The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (11 page)

Two hours had passed; the day had become overcast, and a gentle rain began to fall. The temptation to stay and light a fire, have supper, and sleep together all night was powerful, but she told him that she had to go. They dressed, shared a long kiss, then set off on their horses to the road where they parted.

The following morning, Cassandra sent a note asking Benedict to come for a music session that afternoon. They tried not to touch too much or kiss, unless they were sure they wouldn’t be seen. Instead, they lost themselves in their music and, in a sense, felt satisfied. Before parting, he asked her when they could meet in the cottage again.

“I fear that more than once a week would raise suspicions,” she reasoned.

 “It is too little!” he cried. “I will never live another week if I cannot be with you.”

“Well,” she said, “perhaps Tuesday.”

“Tuesdays and Fridays, then. Let those be our days together.”

“And other days, when we are free,
you
come
here
to play because it would not look right for me to take the horse so often by myself.”

“Agreed,” he said, “and so I suppose we must be chaste and supplicant tomorrow, since it is Sunday. Shall we meet here again on Monday?”

“Yes. I will not make any engagements for the afternoon.”

“Neither shall I,” he said. He kissed her goodbye quickly, just before Mary walked into the room.

In church the next day, Cassandra tried to focus on the monotonous Mr. Collins, but it was warm inside the small stone building, and she was distracted by the smell of roses coming through the open door. Summer sounds outside, the buzzing of bees and hum of dragonflies, mixed with the droning of the sermon. She closed her eyes and imagined Benedict’s lips on hers. She caught herself just before she dozed off, and gave her head a little shake. Mrs. MacIntosh, sitting across the aisle from Cassandra’s pew near the front doors, gave her a sympathetic smirk and a wink.

Cassandra spent the rest of the service observing Lady Charles and her entourage seated in their box in the front, and noting with amusement the mother’s efforts to keep her two young charges awake with jabs of her elbow, surreptitious coughs, and swats with her fan. When the service was over, Cassandra slipped out quickly so as to not have to make conversation with them.

Mrs. MacIntosh caught up with her at the churchyard gate, and the two ladies walked together across a flower-strewn meadow into Selborne, while Mrs. MacIntosh’s children ran home, elated to be freed from their mother. The general store was the women’s destination, for the farmer’s wife to order five pounds of tea, and Cassandra to see if squash seeds were in.

Just as they were about to enter the shop, Cassandra heard her name called, and turned around to see Lady Charles, her daughter, and niece in tow, trundling up the street. The woman was sweating and looked annoyed. Her parasol bobbed over her head like the sail of a small ship as she hurried to overtake Cassandra.

“Run along girls,” she said, waving the two away. “I will meet you at the milliners.” The two young ladies happily ran off.

“Oh goodness, this infernal heat!” Lady Charles declared, dabbing at herself with a hankie. “How are you, my dear Mrs. Franklin?” she managed, out of breath. “I glimpsed you in church, but you hurried off afterward. Did you walk all the way here?”

“Yes, it was nothing.”

“Oh, dear me, the walk is way beyond my capacity. The girls insisted on taking the barouche today, so I was exposed to the elements all the way. It is waiting for us by the teahouse, where we shall meet presently for refreshment. Will you not join us?”

“Thank you, I must return home directly after my errand.” She waited for the lady to acknowledge her friend.

“And you do not mind walking so very far to Sorrel Hall?”

“Oh, no, I am enjoying the lovely day.”

“Lovely? I cannot bear these blazing temperatures. But the girls both need new bonnets, and I could not deny them.”

After a pause, Cassandra spoke. “Lady Charles, do you know Mrs. MacIntosh? They have a farm in the parish. Mrs. MacIntosh, Lady Charles.”

“Nice to meet you,” said the farmer’s wife extending her hand.

Lady Charles ignored her. “Well, Mrs. Franklin, I had better go see what my girls are up to.” And with a haughty snap of the head, Lady Charles turned away, leaving the two women staring after her.

