by Jocelyn Kirk
“As soon as I have divested myself of these wet garments, Mrs. Stanfield, I will give you hot tea with brandy. I will be only a moment.” He then marched up the stairway at the far end of the parlor. I lay back in warm comfort and found myself picturing Mr. Carter pulling off his soaked trousers and shirt. The vision in my imagination reminded me of that fateful night in London when Bartholomew Loch came to call on me, knowing my husband was not at home. I saw him in memory standing over me, rapidly pulling off his clothing, while I, unable any longer to resist my burning desire for him, lay on my bed with my hair all tangled and my bodice half unbuttoned. At the last moment, a shred of common sense made me jump up and run from the room. Just by a hair, I avoided the greatest sin a woman can commit. How little Bart cared for my well-being or reputation! My delusion that he loved me began to shatter, and later events destroyed it completely.
I must have dozed, for I awakened with a start to see Mr. Carter standing before me holding a steaming cup. He was dressed in dark nankeen trousers and a wool jersey. He placed the cup on a table next to me. As he tended the fire, I took a sip of tea, but a banging on the front door so startled me, I nearly spilled it.
Carter threw open the door, and I gasped as Lila entered, followed by Mattie. Each held an umbrella, so I had a few moments’ preparation while the unwelcome visitors shook the water off and folded them.
Mr. Carter seemed unfazed. “Come in, Mattie,” he said, holding the door wide. To my sister he added, “I am not acquainted with you, madam, but you are welcome.”
Lila was red-faced and stiff-backed. “I have been searching everywhere for you, Cassandra! Get up out of that chair this instant, you brazen hussy!”
Out of a long habit of obedience, I began to unwrap the quilt and rise, but Mr. Carter held up a hand.
“Pray keep your seat, Mrs. Stanfield.” He turned to my sister. “Madam, Mrs. Stanfield is a guest in my home, so I will beg you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
Lila stood by the door holding her drenched umbrella and stared open-mouthed.
Mr. Carter approached Mattie. “Kindly sit down, Mattie. How is your father? Has his leg improved from the liniment I gave him?”
“Yes, sir,” Mattie replied.
I stared at Carter. “Are you an apothecary, sir?”
“No, a physician. I am the village physician.”
Lila found breath to speak. “A physician! And why, may I ask, is my sister sitting in your parlor with her hair in disarray and wrapped in a blanket? Obviously, you were not treating her for an ailment!”
Carter laughed. “Let us begin our acquaintance on better terms, madam. I am John Carter, and I invited your sister into my cottage until the rain stopped. I assure you, she has been quite safe with me. May I know your name?”
“Mrs. Loch!”
Mr. Carter bowed low. “A pleasure, Mrs. Loch. Now, may I seat you near the fire and bring you tea?”
I raised a hand to my face to conceal a smile as Lila placed herself in the armchair indicated by her host. Carter poured tea for her and Mattie, and we all sat back and stared at each other.
Lila could not hold her tongue for long. “Dr. Carter, I apologize for my abrupt manner. I am Mrs. Stanfield’s sister, and I feared that she had…had…run into difficulty.”
“Fear can understandably manifest itself in anger, ma’am. No apology is necessary to me, although your sister may feel she is owed one.”
“No,” I quickly stated. “Lila was anxious for my safety; that is all.”
“Indeed,” said Lila. “Cassandra may apologize to me for throwing her breakfast on the floor and leaving it for Mattie to clean up.”
Dr. Carter turned to me. “You threw your breakfast on the floor? There are poor people in the village who would have been happy and grateful to have it.”
“Dr. Carter,” I replied with the venomous tone I had learned so well from my sister, “I receive enough moralistic diatribes at home. You will pray keep your opinions to yourself.”
I expected to have provoked him, but instead he laughed. “Touché! You are quite right, Mrs. Stanfield. What you do with your breakfast is not my concern.”
I was mollified and ashamed of my anger. “I regret my harsh words, sir. It is surely a sin to waste food, but when someone is sitting opposite one and trying to force one to eat, it is difficult to keep one’s temper.”
