by Jocelyn Kirk
I nodded, looking down to avoid his gaze. “More than I dare to admit,” I whispered, shame reddening my face. “In all honesty, I am flawed. I should not feel such passion—it is unfeminine—and I most certainly must not succumb to it. What is wrong with me?”
To my humiliation, hot tears spilled on my cheeks. John gathered me in his arms and held me, but I willed myself not to cry and struggled out of his embrace. I sat up straight and brushed back my hair.
“Cassandra,” John whispered, “there is nothing wrong with you. You are a normal, healthy woman with normal desires. If everyone in the world could choose to love only where it is convenient and suits society, what a placid world it would be! But our hearts are unruly, and our passions even more so.”
“I knew my duty as a wife,” I sighed, “but I did not practice it.”
“Duty…such a dreary word.”
“Yes, a dreary word. But until my marriage is somehow dissolved, I must maintain a semblance of propriety, lest I sink into worse disgrace than has already engulfed me.”
“You do not give yourself enough credit. You did not choose to love this other man; however, it appears that you did choose to prohibit his attentions without the sanctity of marriage. For that I honor you.”
“That may be true,” I replied, “but it does not excuse me from abandoning my husband. I accepted his hand in marriage, and I should have remained with him despite my unreasonable addiction to another. You must forget me, John. No decent man should fall in love with me. How could you ever trust me?”
His lips opened, but I raised a hand to halt his words. “And what sort of wife would I make for a country doctor? I have been at the pinnacle of London society! I was Mrs. Stanfield of Wimpole Street. The best of the ton were begging for my invitations!”
“There is a part of you that will perhaps always pine for your life in London society. But there is another part—the Cassandra who was thrilled when she caught a clam, the Cassandra who risked her life today to save others.”
I considered my life as a London hostess, and in retrospect it seemed dreary and meaningless. It was not my London life that I missed. I sighed and busied myself for a moment pushing loose pins into my hair. “I don’t pine for my London life, John. I pine for my family.”
“Why do you not see them?”
“How can I? My father decreed me unfit for respectable society and sent me into exile. Were it not for my sister’s having insisted on accompanying me, I would be completely alone.”
“But what said your mother? Did she agree? You are not the first young person to make a mistake, even a grave mistake.”
“My father rules at North Commons Abbey. My mother had nothing to say in the matter.”
“Do you have brothers? Any other sisters?”
“My sister Aleta is still at home. My father forced her to promise no contact with me, ever again. My brother Frederick is a prude and sided with my father. My elder brother, Winslow John, my father’s heir, spends his days in idle pursuits in London. Only one person in the household writes to me, and that is my former lady’s maid, Rosamund.”
John gave me a look of pity as he raised my hand to his lips. We were both silent and thoughtful until he spoke. “The man you left your husband for—do you love him still?”
“No.”
“Then I retain the right to hope.”
“To hope that I will someday become a worthy human being?”
“No. To hope you will someday know you are worthy and will in time give yourself willingly to me as my wife.”
What could one say to such a declaration? I could not honestly say I loved him, but I certainly esteemed him. He had saved me from my foolish attempt at self-destruction, he had softened Lila by making use of her talents, and he had been a friend to both of us, even assisting in reconciling Lila to my plan to travel to Bath with Lady Lovell. I had come to know him as one of those rare men whose very heart is good. But if he loved me, there was surely something wrong with his judgment. No man in his right mind could love me, foolish, selfish Cassandra Tenley, who had married Charles Stanfield for the very worst of reasons: pride, money, and cowardice.
I shivered. John placed his arm about me and attempted to pull me against his body, but I remained rigid.
“John, I must go. Lila will be frantic with worry.”
“Of course.”
We drove to Caemre Cottage in silence. John entered with me and immediately began to regale Lila with a tale of my heroism in order to assuage her quick anger. She is one of those persons whose anger flares when she is anxious; no doubt she had convinced herself that I had been blown to sea and drowned. John’s explanation and praise of my courage did little to soften the bite of her words.