“My goodness!” whispered Cassandra once the lady was out of earshot. “I am so sorry! I have never seen such rude behavior!”

“I have,” replied Mrs. MacIntosh. “The fine ladies hereabouts have no time to hobnob with my class. I am quite used to it.”

 “It is appalling. She has no right to treat people like that.”

“She thinks she does,” Mrs. MacIntosh replied. “I would not worry yourself about it. I would, however, think about how your friendship with me reflects on you.”

“I am not the least bit concerned about it.”

Mrs. MacIntosh gave her a thoughtful look. “Well, I appreciate that, but it is not really how things are done, you know. Maybe it’s because you are American.”

“Maybe,” said Cassandra. She was well aware of class distinctions, but didn’t realize how deeply they ran.

“I am just saying, that most of your class are happy to give us their patronage, but only that, and nothing more. Do not worry about it. Your ways are different, that is all. I suppose they will all have to get used to it.”

The two ladies went inside to make their purchases.

On Tuesday morning, it was pouring rain, and Cassandra had a feeling that her designated meeting with Ben would be foiled since she couldn’t ride out on horseback. She felt disappointment wash over her. She couldn’t wait to be in his bed again. She went down to breakfast, and was surprised to see that a note from him had already arrived.

Dear Mrs. Franklin,

I request the honor of your presence for dinner this afternoon at Gatewick House at four o’clock. A friend of mine has arrived, rather unexpectedly, from London, and will be staying with me for a few days. He is taking a summer tour of the region, and correctly assumed that I would not mind a visitor. I would like you to meet him, as he is musical. He has even brought his instrument in the hopes of our playing together. If I do not hear back from you, I shall assume you will attend.

Regards,

Mr. Benedict Johnston

At the appointed hour, she went in the carriage to Gatewick House as it was still raining heavily. The housekeeper took Cassandra’s wrap as she came in the door and then led her into the parlor. Before her stood Mr. Johnston, and, to her great surprise, Mr. Stockard from the music store in London.

“Mr. Stockard, my goodness!” she exclaimed.

“Hello, Mrs. Franklin,” he said. He took her hand and kissed it. “It is an infinite pleasure to see you again.”

 “Mr. Johnston, you did not tell me you knew Mr. Stockard!”

“You did not tell me
you
knew him,” he said coming forward to kiss her other hand.

Cassandra stood between the two men. “But,” she said to Benedict, “I did not know you knew him.”

“I think I can straighten it out,” said Mr. Stockard, “Mr. Johnston and I are acquaintances from London, and he wrote to me a few weeks ago, telling me about his satisfaction with his new home and neighborhood. He said that he had met several delightful new people, among them, an American named Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.”

“Yes,” replied Benedict turning to Mr. Stockard. “But you did not respond to that letter, and so I did not know that you had met her in London last January. He did not tell me, until he arrived here yesterday, and then did not want me to mention his name in the invitation to you.”

“I thought it would be good fun to surprise you, so I asked Mr. Johnston to invite you to dinner. I hoped that you would remember me.”

“Do you not remember that you rescued me from the fog?”

“From the fog?” inquired Benedict.

“Yes, Mr. Stockard was my hero after I first arrived in London and got lost looking for my hotel. He was bringing me my delivery of sheet music and found me outside the White Hart Inn, looking for the entrance.”

“I was only glad to have been of service,” acknowledged Mr. Stockard with a bow.

“Well, the two of you have more of a history than I could have imagined,” stated Benedict.

“I would not exactly call it a history,” remarked Mr. Stockard.

“And yet, you had quite a distinct recollection of this customer that you only served once, six months ago,” Benedict observed.

“Well, who would not remember the lovely Mrs. Franklin?”

“Of course.” Benedict turned and walked toward the sofa near the fire. “But will you not come and sit down, Mrs. Franklin? There is no need for us all to remain standing there.”

