The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (12 page)

By the end of July, Benedict and Cassandra had been meeting for four weeks to make love or music, neglecting more and more the visits that were normally expected to be made to their society friends.

One day, Mrs. Merriweather took Cassandra aside. “Mrs. Franklin, I must have a word with you.”

Cassandra’s stomach jumped.

“You have told William and me that the two times a week you go out in the afternoons with the horse, you are going to Mr. Johnston’s to play music, which I know you enjoy doing. However, the servants there say they have not seen you for ages. I am concerned; soon, more than the servants will be talking.”

Cassandra took a deep breath. “The truth is, Mrs. Merriweather, that I have been riding out about the countryside by myself. Sometimes I just need to be alone. I stop and sit under a tree and read a book, or else I just sit by the stream and think. I know my ways seem strange, but in America, we are not so used to being followed about all the time. A lady can just venture out on her own, and I miss that. Sometimes I just need to not be around anybody. I like to go by horseback, so I can carry a little something to eat, a few books, and go wither I choose.”

She thought that sounded convincing, but continued, “Frankly, I did think people were beginning to talk about Mr. Johnston and me. You should be relieved to know that though I say I am going to play music with him, I actually am not always doing so.” Now, that was a little closer to the truth.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Merriweather. “I am somewhat relieved. And you are correct. Though I do not really understand your ways, I am contented to know the truth.”

Cassandra felt guilty about the lie. She knew she was playing a more and more dangerous game. All it would take is for the servants from each house to pay closer attention and realize that during the hours that she was going out, Mr. Johnston was also going out. She would have to talk to him about it.

But the next time they were together in the cottage, they were too wrapped up in the happiness of being together to worry about it. Their afternoons of lovemaking had become some of the most blissful moments that Cassandra could remember, and she treasured them as she knew Ben (as she now called him) did too.

She found herself surprised by his breadth of sexual knowledge. She had thought she’d have to teach him about “some of the things they did in America,” but it seemed that he had already been well taught. On that particular afternoon, the weather was so hot that they had kicked the covers off the bed and were lolling about, sweaty and naked after a particularly rousing session of lovemaking. They had taken the chance to open the curtains, and what little breeze there was blew over them from the open windows. Cassandra lightly touched the soft hair on his chest and thought maybe he had dozed off. But then he lazily picked up her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.

“So, Ben,” she began, as he dipped her fingers deeper into his mouth, “how does a lifelong bachelor learn to be so proficient in pleasing a woman?”

He smiled without opening his eyes. “I have had many lovers.”

“Really!” she said with surprise and reclaimed her hand.

“Yes.” Now his eyes were open and he propped himself up on his elbow. “I spent many years studying violin with the masters in Europe, and the women abroad are much freer in the matters of love than the English women are.”

“Hmm, this is interesting. Tell me more.” She sat up in anticipation, pulled her knees to her chest, and draped the sheet loosely over them.

“Well, you know, I was around artists, mostly, and their world is different than the one we inhabit in this English society of ours. We both being artists understand that most people in this country don’t relate to our way of thinking or doing things.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

“And then, once I settled back in London, I associated with musicians there, and through them, knew many actresses and singers. Like in Europe, their sense of propriety and morality is different in their particular class of society. I enjoyed myself with them, and they enjoyed me. I have never lacked for female company.”

“My goodness,” she managed.

“Does this make you jealous?”

“No, actually,” she said, snuggling up to him. “Honestly, I am just surprised, and yet not, because you seemed so experienced.”

“Did you think I paid for my experience?”

“Well,” she admitted, “the thought did cross my mind.”

“I have never paid for favors, I am happy to say.”

Cassandra was relieved and intrigued. “Have you ever been engaged?”

“Yes, once, to a Viennese woman. She was a singer from a wealthy family, and very spoiled, but very beautiful, and I was in love with her voice. She had a terrible temper, though. I was lucky that I found out about it before the marriage took place. It was one reason I came back to England.”

“What did your parents think of your marrying her?

“They did not know. I never told them of the engagement. Fortunately, it was never necessary.”

“They would not have approved?”

“No, but they do not approve of much that I do.”

“I kind of got that impression.”

“As a matter of fact, my father has been writing me lately, pushing me to get married.”

“Oh.”

“And he wants me to become serious, as he puts it, and join him in his business. He wants to pass it on to his son.”

“What is his business?”

“He is a merchant, and he wants to expand into trading with the United States.”

“Like everyone.”

“I suppose. Does it bother you that my father is not of the gentry?”

“No, of course not, why would it?”

“Because my family has not always had money or a name.”

“In America, we do not mind that sort of thing. I believe someone once said, ‘
In England every man you meet is some man’s son; in America, he may be some man’s father.’”

“I would like to meet the man who said that.”

Who did say that? thought Cassandra. Oh, damn, it was Emerson, and I doubt he has said it yet
.
“I do not remember who said it,” she murmured. “But it does not matter. Why will your father not let you live your own life? You have your own money, why does he care?”

“Well, I have my money, but not my inheritance. If I please him, I could have a lot more when he dies.”

“And to please him, you would have to go into his business. Does he expect you to give up music?”

“I think he wants it very much. He is ashamed of me.”

“Oh, that is horrible. I cannot believe how money drives a person’s thinking and actions.”

“Well, it is the way life is,” he observed pragmatically.