“I suppose, Miss Cassandra,” she hissed as soon as John gave her leave to speak, “you expect praise from me for your escapade; and if so, you will be sorely disappointed. You had no business going out in the storm, and I’m very sure Dr. Carter could have rescued the fishermen alone. It is more likely you were a hindrance than a help.”
“I assure you, ma’am—” John began.
“Do not make excuses for her!” Lila demanded.
“Excuses!” John exclaimed. “You wrong me, ma’am!”
Lila huffed from the parlor and clattered dishes in the kitchen. However, she called back, “If you were not so besotted with the hussy, John—”
John’s face reddened, and he clenched his fists. He marched toward the kitchen, shaking off my hand on his arm as I attempted to delay him. “You will never, Mrs. Loch, never—do you comprehend me?—apply such an epithet to your sister in my hearing!”
“Very well!” hissed my sister. She re-entered the parlor, and we stared at each other.
“I regret my harsh words,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied.
John stepped into the parlor and fixed his eyes on me and then Lila. He smiled and shook his head. “What on earth can one do with the two of you? I am not privy to all your secrets, certainly, and so I cannot judge whence comes this habit of hating yourselves and inflicting that self-hatred occasionally on each other.”
“Ah, John, if you knew,” said Lila.
“I see before me two good women,” he continued. “You, Cassandra, whether you ken it or not, are attempting to make a worthy life for yourself within the confines set by your unreasonable father. You, Mrs. Loch, have accompanied your sister into exile, sacrificing your home and family connections to bear with her in her loneliness. I am extremely fond of both of you, and if I have my way, my connection to you will someday be stronger.”
Lila gaped. “Surely you do not have a design of marrying Cassandra!”
“And why not?” he demanded, facing her with hands on hips.
The scene reminded me of my childhood at North Commons Abbey, when I would be forced to stand and listen to adults discussing my shortcomings. I turned to Lila. “Yes, why not? My breach of duty to my husband surely was not so great a sin that I must suffer the consequences my entire life!”
Lila’s eyes flashed. “You are married, Cassandra! You are still a wife, whether you wish it or not! You cannot seek a divorce from Mr. Stanfield, and if he chooses not to seek one, you are his your entire life!”
John raised his hand. “Let us ascertain whether or not Mr. Stanfield has filed a petition with the court. I know a solicitor in London. He can obtain the information for us.”
My breath caught, and I turned away. Did John consider my status the only impediment to a life with him? But his next words allayed my fears.
“Do not imagine,” he said, addressing me, “that I seek this knowledge to further my own suit. You have made no declaration, and I ask for none. Once you are free of Mr. Stanfield—if you become so—you will want to decide for yourself what steps to take.”
I was touched by his words. In truth, I had not realized he cared for me, at least not enough to contemplate marriage. But he did care for me. He cared enough to attempt to u
nderstand my sentiments.
“Thank you,” I replied.
John bowed and took his leave. “My mother and sister will hope for a visit from you tomorrow. Mrs. Loch, will that suit you?”
Lila curtsied her assent, and he left the house. As soon as we were alone, I turned to my sister. “Never refer to me as a hussy again, Lila. Never. And I will never refer to you as a harpy.”
“A harpy!”
“Yes, a harpy. You were cruel to Rosamund. You know you were. I understand now your motivation, but that does not excuse your actions.”
Lila sank into a chair, appearing tired and drained.
I continued, “You sinned against Rosamund, and I sinned against Mr. Stanfield. You lived with the man who murdered your child, and I lived with a man who ignored me. We cannot change the past, Lila, and we have only each other. From this moment on, we must love and support each other. Do I have your agreement?”
She nodded, but then she raised her eyes to mine. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Good,” I replied with a smile. I turned to the stairs, but a sudden loud knock on the door stopped me. My hand on the bannister, I waited while Lila answered it. A village lad stood on the stone step, holding an envelope.