Dr. Carter leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his dark blue eyes fixed on my face. “Tell me, Mrs. Stanfield, what is your age?”
“My age! That is an impertinent question!”
“She is three-and-twenty,” said my sister, “too old to be throwing food about like a child in the nursery.”
“Forgive me for expressing another opinion on this,” Carter said, looking from one to the other of us. “A woman of three-and-twenty is certainly old enough to decide when and what to eat. Therefore, Mrs. Loch, I urge you as a physician to let her make such decisions for herself.”
Lila opened her mouth and fetched breath, but he continued before she had a chance to speak. “And you, Mrs. Stanfield, could perhaps remain calm if a dispute arises and simply leave the table.”
I tossed my head. “We are so inured to bickering, it has become a habit neither of us know how to break.”
Lila shook her finger at me but spoke to Carter. “Wise words, sir, and unlike most advice, it will be attended to. But now I wish to engage you on another subject. I would have you know, I have done a great deal of physicking in my day. My late husband was the vicar of North Commons Parish, and I assisted him in his charitable duties. I have saved many a child whose parents were in despair from a severe attack of measles or pox. My treatments were known far and wide.”
“I am extremely pleased to hear it for I am much in need of an assistant. In addition to treating the farm and village people, I am occasionally called forth to poultice an ox or goat when the farrier is not available.”
“An assistant!” cried Lila. “Surely you do not imagine that you could employ me in that way!”
“I would not pressure you for the world, madam, but if you could occasionally find it possible to go about to the farms with me, your knowledge and experience would be welcome.”
I smiled into my teacup. Lila looked more shocked now than when he had told her to keep a civil tongue!
“I…I…am rather honored by your proposal,” she stammered. “I do believe I might find opportunities to be of assistance…perhaps.”
“Excellent! I will pay you, of course.”
“Pay me…well…I am quite taken aback. No one has ever paid me. I being a woman, everyone expected that my services were free.”
“No, indeed,” Carter replied, filling her teacup. “Your assistance will be valuable, and the proper recompense of value is pounds and pence.”
“I thank you, sir. But now, please satisfy my curiosity on the matter which brought me to this cottage. How did my sister happen to be a guest here? Although you seem a respectable gentleman, it has a very odd appearance.”
I feared Dr. Carter would betray my near fall from the cliff, but he simply rose and walked into his kitchen, returning immediately with my bucket of clams. He held the bucket for Lila’s inspection.
“This, madam, is the result of your sister’s hard labor this morning. I taught her how to capture clams, and by the time she filled her pail, it was raining again. I could not allow her to walk back to Caemre in a rainstorm.”
Lila stared at the clams and then looked at Mattie. “Do you know how to cook these creatures…these clams?”
Mattie smiled. “Certainly, ma’am.”
“Do you and Mrs. Stanfield not cook, Mrs. Loch?”
I laughed. “We were not reared to cook, sir. We were reared to waste our time making lace in the parlor.” I glanced at Lila. “Or at least I was. My sister always kept herself busy—it is her way.”
“Well,” said Carter, “perhaps you would both enjoy a lesson in making clam chowder. Mattie will h
ave little time to cook for you when harvest arrives. In this county, you could be without a servant for weeks in the fall. Every hand is needed to bring in the crops.”
“Without a servant!” whispered Lila. “But the pony and cart…who will care for the pony and keep the cart in repair?”
“Such tasks will fall on you and your sister during harvest, ma’am.”
Chapter Two
Lila and I stared at each other. My mind flew to my childhood home, North Commons Abbey, and the stable there. Besides the head hostler, there were two under-hostlers and six stable boys. My sisters and I each enjoyed our own riding horse with no thought of its care. When we wanted to ride, we ordered our horses. Someone else groomed our mounts, tended their hooves, saddled them, and cleaned their stalls.
I blushed at the notion that Dr. Carter thought us—me especially—quite useless. “I am sure we will manage, Lila.”
“Well, it seems we must!”
Carter rose. “The rain falls still, ladies. Let us repair to the kitchen and make chowder. Mattie, you will not be sorry to take a pot of it home to the farm?”