“When I am here with you, I do not care about how life is, or what people think or say.”

“I know, my love, but soon we may need to.”

“Yes. Mrs. Merriweather told me the servants are talking.”

“I know, which is why I want you to consider marrying me.”

Cassandra was caught off guard again, and to avoid dealing with the situation further, she simply whispered, “I promise, I will consider it.”

Ben looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment. Cassandra had a feeling something else was coming.

“My love,” he ventured, “since we are speaking of that delicate subject of marriage, I have some curiosities of my own.”

Cassandra felt a butterfly flit through her stomach. “Such as what?”

“About your husband,” he said, looking at her directly. “You have never told me much about him, only that he was a printer and that he died of fever. I get the feeling from the tone of your voice when you speak of him, that you loved him very much, that he was a good man.”

Cassandra looked down at the lace eyelet of the sheet. “He was,” she said quietly.

“Tell me more.”

She took a breath and thought of Franklin. She’d taken his first name as her last for the purposes of her time journey. Her married name, Reilly, was too Irish sounding, and her maiden name, Kephart, too German. Now, as she spoke of him, she’d have to be careful to separate fiction from reality; however, she couldn’t help but describe the man she really had been married to and so in love with. She needed no hypnotic suggestion to bring on the deep emotion connected with him.

“He had dark, curly hair,” she began with a faint smile, “but it was beginning to thin. He was also somewhat heavy set, but with a pleasing frame, and he was strong.” Ben watched the emotions travel across her face. “He was from an Irish family originally, but his parents did not live into old age, and I had not many years with them. He was soft-spoken and patient, but could have a temper when riled. He rarely exhibited it to me, however. He was a good father to our son. He was playful and had a wonderful sense of humor. He made me laugh like no one else.” She checked Ben’s expression to make sure he wasn’t uncomfortable, but he seemed to be listening intently, so she went on.

“He was not a musician, but he loved my music and could sit and listen to me play forever. He was rarely idle, though. He seemed to always have a book in his hand, usually something scientific, because he loved learning, and never stopped. He was compassionate and good to all people.” In her description of her real husband, she forgot the callousness of the fictional man who supposedly invested in the slave trade. “I think that is what I loved most about him, his kindness. But he worked hard, too hard. Sometimes I think at the expense of time he could have been spending with his son, and definitely at the expense of his health. He left me too soon; that is all.”

She fought back tears. Ben took her hand in his. He kissed her, and she began to give in to him. She would rather her thoughts of Franklin fade. She then noticed that the light coming from the window was dimming, and thought it better not to stir up their fire again. She disentangled herself, ducked under his arm, and hopped off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“I am getting dressed.”

“No, it is not so late.” He stretched out enticingly on the bed.

“Yes, it is,” she said, throwing a pillow at him that had fallen onto the floor. At that moment she glanced out the window and saw, through the trees, someone riding close by on horseback.

“Oh my goodness!” whispered Cassandra. “Someone is out there!”

“What?” he whispered back, “what do you mean?”

“Someone is out there on a horse. I cannot tell who it is.”

“All right, we must be quiet, maybe they will go away.”

Cassandra crept to the window and peaked around the curtain. The person had spotted the cottage and was now riding toward it.

“They are coming!”

“Be calm. Grab your clothes and get in the armoire. I will deal with them.”

She did as he instructed while he threw his clothes on as fast as he could. There was a knock on the door. Cassandra heard Jeffrey Holcomb’s voice outside the cottage.

“Hello? Mr. Johnston? Are you in there?”

There was silence other than Ben scuttling around for his clothes. Had they locked the door, she wondered in panic?

“Mr. Johnston?”

She heard the door slowly creak open, and then Ben’s footsteps.

“Jeffrey!” she heard him say with feigned nonchalance. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I am sorry,” replied Jeffrey, sounding mortified. “I did not know…I mean I was looking…they told me at your house that you had ridden out. As I was looking for you, I spotted this cottage, and the horses, and thought maybe you were here. I came to tell you that there are several brace of pheasant over on my brother’s land and to ask if you wanted to come hunting.” His voice had trailed off. She thought that he must be noticing the unmade bed. Did she have all her clothes? She couldn’t tell in the cramped dark space.

“Yes, I—” replied Ben. “Well, you have discovered me, I see.” He forced a laugh.

Cassandra rolled her eyes.

“Excuse me?” asked Jeffrey.

“Well, it is my secret hideaway,” he said with another chuckle. “I come here sometimes to um, nap, or play music. Undisturbed, you know. No servants, no interruptions—”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Jeffrey with horror reflected in his voice.

“No, no, no! It is perfectly all right. So happy that you are here. I would love to go hunting. You are never a bother, Jeffrey, please do not feel so. Just let me get my boots on, here.”

“Shall I wait outside?”

“No, no. Just a moment.”

Goddammit, she thought. Why didn’t he ask him to wait outside? Is he is just going to leave me here?

“All right, all set.” She heard Ben say. “Hmm, let me see, do I have everything?”

“I noticed there were two horses outside,” said Jeffrey innocently.

“Yes,” replied Ben, fumbling for words. “That other one belongs to…Elliot, you know, my head gardener. He rode out here with me to look at some new seedlings. Decided to leave her here while he looked about so she could rest. He is around here somewhere. No need to wait for him. The mare will be fine. Let us go on.”