The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (27 page)

There was nothing more for Cassandra and Mrs. MacIntosh to do. The children were all in the kitchen now, eating their supper quietly.

As Cassandra and Mrs. MacIntosh rode back to her farm, Clara spoke quietly. “It is a blessing, you know. The little one would not have been normal, and they did not need another mouth to feed.”

Cassandra nodded in front of her on the horse. She left Mrs. MacIntosh at her door, both of them too tired and hungry for any lengthy parting, and got herself home through the dark, shivering with shock and cold.

William, Mrs. Merriweather, Mr. Merriweather, Mary, and Anna were all frantic for her return. They only knew she had gone to the MacIntosh’s farm, and William was just on the point of setting off to find her when she returned. When she told them what had happened, they all fussed around her, making her warm and comfortable and seeing that she had something good to eat.

The next day, Cassandra had an expensive new mattress ordered for the Whitstones from the furniture maker in Basingstoke and went back to see Sarah in the carriage, bringing as much food as she could without seeming overbearing. She also brought some nightgowns and linens that she gathered from around Sorrel Hall and, against the ethics of time travel, a powerful painkilling tablet and an antibiotic, both nano-programmed to continue to work until the recipient’s body no longer required it. When she went in to see Sarah, the woman was almost delirious from the pain of having the baby pulled from her. Cassandra knew she must be terribly torn, but hoped all her internal organs were intact. There was nothing anyone could do if they weren’t.

As soon as Cassandra was alone with her, she surreptitiously dissolved the pills in a cup of tea, helped Sarah drink it, and left with hardly a word.

Tuesday, December 1
^st
, 1880 – I received word today from the Whitstone farm that Sarah has made a miraculous recovery. Martha sent a note saying that her mother’s pain abated just a day after the delivery, and that now, a week later, she is sitting up in bed, eating and drinking with good color in her face, doing needlework, and should be up on her feet any day now. She says she knows God must have done what He, in his infinite wisdom, knows to be best.

They thanked me for the mattress and the gifts. I only hope to do more for them. As there is so much abundance from my lands that I don’t have need of, the Whitstones will be the recipients of it, at least until their mother can go back to her usual duties..

Cassandra was savoring the final few weeks of her time in1820. When the last leaf had fallen from the trees and all the color had faded from the landscape, she began to admire the contrasts of browns and grays, light and shadow, the stark shapes of the bare trees, and the sharp brightness of the stars that could be seen from her bedroom window. She knew she would never see the earth like this again.

Another opportunity to time travel would be unlikely. She had to give way to the others waiting their turns. She knew she would never again experience the quiet that was so complete, the air that was so pure, the flavors that were so clean, and the absolute simplicity of daily life. She now reveled in the slow passage of time that allowed her to sit and read a book for hours, to play the piano uninterrupted as long as she liked, to just sit by a window and watch the shadows move across the earth, to walk and hear nothing, nothing but the birds and the wind and the sound of her own footsteps.

Christmas was approaching, and the poignancy of having to say goodbye to her nineteenth-century life started to blend with the loneliness of not having her family and friends around her during the traditional preparations of the season. But she, Mrs. Merriweather, and Anna kept busy putting together festive baskets of food and sweets for the laborers of the neighborhood. Cassandra went to Selborne and over to Basingstoke to purchase gifts of fabric, gloves, scarves, and other necessities for the members of her own household, and little luxury items, such as powders and fragrances, to send to all her society friends, former or not. She made sure to include little toys and packages of candy for the children, books and jewelry for the young ladies, and hunting knives for the young men.

One afternoon a messenger arrived at Sorrel Hall from Darrington with a package for Cassandra. Mary brought it in to the sitting room where her mistress was hanging fresh holly garlands above the windows.

“Who is it from, Mary?” she asked from the chair she was standing on as she reached up to the top of the window.

“It is from Lady Charles,” she replied. “It is your package, returned.”

 Cassandra hopped down off of the chair. “Thank you, Mary.” Cassandra took the accompanying note and sat down on her chair to read it as Mary left the room, leaving the package on a table.