“Express come into the postal clerk’s office, ma’am.”
Lila quickly gave the boy a coin and ripped open the envelope. She read a few words and staggered backward, her hand flying to her face. “ ’Tis Frederick! Cassandra, ’tis Frederick! He is dead!”
With a cry, I snatched the letter from Lila’s hand. I was trembling so that I could scarcely make out the words. I forced myself to focus on them, although my heart was pounding.
Lila, Cassandra,
Forgive the brevity of this letter. My son Frederick died this evening. By the time this reaches you, he will be at rest in the family vault. May God have mercy on his soul.
Sir Winslow Tenley, Esq.
Frederick dead! It seemed impossible! I dropped the letter and fell into a chair. Tears ran down my face, and everything before me became blurry and indistinct. I fumbled for a handkerchief and heard a loud sob. For an instant, I thought the sound had come from me, but Lila, leaning against the wall next to me, sobbed again as if her heart would break.
“Our mother! This will kill Lady Tenley!”
We embraced and wept in each other’s arms. How I managed to regain control of myself, I do not know. I loved Frederick very much, but his constant moralizing was a severe irritation. As a boy, Frederick had been lively and full of fun and pranks, rather like me, but now…now he was dead…and I lived in a cottage far from my poor mother.
I retrieved the letter from the floor and placed it in a drawer. I led Lila to a chair and poured her a glass of wine. She attempted to smile as she thanked me.
The hours dragged slowly by. Neither of us could think of retiring; we could only sit in silence, with our hearts and minds at North Commons, knowing what terrible grief our family was enduring. But exhaustion crept over me, and when the clock struck midnight, I roused from a nearly sleeping stupor. I jerked upright…there was another noise. The door. Someone was pounding on the door.
Lila cried, “The door!” just as I jumped up to answer it. I flung it open with no thought to who might be on the other side. The night was black and starless. I could just discern the outline of a man standing on the walkway, as though he had knocked and then stepped back away from the door. A woman waited slightly behind him.
“Who is there?” I called.
“Cassandra!” cried a familiar voice. The woman bounded forward and clasped me in her arms. “Cassandra! The driver wasn’t certain if this was the right cottage! Cassandra, how wonderful to see you!”
I stared in shock, as the visitor released me. My searching eyes discerned the face of my sister Aleta.
“Aleta!” I pulled her into the room and into Lila’s joyous embrace.
“Aleta, how came you to this place?” Lila demanded.
“I will explain all, but I confess to be exhausted from my journey. Let me pay the driver and retrieve my trunk, and then I must beg you for food and drink, for I have had nothing for many hours.”
“Come! I will aid you.”
When we returned to the house, Lila laid out bread, cheese, apple tarts, and wine. Aleta took a great sip of the wine before beginning on the food. A glance between Lila and myself served as an agreement that we would not mention Frederick until Aleta was rested.
Aleta took a few bites of food, dropped the remainder of the tart onto her plate, and raised tragic eyes to us. “Frederick,” she whispered. “You do not know…”
Lila took her hand. “We do know. An express reached us a short time ago.”
I poured myself a glass of wine. “Aleta, did you come all this distance to tell us of Frederick?”
She shook her head and gulped a choppy breath. “No,” she whispered. “No…I am now in a worse situation than you, Cassie. I am utterly, irredeemably disgraced.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I fell in love, and Father would not consent to our marriage!”
I glanced at Lila. We dragged our chairs closer to the stout oak table.
“Let us talk this over calmly,” said Lila. “What exactly has occurred?”
Aleta raised her head and pushed a tangled lock of hair from her face. She rested her eyes on Lila, then me, then Lila again.
“Lila…you seem different. You seem very different. I traveled here in great trepidation at the tongue-lashing I would receive, but I had nowhere else to go. You are not screaming at me; you are gentle. What has made this alteration?”
I smiled. “Lila and I have both learnt better ways of behaving, Aleta. You will not receive a tongue-lashing here.”
