The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (26 page)

Cassandra could not speak.

“Have you not read it?” he said. “Oh, you must borrow mine. I have a copy at Gatewick House. It is as wonderful as her other works. Oh no, but of course you would not have heard of her; they are probably not available in America yet. Her last two were only published two years ago.”

“Yes, yes, I have read them, all of her books,” she finally broke in. “They are at the library at Sorrel Hall. I was just surprised that you had read them. Most men do not—” She was going to say that most men don’t read Jane Austen because she had never in actuality met one who had read her and admitted to liking her other than her beloved Franklin.

 Ben cut her off. “Most men do not read novels? Nonsense. Men read novels. They just do not admit it. We love a good story, just like women. We do not only read financial reports and historical biographies.”

Cassandra laughed with delight. “Why have we never spoken of her books before?”

“I would suppose because we were too busy,” he grinned, pulling her close and kissing her
.

November 1
^st
, 1820 – How is it possible that I have found a man with whom I can discuss Austen as if she’s just popped up on the New York Times Bestseller list? I suppose I’ve rather systematically avoided discussing literature with anyone, subconsciously fearful that I would give myself away, but Austen is my main reason for this visit. She’s been like a sacred secret hidden away in my heart, and now here we are wandering around Lyme Regis, this amazing seventh-century fishing village, sharing our favorite moments and characters in her novels. Perhaps Ben’s loving her work is partly a British thing, maybe partly a result of living in Austen’s day and understanding so clearly what she was writing about. I think I understand her more intimately now as well. I’ve always related to her from a woman’s perspective, and treasured her observations on human nature, her humor and satire, her passion and her uncanny sense of romance. But now I understand her place and time.

For the next two weeks, Cassandra and Ben clambered through the forests and along the cliffs around Lyme Regis. They visited neighboring towns, including Broadwindsor, where she, in her fictional history, had been born. She was able to say in all truthfulness that she did not remember it.

During those days together, they made love again and again, rambled on the beach, talked of music and books, and since she had no piano, Ben played for her at night. She had to remind herself to express anguish over James now and then, but inwardly, she felt light-hearted.

Toward the middle of November, they made the day’s ride back to Selborne, and Cassandra left Ben off at Gatewick house. She had kept Mrs. Merriweather generally informed about the events of the past several weeks by post, without going into much detail. She knew that the news of James’ arrest and escape had long preceded her by way of Lady Holcomb and the others who had returned to Selborne. As far as Cassandra knew, Lady Charles was still in London, or had returned to Bath, which was for the best; she had no desire to mix with her.

She was anxious as the great front doors to Sorrel Hall opened. The housekeeper stood primly at the door, her face unreadable. In the most recent missive to her, Cassandra had written that she had gone to visit the county of her birth to have some time for quiet contemplation and that she would return from there in a little more than a fortnight.

The woman greeted her mistress in her usual manner, formal and detached, and sent Cassandra’s bags upstairs, after which she inquired if she were hungry. Cassandra replied that she was, and so Mrs. Merriweather had a meal prepared while Cassandra changed out of her travelling clothes.

When she went down to the dining room and saw the dishes organized in front of the lonesome looking chair, she realized she could not bear to sit there all by herself and eat in solitude. She decided to flout convention and asked Mrs. Merriweather if she could eat in the kitchen where she, Mr. Merriweather and Anna were having their meal alone, the other servants enjoying their Sunday evening off.

The housekeeper slightly raised an eyebrow and replied, “Of course, Mrs. Franklin.” Cassandra grabbed what she wanted off the table and Mrs. Merriweather took the rest.

Mr. Merriweather leapt to his feet when she entered, and Anna rose to tend to her, but she motioned them back down after she’d set her plates on the table. The housekeeper followed her into the room.

“I hope you do not mind if I impose on you,” Cassandra said to them, feeling soothed at the warmth of the room and the wonderful smells. “But I need to be around familiar faces.” She sat. “These last few weeks have been very trying.”

Mr. Merriweather and Anna assented with nods. Mrs. Merriweather spoke: “Your comfort is our primary concern, Mrs. Franklin.”

“Thank you so much,” Cassandra replied and fell to eating as the others followed her lead. After a few minutes silence, she broached a question. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve heard from the neighbors?”

 The three servants looked at each other. “We do not listen to idle gossip, ma’am,” said Mr. Merriweather.

His wife continued. “James is a good boy, as you know better than anyone. He probably just had some… curiosity is all. If you ask me, it was a lot made out of nothing.”