“You mentioned that Mrs. Franklin was a fine pianist, Mr. Johnston,” said his visitor. “I do recall that she bought from me many complex pieces. You had said that perhaps we could play together. Are you game, Mrs. Franklin?”

“Let the lady catch her breath, my friend,” said Benedict as he indicated a chair for her to sit on. “Tea, my lo….Mrs. Franklin?”

Cassandra started, and Mr. Johnston hurried to ring the bell without waiting for her to respond. Mr. Stockard looked from one to the other.

“What is it you play, Mr. Stockard?” Cassandra asked, trying to deflect Benedict’s blunder.

“The cello,” he replied, taking a seat across from her.

“Yes,” said Benedict, returning to the sofa. “I thought we could make a trio. I have a lovely Haydn piece for cello, violin, and piano that Stockard and I have played before, and you could make the third on piano.”

“I would be honored. When have you played together before?”

“In London,” said Mr. Stockard. “When Mr. Johnston is free, he fills in for our chamber group. That is how we know each other. I have to say, Johnston has been missed there these past few months. I was a little disappointed that his letter did not say he was coming back to London any time soon.”

“I see,” replied Cassandra. “I feel you have been too modest about your status as a musician in London, Mr. Johnston.”

“It is just a group of friends playing for friends,” replied Benedict.

Mr. Stockard started to correct him, but the housekeeper walked into the parlor looking annoyed.

“Dinner is ready, sir. Were you ringing for tea?”

“Oh, no, if dinner is ready, we shall eat. Come,” he indicated to the two others.

During the meal, the two men wanted Cassandra each to himself. Cassandra noted that they did not appear to be the closest of friends.

“How long are you staying here in Hampshire, Mr. Stockard?” she inquired.

“Well,” he thought for a moment. “My schedule is flexible, but perhaps tomorrow I will move on to Winchester. It is my next stop.”

“What areas of the country does your tour include?”

“I am ultimately making my way west to the Cornwall coast. I have never been there.”

“Nor have I,” said Cassandra with interest. “I have heard it is untamed and exotic.”

“Yes,” he replied enthusiastically, “the place of Arthurian legend.”

“Oh, I would love to see it,” she went on. “I wonder if I will have time while I—”

“While you what, Mrs. Franklin?” Benedict broke in.

“While the weather is nice.”

“It is quite a long trip,” remarked Benedict.

“Yes, you are right, maybe next spring.”

Mr. Stockard stared at her strangely. She couldn’t read this man. Why was he here? It almost seemed he had come on purpose to see her. At any rate, she could tell his presence was making Benedict uncomfortable.

They retired to the conservatory to play the Haydn. The three musicians fell into sync and were all smiling by the time they’d finished.

“I hope to see you again, someday, Mrs. Franklin,” said Mr. Stockard, shaking her hand.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” replied Cassandra, hesitantly.

“You will have to stop back by when you come through this part of the country, again, sir,” offered Benedict. Cassandra thought he sounded insincere.

“Yes, perhaps I will!”

“Well, goodnight, gentlemen,” said Cassandra at the door, a maid helping her with her things. She so wanted to kiss her lover.

He stepped out into the rain to help her into the carriage, holding an umbrella over their heads.

“I am sorry, my love,” he murmured to her.

“Do not be silly. I had a lovely time. Mr. Stockard is a very nice fellow.”

“He is, he is, no doubt.”

“And we could not have met in the cottage today anyway, with the rain.”

“That is true. I suppose I am disappointed about that, but it was not Stockard’s fault.”

“No indeed.”

“Tomorrow for practice, then. Three o’clock?”

“I shall see you then.”

He took her hand to help her into the carriage. “Have a good night, my love,” he said to her, closing the door.

She did not think Mr. Stockard could see her through the carriage window with the rain and so she blew Benedict a kiss. As the carriage pulled away, she looked back to see the other man still standing in the doorway, looking at her as Benedict shook off his umbrella under the portico.