“It would be welcome, sir.”
Something in the air of John Carter caused one to quietly accede to his wishes. Even Lila could not resist his call, and we followed him into the kitchen. Mattie lit the coal stove while Dr. Carter talked of the proper cooking of clams.
“Look here, ladies. In this corner is a vat filled with water and cornmeal. After one captures clams, one places them in this vat for three days. They ingest cornmeal, which replaces sand and mud in their bellies. We will place the new clams in the vat and remove the seasoned clams for cooking.”
Lila and I peered into the vat. Mr. Carter filled two large iron kettles with water and placed them on the stove. The cooking lesson began and soon two wonderful-smelling soups steamed and bubbled.
“There are two distinct types of chowder,” declared Carter. “One receipt calls for adding tomatoes, onions, and potatoes to the broth—the chopped clams, as I told you earlier, go in last.”
“And the other type?” asked Lila.
“Potatoes, onions, and perhaps corn go into the pot—no tomatoes. When the vegetables are soft, one adds the clams and then a cup or so of heavy cream and a few dashes of sherry. I prefer the cream version, but Mattie prefers the tomato one; therefore, we can demonstrate the cookery of each and she can take her preferred chowder home to her family.”
The lesson continued. When all was completed, we sat in Dr. Carter’s dining parlor—all of us, even Mattie—and enjoyed the delicious soup, along with crusty bread and cold white wine. I ate more than I had on any occasion since the day my angry father had put me in the North Commons coach on the first leg of my journey to the west.
Later, as we three women trudged home in the cloudy afternoon, Lila took my arm and whispered, “You must be on your guard, Cassie, for it is evident that John Carter admires you greatly.”
I shook my head vigorously. “No, that is not possible. What on earth would cause you to make such a silly statement?”
“Silly? I caught him staring at you when you turned away to speak to Mattie. And I am not taken in by his desire to have my nursing assistance. A convenient excuse to call on us, no doubt.”
I smiled. “Perhaps he finds you to his liking, Lila.”
“Ridiculous! I am a good five years older than he, and he has an air…”
“Does he?”
“Yes, an air of loneliness, as if his heart is open to a woman who can attract him, if such a one exists. I have a sense of these matters, and I advise you to remain aloof from him, lest he become even more besotted than he already is.”
“I will heed your warning, but I believe you are mistaken.”
****
I awoke the next morning to sunshine, and my first conscious thought was that yesterday I had made a friend! I laughed at myself as I dressed. Mrs. Stanfield of London’s fashionable Wimpole Street would never have stooped so low as to befriend a village physician; and yet I had spent several happy hours in the company of just such a man. Mrs. Stanfield, leader of London society, had waded in the sea, captured clams, and made soup in a cottage kitchen!
Entering the dining parlor, I encountered my sister. She was leafing through a pile of books and papers and for once did not find a reason to scold me.
“Are you searching for something, Lila?”
“Yes, a receipt given me years ago by the housekeeper at North Commons Abbey. It is for the rum torte she made every Michaelmas. I mentioned it to Dr. Carter yesterday, and he suggested I find the receipt so we could try to create the cake. Ah! Here ’tis!”
“Dr. Carter seems a worthy gentleman,” I commented idly, as I poured tea.
“Indeed. I like him. However, do not forget my caution as to encouraging him.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Did Mattie fetch the post? Are there any letters?”
“They are on the chest in the parlor as always.”
I hurried to the parlor. Letters were my only connection to my past life, and my main correspondent was my former lady’s maid, Rosamund Quinn. There were two letters from her. I settled into a chair but did not immediately open the earliest. I gazed out the parlor window toward the lane, and my thoughts wandered into the past.
I once hated Rosamund as my bitterest enemy. She had come to live at North Commons Abbey at age nine, a mousy, timid creature. Her mother, a highborn woman of good family, had married unprosperously. Her husband died after a few years and left her nearly penniless. Rosamund came to North Commons to learn the duties of a lady’s maid and, in a sense, had grown up with us: me, my younger sister, Aleta, and my brother Frederick. Lila, ten years older than me, had already married. My elder brother, Winslow John, a year younger than Lila, was sowing his wild oats in London before he had to take command of the estate in his father’s stead.