“We only hope he is safe and sound,” Anna piped up, “and will be in the bosom of his native land soon.”

Cassandra wondered if they would be so supportive had they seen the device themselves. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I was worried that you would be uncomfortable with me living here after such an uproar.”

“Well, Mrs. Franklin, firstly, that is not for us to judge,” said Mrs. Merriweather.

Cassandra began to speak, but the housekeeper continued, looking at her directly. “Secondly, you have been a kind and thoughtful mistress to us all. We have a great fondness for you, if I am not being too familiar by saying so.”

Cassandra shook her head.

“If you cannot find support and comfort here in your own house, with your own servants, then where can you find it? We are glad you are home, and that is all.”

Tears filled Cassandra’s eyes, but she blinked them back and smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 They finished the meal with small talk about the state of the gardens and other local news about the farmers and the neighborhood. Cassandra finally told them that James’ escape meant that she would have to plan to return to America herself come January.

“We are sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Merriweather said. “We will miss you greatly.” Mr. Merriweather coughed and took a gulp of cider. Anna dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

“As will I, so very much.” She rose and excused herself and went to her piano to play.

Mrs. Merriweather had already prepared her a bath by the time Cassandra was ready to retire. Cassandra had a long, luxurious soak in front of the fire in her bedroom. It made her think of Ben, whom she missed already, and now that she was back at Sorrel Hall, she realized she missed James terribly as well. She had somewhat less than two months to remain in Hampshire, and she feared it would be lonely without James and the constant presence of Ben. She also did not know how her friends in the neighborhood perceived her now, and if they would accept her invitations to visit. Well, she decided, it was all something to worry about in the morning. She put on the fresh nightclothes the housekeeper had left out for her, climbed into her clean, cozy bed, picked up the copy of
Mansfield Park
that she had left on her nightstand several weeks ago, and started rereading it for the tenth time.

Wednesday, November 18, 1820 – I am so happy to be back in Hampshire! Though Lyme was incredible, for so many obvious reasons, this place has truly come to feel like my home. A few bright leaves still cling to some of the trees, and we are still getting squash from the garden, pumpkins, butternut and acorn, to be specific. Mr. Merriweather says that we can grow lettuce and even keep some tomatoes going in the greenhouse for a little while longer. But if December is harsh, those vegetables will not respond, even in the warmer environment.

Although life here has returned to the quiet pace that it had before James came, I no longer find it dull in any way. Part of that, of course, has to do with Ben, who is so much a part of my life; so much, that I do not want to give him up. I never thought that he would ensconce himself so deeply in my heart. I want to stay here with him; I want to be this woman of the nineteenth century that I have created, even though it is just an illusion.

I don’t really care much if I am accepted back into Selborne “high society,” although I have sent off the customary notes requesting the visits that I know are expected now that I’ve returned to the neighborhood. We shall see what they bring.

Cassandra’s note to Lady Holcomb requesting an invitation to the cottage was met with a curt reply that the Holcombs were otherwise engaged. Cassandra was more pained than she expected to be, but not surprised. A visit to the Clarke family produced little more than lukewarm enthusiasm. Mrs. Clarke had heard the description of the device from Edward, but she did not allude to it during the course of Cassandra’s visit. The conversation remained distantly polite and stiff.

Edward sat with them silently for a while, but when his mother left to see about one of the little ones, he cautiously asked Cassandra about James’s fate. She only replied that she had not heard from him since the mysterious escape (all of which they’d read about in the London papers) and that she was anxiously awaiting word. Edward asked her to have him write, but Cassandra simply replied that it would probably be unwise for James to reveal his whereabouts. She said she would let him know as soon as she heard anything.

She concluded her visit with the Clarkes with a sense that their old intimacy had disintegrated, even though the ever-gallant Mr. Clarke had popped into the parlor with a few warm words of greeting for her.

Several days later, she went to visit Mrs. Moore. She and her two awkward daughters were even more fascinated with her, it seemed, than before, and they enjoyed a lively conversation together. However, Cassandra left feeling like her circle of friends and acquaintances had significantly diminished.

Her time with Ben naturally expanded as her time with others decreased. They no longer worried about when and where they met when they played music together. They went on walks and horseback rides together whenever the weather was less than biting, and their afternoons in the cottage were only hampered if the weather forbade them to ride.

Cassandra also spent more time now with the farmers’ wives whose company she had always enjoyed. The gossip that reached them about James had been vague, and anyway, they were grateful for her patronage. They always pressed on Cassandra their jars of homemade jams and pickles, cheeses, or dried herbs. She always made sure she brought many more gifts for them than she came away with.

