened the desk drawers one after the other. She had no idea if the canister of snuff was in the desk or not. She had made it a point not to rifle through more of Sir Marcus’s things than she thought she ought. The ledgers were one thing, but the contents of the desk quite another. She was beginning to feel nervous with Miss Bidwell watching her every move, and was relieved when at last she stumbled on the sort of canister that she was looking for. “Here it is, I am sure of it.”
Cassandra picked up the canister. A piece of paper that was sticking to the bottom of it fluttered loose and fell to the desktop.
“Thank you, my dear. Though I do not approve of taking snuff as a general rule, perhaps Sir Marcus will find some pleasure in his former habit,” remarked Miss Bidwell as she bore away the canister. Before she closed the door, she said, “I shall see you at supper, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Cassandra. The errant paper had fallen across the ledger pages that she was working on. She picked it up, intending to put it back into the drawer from which it had come. She chanced to glance at it, however, and stopped, looking again at what was written on it. There was her name, and the handwriting was unmistakably that of her uncle.
Cassandra read further, her brow furrowing. It was a letter, written by her uncle some months previous and addressed to Sir Marcus. As she made herself mistress of its contents, Cassandra’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered. “Uncle Phineas mentions my come-out this spring, hinting that Aunt Margaret could bring Belle out, too. I wonder if that means—
Cassandra turned the sheet over, but there was nothing else written on it. “Surely Grandfather answered the letter. He must have. And denied his permission, for Uncle Phineas would have told me if he had b
een able to arrange for Belle and I to come out together.”
She looked across the study at the portrait of Sir Marcus that hung above the mantel of the fireplace. She addressed her grandfather’s likeness with gathering indignation. “Why, you had the perfect opportunity to help Belle. If you had asked, they would have agreed to sponsor Belle. But you didn’t ask, did you? You couldn’t bear the thought of being under obligation to your son and his wife, whom you detest. Poor Belle!”
Cassandra thrust the letter back into the drawer and started to slam the drawer shut. Then she stopped, thinking hard. It wouldn’t do any good to give the letter to Belle. That would only serve to wound her sister, when Belle was brought face-to-face with proof that their grandfather had cared so little about pressing for her future happiness. However, she herself might be able to use it as ammunition with Sir Marcus. Perhaps if she confronted her grandfather about the overture that was made by her uncle, Sir Marcus might be shamed into admitting that it was possible for Belle to be properly sponsored into society. He couldn’t tell her again that there was no one appropriate to bring Belle out, thought Cassandra angrily.
As she recalled the consequences of her last disagreement with Sir Marcus, she shuddered. It was not pleasant to consider, but if she was to help her sister, then she simply had to stiffen her resolve. “I must choose my time more carefully,” she said aloud.
Cassandra retrieved the letter and folded it up so that she could slip it into her pocket. She shut the ledger and stepped away from the desk. She no longer felt like looking at rows and columns of figures.
Cassandra glanced at the ormulu clock as she left the study. It was too early, really, to change for supper, but she thought she would go up to her bedroom anyway. She had much to think about, not the least of which was the struggle she had with her feelings toward her grandfather. She loved him now, but that did not blind her to the notion that he was a very selfish, obstinate old man.
She had been envious of Belle, but now Cassandra was not so certain that she was. She had admired Belle’s independent spirit and her frank manners, and she still did. However, Cassandra rather thought that when they had been parted to live in separate households, she had gotten the better portion.
“Belle, where are you?”
Cassandra looked round, startled. She had been so sunk in thought that she saw she had actually passed Mr. Raven in the hall without ever seeing him. “I ... I’m sorry, Philip. I did not notice you.”
“So I saw. You never heard a word I said until just now,” said Mr. Raven, regarding her with some amusement.
Cassandra flushed. She felt that she had been unpardonably rude. “Pray forgive me. I fear that I was miles away in my reflections. Is there something you wanted?”
“It wasn’t important. However, perhaps I should ask you if there is something that I may do for you?” Philip caught up her hand, the pressure of his fingers both warm and secure. Very quietly, he said, “Belle, you seem troubled. Can I help?”
Cassandra was both touched and shaken by his gentleness. She shook her head. “No, there is nothing you can do. It was nothing, really. Just a silly megrim. Has Biddy sent you to hunt me down again?”
Mr. Raven looked around the deserted hall. With a conspiratorial look, he said, “Actually, I have been looking for you myself. I am going mad from inactivity. Will you save me and come out riding?”
Cassandra felt some of the tension drain out of her. “Oh, yes! I would love it above all things.”
“Good. I shall await you in the gallery. A quarter hour?”
Cassandra nodded. “I shall be there.” She winged her way upstairs to her bedroom to change into her habit, her state of mind quite altered. She put the incriminating letter in with her underthings for safekeeping. She would not think any more about it just then.
Cassandra made short work of changing into her habit. Gathering up her whip, she went quickly through the quiet house toward the portrait gallery.
When she pushed open the door and entered, she saw that Mr. Raven was already waiting for her. He wore a plain coat of excellent cut and well-fitting breeches that were smoothed into white-topped knee-boots. In one gloved hand he carried a quirt.
