The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (28 page)

“Do you mind?” asked Miss Austen archly, holding out her hand.

Cassandra reluctantly turned them over to her.

The girl examined the letters. “This one is from my Aunt Jane to her sister. If you’d like to have it, it really makes no difference to me.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Cassandra cried, taking the letter from her and gazing at it adoringly.

Miss Austen stared at Cassandra. “You are welcome,” the niece replied, “and now, if you don’t mind, it is quite cold and I have other work to do.”

“Of course, I am so sorry to have disturbed you. Just one last thing.”

The young woman looked at her.

“Please, do not burn any more of her letters. They might turn out to be of great value some day.”

Miss Austen turned the letters over in her hand as if this thought had never occurred to her. “Certainly,” she replied, humoring her guest. “Good day.” She then turned and hurried into the house, clutching the remaining papers tightly.

Cassandra ran back out the gate, harboring her precious prize. She stopped at the corner of the house and carefully put it into her bag. She’d read it later. She decided not to tell Ben about it; she wouldn’t be able to explain to him the breadth of its significance. She then calmly walked up the road to meet him.

“What happened?” he asked, as she approached.

“I met Jane’s niece! She was quite pleasant, but we only chatted for a moment. I did not want to keep her.”

“Very nice.” He remarked. “I am glad you got to meet someone from her family. Shall we go look at the church?”

“Yes, let us,” she replied. She was aware of the letter in her bag as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

They went on to see the old church where Jane had listened to her father’s sermons every Sunday. It was simple and quiet and very cold—not a degree warmer than the frigid air outside, so they didn’t linger. It was too cold to walk around any longer, so they had the coachman drive them a mile or so further into Basingstoke, where they ate lunch at a pub.

There they made their plans for Christmas. They’d both received a few other invitations, but neither wanted to do anything but spend the time together. That settled, they finished up their meal and drove back to Selborne, Ben dropping her at Sorrel Hall a little before sunset.

Upon entering the house, she deposited her cloak with Mary, only uttering a few brief words, and then rushed upstairs to her room. She closed the door, sat down in a chair by the fire, and carefully withdrew the relic from her purse.

“My dearest Cassandra,” it began. She nearly fell off her chair. Then she recalled that Jane’s sister was also named Cassandra and she laughed out loud. The letter was a rambling discussion of Jane’s neighbors’ reaction to the recent publication of
Pride and Prejudice
, including the author’s own critique of the novel. “…The work is rather too light & bright & sparkling: -it wants shade;-it wants to be stretched out here & there with a long chapter…” Cassandra read with fascination. She couldn’t believe she was holding in her hand the same paper that Jane had touched, beholding the actual ink from her pen. She had seen some of Austen’s preserved letters under glass, had even had access to some that were not available for public perusal, due to her historian’s status. But this, this was her own personal treasure, and she would bring it back into the future with her, whether it was appropriate to do so or not. After reading it over several times, she finally tucked it into her journal for safekeeping.

She went down to greet Mrs. Merriweather and have supper.

Dec. 21, 1820—Ben and I haven’t seen each other for a week. I’ve been busy putting together last-minute gifts for the farmers and all the servants, not bothering to wait for Boxing Day.

It was hard to decide what to get him, but finally I did. I have never played for him my most beloved music
—that of the one composer I adore over all, one who was born before 1820
—1805, in fact, but could not yet have composed the piece that I want him to hear. In another ten years, he will likely hear of Felix Mendelssohn, and probably even play his music, but he will probably never hear of his sister, Fanny. I’m going to play for him one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written. It’s called “Farewell to Rome (Abschied von Rom),” and Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel wrote it after spending the happiest time of her life, six months in Rome with her husband and son, amongst artists and musicians that valued her for her own accomplishments, rather than for those of her brother. When she had to leave, she knew she’d likely never return, and she was devastated. For me, it reflects the joy of some of my happiest moments here Hampshire, mixed with the bitterness of leaving.

It’s daring to play this piece that is from later than this time
—
I’m also transcribing the music on beautiful parchment to give to him and I’ll make him vow never to show it to anyone. Am I crazy to do this? Yes, I suppose. But I’m feeling conflicted at the moment, trying to figure out how to say goodbye to him.

They agreed to exchange presents on Christmas Eve. Ben arrived at Sorrel Hall at three o’clock for an early dinner. The light was already fading. Cassandra had lit candles all throughout the entry hall, dining hall, and sitting room, as well as fires in each room. She had decorated the doorways and windows with freshly cut greenery, and the house smelled of spicy pine.

They enjoyed a private dinner together, just the two of them, sitting across the center of the great dining table from each other. Cassandra had all his favorite foods and desserts prepared, and they feasted and drank some of the best wines from the cellar. They retired into the sitting room to play together all the Christmas music they knew and had each been practicing for the occasion. They invited all the household in to listen and drink rum punch, and ended the evening with a rousing singing of carols. Cassandra had given the servants the next day off (though she knew Mrs. Merriweather wouldn’t comply). When it was late, and everyone else in the house had gone to bed, Cassandra and Ben exchanged gifts.

She played
Farewell to Rome
for him, expressing all of her pent up feelings through the music. She knew the piece by heart—it had long been her friend—but she had never experienced the totality of its yearning until that moment. She was in tears when she finished, and looked over at Ben. He was silent, a look of astonishment on his face.

She picked up the leaves of parchment, tied with a ribbon, and went to join him on the sofa. Placing it on her lap, she said, “This piece is by someone whose name I cannot say. It is not me, to be sure, but it is a woman who wrote it. To protect her anonymity, I cannot tell you who it is.”

“It is extraordinary!” he gasped. “The harmonies are…so surprising, the cadences, so unusual. It is filled with emotion, so full—it is not quite like Beethoven, not like anything I have heard!”