The letter began abruptly:

Mrs. Franklin,

I am returning the package you sent, which may be indication enough of my feelings toward you, but I feel compelled to explain them further, and so I shall seize this opportunity to do so. I must tell you that I disapprove heartily of your continued presence in our neighborhood. I was shocked to return from Bath last week and find that you had the audacity to show your face here again after the disgrace your family brought upon us all. You should be ashamed that your son was not man enough to stand trial for his crimes, but instead, fled away like the guilty rogue that he is. I was equally disappointed that you were not held responsible in his stead. Rather, you insinuated yourself back into our society as if nothing had happened. I hope you do not think you will ever be back in my good graces. To the contrary, I shall never again consider you a friend.

In addition, and for your edification, my husband has personally taken it upon himself to push for the reinstatement of England’s strict anti-witchcraft laws to protect the citizens from such evil and sorcery as you and your son have inflicted upon us. He is making this his new cause in Parliament.

Incidentally, he recently told me how you tried to seduce him at the ball at Darrington. I am sure that these are the tactics you and your son were using to ensnare your victims. To think that my Elizabeth almost succumbed to your son’s wiles!

In short, I reject you and your ways and hope to never see you darken my path again.

With Disdain,

Lady Katherine Elizabeth Smythe Charles

Cassandra sat stunned for a moment at the vindictiveness of the letter. She felt anger seething up within her. She got up and paced around the room, trying to decide how, or if, she should respond. But after a few moments’ reflection, she realized that she must simply let it all go. Mrs. Charles’s fears were fictional, whether she realized it or not. Let her have her disdain, she thought. It affects me not at all. I will be gone soon anyway. Maybe she’ll even think I left as a result of her, and she can triumph at that. Cassandra went to toss the letter into the fire, then thought better of it. She’d keep it for scientific documentation. She tucked it into her skirt pocket and called Mary back into the room. Her only real fear was that if Sir Robert had success with his campaign for re-instating the witchcraft laws, people might needlessly suffer, and history might be changed. She prayed Ben was right about his ineffectiveness as a politician.

“Please, Mary, have Mrs. Merriweather change the name and address on the package. I would like it sent instead to Sarah Whitstone.” She thought about the contents. They were expensive, lovely niceties, not like the practical items she had already sent the Whitstone family as a Christmas offering. She went to her desk and dashed off a note.

Dear Sarah,

I hope you like these little trinkets. A mother so rarely gets to enjoy nice things; I thought you would like to have them just for yourself.

Merry Christmas,

Cassandra Franklin

December 16, 1820 – Mr. Merriweather and I went out today to cut down a Christmas tree. He keeps a special stand of evergreens just for this purpose, and every year when he cuts one down, he plants two or three more. We chose a tall one; it must be about ten feet high, and beautifully shaped. It is a fir
—such graceful bows and silvery-green color. We brought the hay cart for the purpose and rode with plenty of blankets piled on our laps. After he cut it, we struggled to lift the tree on the cart, just the two of us, laughing and falling. It was surprising to see him so merry; he usually is such a taciturn man. On the way back, he shared with me a little of his Christmas cheer, a pint of brandy hidden in his coat!

With the aid of some of the servants, we finally got the tree in the house and placed it, standing in a regal spot in my sitting room, between the fireplace and the bay windows. It adds such splendor to the room. Mrs. Merriweather brought out the decorations that the Collins family left behind, and everyone in the household, including Ben, who had come for the occasion, helped decorate it. I told them of the American tradition of stringing popcorn and cranberries for ornaments. Anna popped the corn, and we tried to get it strung on the tree before eating it all. We had no cranberries, so we used dried crabapples instead. The tree is now gorgeous, and I think everyone in Sorrel Hall is enjoying it.

A week before Christmas, Ben told Cassandra he had a surprise for her. He told her to be prepared the following day to take a short trip and to dress warmly. His coach arrived for her at nine. He told her it was only a short drive; they weren’t going beyond the borders of Hampshire County. They passed the time with him teasing her with words and kisses, but she tried to keep her eyes on the landscape as it rolled by out the window.

She saw a small sign announcing their entrance into the village of Steventon, and she shrieked with delight.

“It is Jane Austen’s birthplace! We are going to see where she grew up, her family home!”

“How do you know?” He uttered in surprise. He couldn’t know that three hundred years after the author’s death, biography after biography had been written about her.

“Someone in London mentioned it to me when I said I was moving to Hampshire.”

“Oh,” he said, a little deflated.