Mr. Raven came to her and took her arm. “We are going out the east wing. I requested that Young John leave our horses there.”
Cassandra glanced up at his lean profile as they walked swiftly out of the gallery. “What is behind all of this bother, Philip?”
He glanced down at her as they went down the stairs that led out of the manor onto the expanse of lawn. “Can’t you guess? I have been wanting to be alone with you all day.”
Cassandra looked down, feeling ridiculously pleased.
She said nothing more. When they emerged out of the side door of the manor into the chilly day, she looked around for the horses. There were only two tied nearby, cropping at the browned grass. “I don’t see Young John,” she remarked.
“No, I have bribed him to remain behind,” said Mr. Raven matter-of-factly. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her easily up into the saddle. Then he stood looking up at her, his gloved hand lying flat against the gelding’s shoulder close to her knee. “Do you mind?”
Cassandra’s cheeks were warm. She felt breathless from the giddy feeling of simply being lofted atop the horse as though she were featherlight. She adjusted her riding skirt, avoiding his gaze. “Oh, not in the least. I enjoy riding without an escort, as you must know.”
“Quite.” Mr. Raven walked off a few paces to his own horse, put his foot into the stirrup and swung up onto its back. He gathered the reins between his gloved fingers. “Shall we?”
Cassandra flashed a smile and spurred her horse. She glanced back over her shoulder at the manor, feeling a sense of freedom. It was glorious to be out away from those oppressive walls.
Cassandra and Mr. Raven rode for a long time. They talked earnestly about anything that came to mind. Cassandra scarcely noticed where they were going. The wind blew fractiously, yanking at her hat and veil with icy intent and eventually chapping her cheeks. Cassandra gradually began to realize that she was chilled through. Even her fingers inside her gloves were growing numb.
“You look cold. Belle,” remarked Mr. Raven suddenly.
“I am, rather,” admitted Cassandra. Her teeth had begun to chatter, and she had to clench her jaw to control it. “But I am enjoying myself so much.”
He was frowning. There was concern in his gray eyes as he studied her. “I must get you back. I don’t wish you to catch a chill.”
“I think if I was just out of the wind for a bit, I would be all right,” said Cassandra.
“We should head back. I think if we ride in that direction, it will be quicker,” said Mr. Raven, nodding to his left. He threw a concerned glance at her and reached out to touch her arm. “It will be cross-country. Can you manage?”
“Of course I can,” said Cassandra stoutly, even though her heart sank at the thought of what might lie ahead of them. Ditches and fences to be jumped and rugged stands of trees that would catch at her clothing as she passed under them. She knew that her sister would never have blinked at the prospect, however, and so she did not murmur.
Several minutes later, they found themselves in a shallow valley. The wind moaned low across the dead grassland, but its force was abated. Cassandra realized that she wasn’t being beat by the wind any longer, and she straightened in the saddle. “Thank God, it’s stopped,” she said.
“There is something that we haven’t seen before,” said Mr. Raven, pointing with his whip.
Cassandra looked round to where he was pointing, and her smile froze. Her companion was pointing at the old crofter’s cottage and the rough stable. She wondered at once if her sister was there, or whether there was any sign that they had left of their last meeting.
“That? Why, it is just an old abandoned crofter’s cottage, Philip,” she said.
“So it is. It is also out of this cold. Come, Belle,” sa
id Mr. Raven.
Cassandra had no choice but to follow him. She stared around as they approached the cottage from the back. The wind was moaning low through the shallow valley. It gave her the shivers just hearing it.
Mr. Raven had dismounted and gone to an unshuttered window of the cottage. He bent and peered inside for a moment. “There doesn’t appear to be anything or anyone here,” he said, straightening. He turned toward her. “I wouldn’t like to trust us to the flooring inside. It looks rotten as can be. Let’s have a look at the stable.”
“I don’t think anyone has lived here for ages,” said Cassandra hastily. “Do let us ride on, Philip.”
He paid no heed, but strode to the stable’s entrance. When he came back round the corner, he walked over to where she still sat on her horse. “Come, Belle, let me help you down.” He grasped her round the waist.
Cassandra protested even as she felt his strong hands lifting her. “But I don’t wish to—” She slid down into his arms, and suddenly became speechless as she met his gaze. Heat climbed into her face. “Put me down,” she said breathlessly.
He flashed a grin. “In a moment.” He swept her up higher against his chest and strode off with her into the stable. When they were inside, he set her on her feet. With one arm still about her shoulders so that she was standing close to him, he said, “There you are, my lady. You’ll be warmer in a few minutes.”
Cassandra stared up at him. She had caught hold of his neck for security when he had swept her up, and now her arm was trapped between them. She could feel the firmness of his shoulder beneath her gloved fingers.
Mr. Raven muttered something under his breath. He brought his other hand up and caught her chin between his fingers. Then he bent his head to take sudden possession of her cold lips. His mouth was firm and unyielding. It was a hard, passionate kiss.