“I know,” she replied, beaming. “It is one of my favorite pieces.”

“You must tell me who wrote it.”

 “I cannot,” she said, “but here,” she gave him the parchment. “This is for you to play whenever you choose, for I know that you are able at the piano. But you must promise me that you will never play it for, or show it to anyone. Do you promise you will never share it with anyone?”

“I promise, but it is so mysterious!”

“It will have to remain so,” she smiled.

He glanced at the title of the piece, and then looked at her. He reached into his pocket. “I want to give you your gift.” He removed a small box and handed it to her. She opened it. Inside was a gold ring with a single ruby of about half a carat in an intricate filigree setting.

“Oh, Ben!”

He leaned close to her. “The ruby is for the color of your hair, and the color of our passion.”

She covered him with kisses.

“Wait, wait!” he said, pulling away slightly. “Look at the inside.”

There was an inscription. It read in the tiniest letters, ‘Marry Me.’

“Ben—” she whispered.

“The time has come.”

She looked up at him. “I am leaving soon.”

“Then marry me first and we will go together.”

She lowered her gaze and stared at the ring. He took it from her and placed it on her finger.

“Do not answer me now,” he said. “Let us enjoy our Christmas without the burden of making great decisions. By tomorrow night, will you give me your answer?”

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes still lowered so he would not see the tears brimming in them. “I will.”

 Outside it had begun to snow. They banked the fires, blew out the candles, and crept quietly upstairs. There in her bed, they made love until the early morning. Before falling asleep, Ben stole out into the adjoining bedroom. Cassandra lay awake in the darkness after he left, twisting the ring on her finger. She wondered what would happen if she stayed.

By mid-morning, there were several inches of snow on the ground. They slept in late, then met downstairs, where Mrs. Merriweather was stirring and had prepared a large Christmas breakfast, in spite of Cassandra’s instructions to take the day off. The housekeeper raised an eyebrow when Ben walked into the breakfast room, but when he grinned broadly and wished her a Happy Christmas, she cracked a smile and returned the greeting warmly.

The other servants had made their way to church through the snow, but around noon, they came stomping back into the kitchen. Cassandra told them their presents were under the tree, and she and Ben enjoyed their delight as they all gathered in the sitting room, by the fire that Ben had lit, to open and exclaim over their gifts.

A knock sounded at the great door, and Cassandra went to answer it. It was a messenger from Gatewick House with a note for Ben. Cassandra took it to him, and he went pale when he read it.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“My parents,” he replied, looking up at her. “They have come.”

“Without notice?”

“Yes,” he said, distraught. “I must go. They arrived last night and were surprised not to find me there.” He went out to the entryway to put on his great cloak, his hat, gloves and boots, and Cassandra followed him, bringing the parchment of music, which he placed inside his jacket.

“I will send a note back as soon as I have a moment,” he said to her, “and let you know the reason for their sudden appearance.”

“Perhaps they just want to spend Christmas with you,” she said hopefully.

He looked at her, his face grim. “Not likely.” He pulled her close and kissed her. “I love you,” he said. “You shall hear from me soon.”

“I love you, too,” she said, realizing it was the first time she had said it. His face lit with joy. “Cassandra, does this mean… can I tell my parents?”

“No!”

He pulled back from her, startled.

“No,” she said more softly. “I have not made a decision. But the fact is that I do love you. I have loved you for a long time. Say nothing to your parents. I must have a little more time.”

“I live for your answer. Happy Christmas, my love.” He smiled and went out.

Cassandra spent the rest of the day quietly. She played the piano at length, then went to the window seat with a book, but found herself doing little more than looking out at the snow—the first snowfall of the season. Her ring caught a reflection of candlelight and flashed. Cassandra gazed at it. Thoughts whirled in her head. What if I stayed? What if I married him, moved into Gatewick House? I could go to London, go through the portal, and tell them. James could come visit me. No. He is wanted by the authorities here. Then I could go into the future sometimes to see him. No. They could not keep the portal maintained indefinitely. I would have to choose. James or Ben. My life there or here.

All of the servants had gone to homes of friends or relatives for Christmas dinner, or to the Merriweather’s cottage, where they and Anna were preparing their own meal. Ben and Cassandra had planned to prepare dinner together, but now she was alone in the house, trying to buoy her spirits as best she could. As night fell, she nibbled some leftovers from the pantry and finally made herself an omelet.

Just before seven, a knock came at the door, and she ran to answer it. It was a messenger from the Clarkes, delivering to her a gift of books by Maria Edgeworth, a thoughtful and expensive present. She thought of the other niceties she had received in the last few days: a crocheted shawl from the Moore girls, a muff from the Merriweather’s, made from a fox that Mr. Merriweather had caught trying to get into the chicken coop, a delicate, embroidered lace handkerchief from Anna, and some French soaps and powders sent from the Holcombs, an obligatory response to the gifts she had sent to them.

She went into the sitting room, took a chair by the fire, and settled in with one of the books. After a time, there was another knock and she was at the door in moments. This time, a messenger from Gatewick House placed a note in her hand. She invited him in to warm in the kitchen while she read it.

My love,

My father has taken it into his head to come, this blessed Christmas day, to express his displeasure with me. To put it concisely, he wants me to quit my music and go into business with him. He has told me that if I refuse, he will disinherit me. I am in a terrible state. I have the money I received when I came of age, but it is running low. I feel I may have no choice but to succumb to his wishes. Pray for me; I am despondent. He and my mother are staying indefinitely. My father does not approve of my life and wants to ‘put me in order,’ as he says. I cannot see you for a few days, but I will come the moment I can get away. Send no note back; only know that I adore you.