The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (10 page)

Just like
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
! she almost cried, and then clamped her mouth shut. That book wouldn’t be written for more than one hundred years. “It sounds perfect,” she murmured. She thought for a moment, then added, “but I have to convince William to let me ride by myself so I can meet you there directly.”

“Yes, it would not really do to have us leave here and disappear together into the woods for hours while your stable boy waits. I could just say I am going hunting, and you could say you are going for a ride, and there we would meet.”

“But I could not be gone for more than two hours at the most. You know how anxious William gets.”

Benedict sighed, and Cassandra stood up, pacing the room.

“This is ridiculous,” she stated. “We are two adults, almost forty. I have a grown son, and we are worried about the opinion of our employees! They are not our parents. We should be able to sleep together in our own bedrooms if we want to!”

Benedict looked at her in shock. “Cassandra, what are you saying? If we want to be completely free to ‘sleep together,’ as you say, we must be husband and wife. Why not marry me then, if you want us to have no secrets from the servants?”

She bit her lip.

He continued, “You know that servants gossip. They talk to other servants at the market, and those servants let it slip to their mistresses, and soon the entire neighborhood knows. It may be inconvenient, but there is no choice. Unless, you will agree to marry me.”

Her expression softened. “No. I still say no. But I will be firm with William. I will tell him that I am going directly to Gatewick House to play music with you and that I do not need an escort. I will simply tell him I am going by myself and that is that.”

He chuckled. “You are quite determined, aren’t you?”

She went and sat by him. “I see that you have lost no time in working things out either.”

“I am on fire,” he stated simply. “Nothing will stop me from being with you, married or not.”

“I am glad,” she said, and kissed him. “When will the cottage be ready?”

“In about a week,” he replied.

“It will be the longest week of my life.”

“You astonish me!” he said, pulling her close. “I have never met a woman like you. Are all American women like this, so…independent?”

“I do not think you were going to say independent.”

“You know what I mean. It is as if you do not need a man to care for you. Neither do you care what others think. You know what you want. English women are not like that.”

“American women are really not either,” she told him. “I have just lived life and I know what I want, and also what I do not want. I think I
am
different from other women. I think that is why you like me.”

“It is why I love you,” he said, “and I cannot wait to be with you.” He kissed her.

“All right, but for now we practice our music.”

“Yes, we had better. If I cannot have you now, then give me my violin.”

The next few days were occupied for both Cassandra and Benedict by other engagements. Lady Holcomb’s son, Jeffrey, had invited Mr. Johnston to go hunting two days in a row, and Cassandra was busy paying visits to the neighbors she had been neglecting. Among them were Lady Charles, Miss Charles, and Eunice Fairchild, who had been back in Hampshire for three weeks, having spent most of spring in London.

Cassandra sat in Lady Charles’ parlor during the obligatory visit, sipping tea from a translucent, pink china cup. Her mind wandered as the three other women chattered enthusiastically about London, the plays they had seen, the people they had met, and the balls they had attended. Her eyes rested on the pale blue brocade of the sofa just behind Eunice’s shoulders. The girl was talking rapidly about something, but Cassandra was thinking of Benedict. Her gaze floated from a large painting on the wall of blue, pink, and yellow irises to a garish chandelier, dripping with crystal teardrops of pastel blues and pinks, then back down again to rest on two fragile looking, pink-upholstered chairs across the room, arranged on either side of a tiny table covered with a baby-blue satin cloth. A porcelain sculpture of a milkmaid flirting with her farm boy lover sat atop it, and held Cassandra’s attention until she heard Miss Charles saying, “Oh, mother, we must have a ball and invite Mr. Johnston! I have heard so much about him, but we have not yet been introduced. I hear he is quite handsome.”

“He is old,” complained Eunice, “and I hear he is eccentric, a musician.” The girls giggled.

Once she recovered herself, Miss Charles added, “Yes, but he is rich. You know him, do you not, Mrs. Franklin?”

Cassandra tried not to blush, but feared she was unsuccessful. “Yes,” she replied. “I must admit, we are quite good friends. We enjoy playing music together.”

“You play music together?” gaped Lady Charles. “How unusual!”

“Well,” Cassandra ventured, “I suppose it is a little unusual, but it is an interest we share.”

The three ladies stared at her. Cassandra suddenly felt her virtue to be in question. She understood that it was likely that Lady Charles and the girls had no precedent with which to compare it.

“Is there something you are not telling us, Mrs. Franklin?” said Lady Charles. “Is there a little romance here?”

“Oh, no. I assure you, I have no interest in marrying.”

“Really? I suppose you can afford not to.”

“Yes, financially, I have no concerns.” The smile Cassandra had forced began to tire her.

Lady Charles hesitated. “It is just that it seems peculiar that you tumble about that large house of yours all by yourself, with no family, or no female companion. What is it that you do all day, other than play music with Mr. Johnston?”

Annoyance prickled Cassandra’s scalp. “I garden, as you know. I visit my
friends
.” She paused for a breath. “I read—”

 “Personally,” said Lady Charles, sharply, “I must have a bustle about me, or I am not happy. A big house should be filled with people: guests and family. It is most unseemly for a widow to be alone so much in the exclusive company of a
gentleman.
”

“I didn’t say—”

“Perhaps you
should
think of marrying!”

Cassandra reached out for her tea and took a large swallow. She set the delicate cup back in its saucer with a rattle.

“Again,” she said calmly, “it really is not my intention.”

“Then let me recommend that you desist in your entertaining of Mr. Johnston. It could easily be misconstrued.”

“Thank you, Lady Charles,” Cassandra said, looking down while heat rose in her chest. “I will certainly heed your valuable advice.”