On one such visit, she was sitting in the warm kitchen of her friend Mrs. MacIntosh, sharing with her some oat muffins that Cassandra had made herself that morning. She had also brought a fine ham that was now stored in the farm’s cellar.

One of Mrs. MacIntosh’s three sons came running in, knocking over an empty laundry bucket in the process.

“Freddy!” cried Mrs. MacIntosh. “Will you please be careful? There is no need to run about like a pig on the loose!”

“Mama,” exclaimed Freddy, out of breath, “Jamie’s come from Mrs. Whitstone’s. He says it is his mum’s time and she called for you! He said to hurry!”

“Oh, dear,” responded Mrs. MacIntosh, “the babe is early.” She jumped into action. “Freddy, go get me my black bag and fetch my sewing scissors from the table in the parlor and put them in it. And call Susan in here right away!”

The boy ran off, and she began rummaging in her cupboards, pulling out bundles and jars of dried herbs.

“Clara, what can I do to help,” asked Cassandra, a tremor in her voice. “May I come with you?”

The tall, sturdy woman turned and considered her friend for a moment, no doubt taking in the fine clothing Cassandra was wearing, and the smooth hands that had never known a day’s serious toil.

“What do you know about delivering babies?” she asked briskly.

“Well, I have had one,” answered Cassandra. What she wished she could say was, as a PhD, a scientist, and a woman of three hundred years in the future, she probably knew more about the biology of a woman’s body and methods of sanitation than Mrs. MacIntosh. She actually had even trained once in emergency childbirth assistance, as part of the required first aid course that every high school student in the U.S. took part in. But that was a long time ago, as was the birth of her son, which was totally natural, though completely painless, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine. She had to admit to herself, she knew nothing about delivering a baby in the circumstances she was about to face.

The farmer’s wife offered a wry grin, and the lines around her eyes crinkled. “I could certainly use another pair of hands, if you do not mind getting that gown of yours messy.”

“Do not be silly,” was all Cassandra could think to say.

“All right then,” said the Mrs. MacIntosh throwing her a clean muslin apron. “Put this on and let us go.” Cassandra could see respect glimmer in the woman’s eyes.

Freddy came running back in with a small black leather satchel for his mother that resembled an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, his older sister Susan at his side.

“The scissors are in there?” his mother asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Susan, you are in charge. I do not know how long I will be gone. You will have leftovers for supper; Edith will take care of that. Make sure the little ones are in bed on time, and go to bed yourself if I am not home before ten o’clock.”

“Yes, Mama,” Susan said, her pale blue eyes large in her thin face. She looked to be about sixteen and had, of course, gone through this with her mother several times.

“All right, Mrs. Franklin, let us go.” They threw on their outer garments and went outside to face a bitter wind that had blown up.

“We can take my horse,” Cassandra said, not knowing if Mrs. MacIntosh had access to one herself. The woman hesitated. “Yes,” insisted Cassandra, “she is strong. She can carry us.” They ran to the stable and had a young farm hand throw off the saddle and replace it with a blanket. The ladies than clambered on one after another with the help of an overturned bucket.

It was a mile to the Whitstone’s farm, but with the horse at a gentle canter, they were there in ten minutes. When they approached the low, rambling farmhouse, they could hear the woman’s screams within. Several children ran to the door, white-faced and scared.

“Heaven help us,” whispered Mrs. MacIntosh under her breath.

She and Cassandra leapt down off the horse, and one of the older boys came to take it and put it in the barn. They hurried into the house, and the oldest daughter took them to her mother’s room. Before they entered, Mrs. MacIntosh turned to the young woman.

“Is there scalding water on the stove?”

The girl nodded speechlessly, her large brown eyes brimming with tears.

“And plenty of clean rags?”

“I will fetch them,” she said and ran off.

“Martha,” she called after her, “make sure I have two basins of hot water and a bar of lye soap as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the answer from down the hall.

Cassandra was skeptical about the cleanliness of the rags and the implements they were about to use. She knew nothing could have been sanitized properly. She looked about the shabby farmhouse. It could hardly be called clean.

Mrs. MacIntosh glanced at her, took a breath, and opened the door.

Mrs. Whitstone lay sweating and writhing on the bed, a young maid beside her, trembling.

“It is all right, dear,” Mrs. MacIntosh said to her. “We are here now. You go help Martha with the rags and the hot water. Then stand there by the door. Whenever I say, you be ready to fetch some more, do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said. She jumped up and flew out of the room.