Aleta and I were not kind to the poor mouse Rosamund. We were not unkind, but we did not behave to her in such a way as to lessen her fears of us all—but Frederick did. He was her friend and champion, and the poor girl worshipped him as a god.
Time passed, and we all grew into young women. Aleta and I, blessed with golden hair, sparkling eyes with thick dark lashes, and slender figures, were cried up as “the belles of Kent.” Invitations to balls and parties and teas and picnics flowed in continually. Rosamund had attained considerable skill as a lady’s maid, although she was still timid and rather bookish. Her face was pretty and her figure light and slender, but she kept to her duties with downcast eyes and spoke only when necessary. The only circumstance that would bring a smile to her face and excitement to her air was the appearance of Frederick. When he entered a room where she was sewing or reading or assisting us in some manner, her face would glow with pleasure.
My mother, suffering from imaginary ill health, shirked her duties as our chaperone and left them to her elder daughter. Lila looked about for a great match for me and settled on Mr. Charles Stanfield, with ten thousand pounds a year and a fine old family estate. While I dutifully danced with and charmed Mr. Stanfield, following my sister’s orders, I fell in love with Bartholomew Loch, the cousin of my sister’s husband, Silas Loch, the vicar of North Commons Parish. When I ventured to inform my sister that I liked him, she told me he was “not suitable.”
“He is a gamester and a vicious seducer. Before he died, old Mr. Loch paid out pounds more than once to settle Bart’s gambling debts and pay off the families of women he ruined.”
“I can hardly believe he is so wicked,” I replied in the innocence of youth. “Where is the proof of such accusations?”
“I have no proof, only the word of my husband. And do not ask for further information. Mr. Silas Loch says the details are not fit for female ears.”
But young women are not always wise. Although it was difficult for Bartholomew and me to escape the watchful eyes of our family, we met clandestinely several times. He swore that he loved me, and I could barely control his r
oaming hands when he kissed me, so great was my passion for him. I was sure he would offer marriage, and I could then break my engagement to Mr. Stanfield.
But, alas, there was one person in the household who was not blind to my assignations with Bart—Rosamund! She did not inform my sister of my indiscretions; she went straight to my father. I awoke on a rainy Sunday morning with my life in tatters. Bart had fled the parsonage, my father lectured me for an hour, and Lila informed me I was no better than a tart on the streets of London.
I wanted to break my engagement to Mr. Stanfield, but my father would not hear of it. “I have given him my word as a gentleman,” he informed me. “You agreed to marry him, and I gave my written permission. To withdraw would drop us into the severest disgrace.”
My every emotion of sadness and fear turned into anger at Rosamund. I dismissed her from her duties and forced one of the upstairs maids to care for my clothing and brush my hair. Rosamund cried and begged forgiveness, saying she had betrayed me for my own good.
“Mr. Bartholomew Loch is a bounder, miss. He would have given you great trouble.”
“He loves me!” I screamed. “And I love him! You ruined my happiness, no doubt for your own spiteful reasons!”
Time marched on, and when the appointed day arrived, I rode to my wedding as though it were an execution. After the ceremony, Mr. Stanfield drove me to his townhouse in London. As soon as we had settled into our respective suites, he knocked on my chamber door and entered without waiting for permission. He disrobed me with rough hands and took my virginity while I shuddered from the pain and humiliation. He then left me, and I spent the rest of the afternoon alone.
As difficult as my first days of marriage were, I adjusted to the situation, as one must do. My husband was generous with his wealth, and my allowance gave me the pleasure of purchasing jewels and gowns to my heart’s content. I visited the best of the London shops with the city’s most elegant society matrons. My social status, wealth, and relative freedom were compensations for my disappointed heart and dislike of my husband, who performed his marital duty once or twice a month and left me alone otherwise. I attempted to forget Bartholomew as he had apparently forgotten me.