“Very well then.” The lady paused. “After all, you know, people will talk.”

Cassandra’s pressed her fingertips to her temples for a split second.

“And as Christian people, we must ever be mindful of being examples to the lower classes. If we behave with impunity, then they will follow. This is how society disintegrates, you know.”

Cassandra wondered if Lady Charles’ moral scruples were adopted from her husband. “Yes, you are right; I must not let my love of music make me careless.”

“Do tell us what news you hear from your son, Mrs. Franklin,” Eunice broke in.

Cassandra was relieved to have the topic changed. She regained her composure and spent the rest of the visit making up inanities about James and his life at Harvard until she could escape.

On her way home in the open carriage, Cassandra breathed in the gentle, warm air and tried to clear her head. What nerve that woman has, she thought, speaking to me as if I were a child! As if she has any right to tell me what to do!

Once she arrived at Sorrel Hall, all she wanted to do was to send Benedict a note and ask him to come to her so that she could forget the unpleasantness of her visit. Then she remembered he’d be engaged all day with Jeffrey Holcomb and felt a stab of jealousy, remembering that Jane was sure to be there. She reminded herself that she had no exclusive rights to the man; besides, he had sworn he had no interest in the younger woman. I’m being ridiculous, she thought. It shouldn’t matter to me anyway. She shrugged the feelings away and called for a bath to soothe her nerves, then threw herself into her music for the rest of the afternoon.

The following day Cassandra had an appointment to visit with the Clarkes at their home, for she had not seen them for a month. There, all was ease, though not exactly relaxation, for Mrs. Clarke’s several young children raced about the house continuously. The woman had neither time for, nor the interest in gossip, so Cassandra was safe from talk of Mr. Johnston. When the nanny finally herded the little ones off to the nursery for their lessons, the two ladies had the chance to chat about gardens, weather, child rearing, husbands, and America. Mrs. Clarke was always interested in hearing about Cassandra’s life in the states, so Cassandra made things up just to entertain her. She learned from her friend that what she herself thought of as a simple, rural existence meant much more than lounging about the house with servants at her beck and call. Though the Clarkes were landed gentry, the large number of children reduced their ability to enjoy the luxuries that other wealthy families in the neighborhood took for granted. Mrs. Clarke mended her own children’s clothing, supervised the house cleaning, laundry, and cooking, and the running of the dairy barn, for they kept cows. She also helped churned the butter and make the cheese. She tended the chickens and the vegetable garden because they only employed one gardener who could not handle all the work on the grounds himself. She also led the older children in their lessons, educating her girls and preparing the boys for the day when they would go off to boarding school. Cassandra ended her visit feeling tired at the mere thought of all Mrs. Clarke accomplished each and every day of her life, and also humbled. She realized, in comparison, how very spoiled and pampered she had become.

She arrived home that afternoon to find that Benedict had sent a note asking if he could see her. Lady Charles’ words faded into the background of her mind. She decided resolutely that they would be discreet, but that she was not going to be denied the joy of being with him.

She decided to decline Benedict the invitation to come visit, however, enjoying the opportunity to tease him. She wrote a note that said she required him to practice his violin by himself for now, and that he would have to perfect the piece before he could see her. He replied by messenger about an hour later that he would be ready by Friday (she assumed he meant the cottage was ready) and would she be so kind as to meet him on the road at the entrance to Gatewick House at three o’clock?

By the time she was having her bath on Friday, the day was still lovely and bright. That morning she had spoken to William, graciously but firmly. She explained that she needn’t have an escort any longer, that she was now an able horse-woman, and she thanked him for all his good care of her. His disapproval was evident in his silence.

 At two-thirty, Cassandra joyfully set off on Daisy, a small satchel of dried meats, cheeses, and bread tied to the saddle, her bonnet firmly in place, her implanted lenses properly adjusted to the bright summer day. She was clean, lotioned, sunscreened, and in a light, rust-colored gown, as pretty as she’d ever felt.

When she arrived at the appointed meeting place, Benedict was there, waiting on his horse. They greeted each other cordially, and with minimum conversation rode across his grounds into the forest. Soon they were at the rustic cottage hidden in the trees. Benedict helped her down and secured the animals where they could eat and drink.

When he turned his attention to her, he untied her bonnet, removed it, and gazed at her in the dappled light of the forest.

“Take down your hair,” he said. She did. Her dark red curls fell about her shoulders, shown off by the neckline of the dress. He put his hand under her hair, pulled her to him, and kissed her. Before she could respond with words, he took her by the hand and led her inside. The one-room cottage was spotlessly clean, with a heavy wooden table and two chairs in the center, a fireplace, small wood stove, a pump, basin, and sideboard. There was a dresser, a narrow armoire, a small desk and chair, and a large high bed against the far wall with a fluffy white, down coverlet.

“It is beautiful,” she said.

“You are beautiful,” he replied, never taking his eyes off of her. He took her bag from her and set it on the table. Then slowly, he began to undress her like a man who understood the complications of a woman’s clothing. She reached out and took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt, admiring his slender body. He gently stopped her with one hand and continued to undress her until she stood before him in only her chemise and thin, knee-length bloomers. She felt vulnerable and delicious. He led her to the bed, and after she climbed on, quickly removed his own clothes and climbed on beside her. She was thrilled with his subtly sculpted muscles.

He removed her undergarments, gazed adoringly at her beautiful form, and ran his hands over her skin as if she were a marble statue. She responded instantly to his touch, and they became locked in an embrace, arms and legs entwined, touching, grasping, exploring each other.

Finally he entered her, and she cried out in relief and joy. He moved rhythmically until they could no longer contain themselves and finally reached a perfect, exquisite release. They lay together, talking and touching, and then made love again.