“Very true,” agreed Lila. “But tell us your tale. What has occurred that you label yourself as disgraced?”
Aleta breathed deeply, pushed away her plate, and leaned back in her chair. Lila and I sat rigidly in impatience for her next words.
“Cassie, you of course remember the time when I was nearly as besotted with Bartholomew Loch as you.”
“Yes, of course. My unkindness to you and lack of sympathy have haunted me ever since.”
Aleta touched my hand. “Life in this cottage has made a profound change in both of you!”
“It is magic,” replied Lila with a smile, “but now do get on with your story.”
“Yes, I must. When it became clear to me that you, Cassie, were the preferred one, my love for Bart gradually dissipated. I looked about for someone to marry, for I was anxious to leave North Commons.”
“Certainly you were. There was no freedom for us under Father’s rule.”
“Freedom, you say. An odd word to use in reference to women but an apt one. Marriage does not guarantee freedom, but I chose that path in the hope that it would.”
“You became engaged to a friend of Frederick’s, I believe,” commented Lila. “A man by the name of Willett?”
“Yes, Mr. Lucas Willett. Sir Winslow heartily approved, for Willett has plantations in the Spice Islands and is incredibly wealthy.”
“But you did not love him?”
“I never loved him,” whispered Aleta, “but I would have married him if I had not met Ivan. When one loves, it is unbearable to marry another.”
“Indeed.” I sighed.
“I did not expect to fall in love with Ivan. It simply happened.”
“And who is Ivan?” asked Lila.
“My pianoforte master.”
I am grinning as I recall what happened next. I looked at Lila, and we both turned to Aleta—and the three of us burst into laughter. Falling in love with one’s pianoforte master is such a cliché!
Ashamed of laughing when poor Frederick was lying in the cold ground, I wiped my eyes and inquired, “And does he love you in return?”
“Yes. He applied to Father for permission to marry me, and you can imagine what happened.”
“No doubt Father
threw him from the house,” I muttered bitterly.
“Indeed he did. He told me I must keep to my engagement or he would disown me.”
“Well,” commented Lila, “you could hardly expect him to celebrate your liaison with a music teacher.”
Aleta flashed an angry expression at Lila. “Ivan is not a penniless teacher! He will inherit his uncle’s estate in Kent, and receives a comfortable allowance. He loves music, and it gives him great pleasure to teach.”
“What is his surname?” I inquired.
“Wellerton. He is the nephew of James Wellerton, a man of property. His estate borders the sea in the southernmost region of Kent.”
“How unfortunate,” I said gently, “that you had already engaged yourself to Mr. Willett.”
“Engagements can be broken,” Aleta replied, straightening and regarding us boldly. “And in my case, the rupture was necessary.”
“What do you mean?” My heart beat fast, for I suspected what her next words would be.
“I am with child,” whispered Aleta. “I am carrying Ivan’s child.”
Chapter Seven
The next morning a loud pounding on the door awakened me. I wrapped quickly in a dressing gown and hurried downstairs. A cheeky lad whistled rudely as he handed me an express letter. I tossed him a coin and hurried into the kitchen. After lighting the stove and filling the teakettle, I tore open the letter.
Dearest Cassandra and Mrs. Loch,
Yesterday in conversation with Sir Winslow and then with the butler, I discovered a terrible mistake had been made.
A week ago, when the attending physicians informed Sir Winslow that Frederick’s end was near, Sir Winslow begged me to write the expresses to be sent off after the terrible event had occurred. I did so, of course, for he was incapable of such exertion himself. I deposited the letters in the butler’s pantry for posting.
I know you will be overjoyed to learn that Frederick is very much alive. During that terrible evening as we all waited for the end and Frederick’s pulse was so weak that a few minutes must have concluded his suffering, his fever broke. He became cooler, and his pulse strengthened. In a few hours, he was lucid, and he has been slowly gaining strength. I cannot express our joy at this miracle.