“Yes,” she continued, “this person said they knew her family somewhat. It was just a passing conversation.”

“Well, I am just surprised because not many people know much about her, other than the titles of her books. It took me some real investigating to find out about this place. I do not think we should go inside and disturb her brother, who still lives there. But I thought you would like to see the village and the parsonage where she grew up from the outside at least.”

The village was simply a row of a few cottages without shop or inn. The parsonage where Jane was born and raised was a few hundred feet past it. Once they arrived there, they had the driver take them beyond the property so as not to seem obtrusive. The coachman alighted, helped them from the carriage, and began tending to the horses.

Ben and Cassandra walked past the front of the parsonage looking around at the scenery as if they were only out on a country stroll. The house was a simple structure of two stories with a peaked roof and included various outbuildings beyond. Behind it was farmland, which rose gently for some distance. There were chickens meandering about, a large fallow vegetable garden, and the sound of cows lowing from inside a great, grey barn. A thin column of smoke rose from in back of the main house.

Cassandra knew for certain that this parsonage did not survive into the future, actually, not too many more years at all. This was a very special opportunity to see it, for this little village was mostly obliterated by 2120. She happened to know that only the thirteenth-century church remained and a small marker at the site of the parsonage. Steventon wasn’t even on most maps of Britain or mentioned in tourist guidebooks.

She could have made this trip easily from London the few times she had visited England in her life, but had studiously stayed away from “Jane Austen country,” as she called it, because she knew if she ever got a chance to time travel, Hampshire was where she would come.

The sound of a door banging startled them, but they saw no one emerge from the front of the house. Cassandra was overcome with an intense curiosity to explore the situation and possibly spy upon one of her heroine’s relatives.

“Mr. Johnston!” cried the coachman just then. “Better come have a look at this!”

Ben jogged back up the road, while Cassandra remained. A moment later Ben called out, “This one has a pebble stuck in her hoof! You go on; we need to get it out.”

Cassandra nodded to him and took a deep breath. Summoning up her courage, she walked around the side of the building. Behind the house, a woman stood bent over a small trash fire, her face hidden by the hood of her cloak. She held some papers in her hand, and one by one, she was throwing them into the fire. Cassandra walked boldly up to the wooden gate that led into the yard, and the woman turned to look at her. Cassandra gasped. It was the same face that she knew so well from the few surviving portraits of Jane Austen: the oval face, the large, dark eyes, the thin lips, and the straight, slender nose. Her heart pounded.

“Hello,” the lady called out in a friendly tone. “May I help you?”

“I was just looking for—” Cassandra froze. What was she looking for?

“My father?”

“I, I, I am an admirer of—”

“Oh my aunt!” declared the young woman. “I am sorry. She passed away three years ago.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said Cassandra breathing more steadily now.

“Please, come in,” the niece said.

Cassandra opened the gate and walked towards her. “I do not mean to disturb you; I only wanted to have a glance at where your aunt once lived. You must get a lot of visitors by here.”

“Not really, only a very few since she passed.” said the niece.

“Oh!” responded Cassandra with surprise. “Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Franklin of Sorrel Hall, near Selborne.”

“Nice to meet you. I am Miss Austen.”

Cassandra’s heart fluttered. She could barely believe she was speaking to one of Jane Austen’s very relatives, and looking into eyes that were so like the author’s.

“Forgive me if I do not shake your hand,” the niece continued. “Mine are covered with dust and soot.”

Cassandra glanced down at the papers the young woman held. They appeared to be handwritten epistles of some kind.

The historian in her was piqued with curiosity. “What is it you are burning there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Just some family letters,” the girl replied. Cassandra’s heart jumped. “My father hoards them ridiculously, and my mother insisted that we rid the house of the lion’s share.”

“Are, are they—” Cassandra stammered. “Are any of them your Aunt Jane’s?”

“Oh, certainly,” she replied. “She wrote endless letters. No one could ever read them all.” She carelessly threw the remainder of her papers into the fire and Cassandra shrieked.

“No! Wait!” She made a grab at the few that were still floating down toward the flames.

“Mrs. Franklin, really!” cried Miss Austen.

“I am sorry. I am sorry,” said Cassandra, gasping and clinging to the singed papers. “It is just that—” tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of all the family history, all the possible insight about the great author that had just gone up in smoke. “I just adore her writing so.”