“Sarah,” she said, turning to Mrs. Whitstone

. With a soothing voice she continued. “Sarah, we are here to help. Mrs. Franklin has come with me.”

Mrs. Whitstone opened her eyes and looked glassily at them. “Something is wrong,” she croaked with her parched throat. “It is early.”

“I know,” replied Mrs. MacIntosh. “It will be all right. Cassandra,” she said, using the familiarity of her given name for the first time. “Take this herb to the kitchen and make a cup of strong tea with it. Hurry.” She handed her a small bundle of dried plant from her bag and Cassandra rushed out. The water in the kitchen was hot, so she soon had the tea ready in the cup. She then pumped out a cup of ice cold water from the kitchen sink and ran back to the bedroom with both. The basins of hot water, the soap, and the rags had also been delivered.

“Good,” said Mrs. MacIntosh softly. Mrs. Whitstone was beginning to moan. Another contraction was coming. The moan heightened until it was a scream that brought tears to Cassandra’s eyes. She wondered how such suffering could exist.
It made her realize how idyllic her world really was.

When the contraction was done, Cassandra took a small rag, dipped it in the cold water, and pressed it to the woman’s lips. She sucked at it gratefully.

“Good!” said Mrs. MacIntosh again. “Now she needs to sip some of this tea.” She held it up to Mrs. Whitstone’s lips and helped her drink it. She gagged, but her friend urged her on. The next contraction came on again sooner than the last and with even more force. When it was through, Mrs. MacIntosh gave her more tea, and the woman seemed to relax.

“All right,” she said to Cassandra, “hold her hand. Sarah, we are going to check the baby.”

The patient nodded, her eyes half-closed.

Mrs. MacIntosh dipped her hands in one basin of hot water, washed them with the lye soap, rinsed them in another and wiped them, then lifted up her friend’s skirts and gently put one hand inside to feel for the baby. Mrs. Whitstone gasped. It only took a moment and then she was done. She withdrew her hand and looked at Cassandra.

“What, what?” croaked Sarah.

“It is breach.” She replied.

“Oh no,” cried Sarah.

Cassandra drew in her breath.

“We have got to get it out, Sarah,” she told her. “All this struggling you are doing will not help. It will just kill you. We need brandy,” she said to Cassandra.

“I will get it!” yelled Martha’s from behind the door.

Another contraction came, and Sarah screamed. Martha appeared at the door with the glass of brandy, tears streaming down her face.

“It will be all right,” Cassandra whispered to her and closed the door.

They gave Sarah the glass and made her drink it down in spite of her protests. Cassandra was terrified at the prospect of their trying to pull the baby, legs first, from its mother with no other painkiller. She had a small stock of powerful pain and germ killers at Sorrel Hall, but she knew, even if she could get to them in time, it would not be right to use them.

They waited for the next contraction. Cassandra took Sarah’s hand, Mrs. MacIntosh cleaned her hands again, and then she reached inside. Sarah screamed like she was being tortured to death. Cassandra sobbed, holding onto her, trying to keep her still so Mrs. MacIntosh could do her work. Mrs. MacIntosh was sweating and grunting, trying to grasp the slippery child. Blood gushed out and Cassandra, who always considered herself strong, thought she was going to faint.

“Caroline!” shouted Mrs. MacIntosh to the maid. “Get in here!” The young woman came running in, terror written on her face. “Wipe away this blood! I have to be able to see.” The maid did as she was told, too frightened not to. Cassandra could see Mrs. MacIntosh struggling with all her might to pull out the child, and then mercifully, Sarah fainted. The baby finally came out with a slosh of blood, Mrs. MacIntosh grasping its tiny legs. It was indeed tiny, which made it possible to get it out at all, but it was not living. Cassandra could see that at once. It was blue, and its spine looked bent. She leapt to help Caroline mop up the copious blood while Mrs. MacIntosh cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the dead, premature baby in a rag.

Slowly and methodically, the women cleaned the bed and the floor, stripped Sarah of her clothes, diapered her with clean, soft strips of fabric, and replaced her clothing with an old, but clean nightgown. They covered the blood-soaked mattress with an old blanket, though it would have to be thrown away. Sarah was still unconscious, but breathing regularly. There was no sign of fever.

Mr. Whitstone came from the fields where he had been working and mutely took the baby in his arms to bury it under a tree in back of the farmhouse. It wasn’t the first baby he’d had to bury, and they couldn’t afford to have it interred in the churchyard. He then came back in and gently carried his wife to a clean bed in another bedroom where she’d have to stay until a new mattress could be made for their marriage bed.