The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (8 page)

“Excuse me—” she began.

“Mrs. Franklin!” He stood and she detected a sharp odor of stale sweat and of clothes not recently washed. “I was wondering when I would get a visit from you.”

“Well, I have decided that I need to learn to ride.”

“I am sorry; my hearing is going a bit. Did you say you need to learn to ride?”

“Yes, I—in America—”

“Are you telling me they do not ride horses in the states? Those Americans!”

“Well, they do. It is just that I did not.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, let us get you started!”

He led her back up past the stalls to one that contained a dark brown mare with a black silken mane and tail, and large, liquid brown eyes.

“This is Daisy. She is as gentle as they get, but she has some spirit as well.”

He chose a saddle and fitted the horse with a bridle, then helped Cassandra on and led her outside into a ring. In less than an hour, she’d learned to turn the animal, stop her, and trot with ease. William grinned from ear to ear as he watched his student’s first day’s progress.

The subsequent few mornings she returned for lessons, and soon was riding very well. She and William went together on horseback around the parklands of Sorrel Hall, and it was during these rides that she began to form a plan. She hadn’t heard from Mr. Johnston, and she couldn’t invite him over if he didn’t request an invitation, yet she desperately wanted to hear him play his violin.

She proposed to William that she go out for a solo ride, just around the environs of Sorrel Hall, over ground they had gone before, so she could test her abilities on her own. He reluctantly assented, and so she set off in the direction of Gatewick House, dressed unusually well for a morning ride. She cut across her own land, through a forested area to the road, so that William wouldn’t know where she might be headed, and then stayed on the road until she was at Mr. Johnston’s drive. She then continued on past the drive and entered the property through the woods, approaching the mansion unseen. When she was in sight of the moat, she stopped. The most achingly beautiful music was drifting to her across the breeze. It was an exquisite Bach violin sonata. She held her breath. Should she just remain still and listen, or should she make her presence known? But what would she say to him? She hadn’t thought that part of the plan through. What she had wanted was to eavesdrop on his practice session. But now that she was there, she determined to go inside.

Suddenly, the barking of dogs caught her by surprise, and in a moment, the music stopped. As she was beginning to turn Daisy to go, two, small, playful shepherds bounded up, barking loudly. Daisy was spooked but was not flighty enough to rear up, so she pranced about nervously. Cassandra could not get her to turn and withdraw. The animal whinnied loudly, and soon the head gardener appeared, followed by Mr. Johnston.

“Mrs. Franklin!” Mr. Johnston called to her. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Oh dear,” she said, trying to keep her wits. “I was lost. It was my first time out riding by myself, and I was here before I knew it.”

The gardener called the dogs away, and the horse settled.

Mr. Johnston smiled. “Well, as long as you are here, you must come in for some refreshment and to calm your nerves.”

Cassandra gratefully accepted. Her plan had worked better than she had hoped. He helped her down off the horse and took the animal by the reins. Soon a stable boy ran up and led the horse away. Mr. Johnston led Cassandra into the blue and gold parlor and asked her to make herself comfortable on the sofa while he ordered the maid to bring tea and toast. Soon they were laughing at her mishap.

“I am afraid I must have interrupted your practice,” she finally admitted. “I heard you playing.”

“You did? And what was your opinion?”

“Heavenly!” she replied. “Sir, I know that you prefer privacy when you play. I am the same. But I beg you to play something for me while I am here. It has been so long since I have heard any music but my own…and Miss Holcomb’s the other day—”

“Yes, Miss Holcomb,” he said. “Well, I only play for those whom I think would appreciate the music, and since I know you do, I would be honored to have you listen to me.”

They went into the conservatory and Cassandra settled into one of the large green chairs. Mr. Johnston picked up his violin from the table near the piano, tuned it a little, and commenced the sonata he’d been playing before. She was immediately moved. His playing was perfection. How could a person of his social status, though, have been so well trained?

When finished, Mr. Johnson pulled another brocade chair near hers.

“You are wondering how I come to play as I do.”

She nodded.

“Then I will ease your curiosity. I began playing at the age of five. My parents were entertaining their friends with a string quartet at our home. They often tried to impress others with their elegant taste, though really, they had very little appreciation of art of any kind.”

Cassandra smiled in sympathy.

“I had crept down the stairs and was listening, and I was entranced with how the violin made a sound like it was singing. It went straight to my heart. The next day, I told my mother I wanted to play the violin, and, amused, she bought me a small one and hired a gentle old teacher to come once a week. I had a natural ability and learned rapidly. My father largely ignored my playing until I was about ten, and then he began to question a boy being so devoted to music. My sister played the piano, though not well, so my mother was particularly proud of me, and she insisted I continue regardless of Father’s disapproval. He was really too busy with his business to take further notice, so my mother took it upon herself to engage the finest teachers in London.”

“You were lucky that she was so devoted to your talent.”

“Yes, I am grateful. It became a hobby of sorts for her. Anyway, when I was finished with my university education, she agreed to let me go and study with the masters in Vienna. When I became of age, and came into my money, I took my own house in London, and continued with my music, playing for friends and friends of friends in private salons. My father was unhappy that I didn’t join him in his business, but he let me be. However, he did threaten to disinherit me if I became a professional, and so rather than incur his wrath and alienate myself from my family completely, I technically remain an amateur.”

Cassandra wanted to ask what his father’s business was, but thought it might be rude. “Do you compose?” she asked instead.

“I do. I have,” he replied, “but not extensively, for I cannot publish. I do it to amuse myself and my ensemble.”

“Is your ensemble in London?”

“Yes, they are all professionals and keep themselves busy playing for the opera and the theatre. Many of them are employed by the large London parishes and play at religious services. They are usually only available to play with me during the off-season. After all, musicians must play, and we prefer to play with other musicians. Of course, I am speaking of string musicians in particular, and the brass and woodwinds. Those of you who perform on the pianoforte are the true soloists.”

“No, actually, I love to play duets, and I do love to
accompany
,” she stated with a grin. “I do not always have to be the sun around which everything revolves.”

He laughed. “Then perhaps you would like to accompany me now. I have been practicing a Bach sonata for violin and harpsichord with no accompaniment, waiting for the day when I would find an accomplished enough musician around Selborne. I think I may have found her.”

“Well, I have never played it, but I shall try. You will have to pardon my fumbles.”

“It is only you and me,” he said, “It matters not.” He held out his hand to her and led her to the piano. “It is not a harpsichord, but it is close enough. Here is the score.”

They played it through, stopping and starting again twice, but once they found their mutual rhythm, the music flowed naturally. He was more familiar with the piece and was able to watch her as she played and adjust when needed to her tempo. She tuned into him with her ears and her heartbeat. She began to feel his urges toward crescendo or decrescendo. The mathematical logic of Bach united with their intuitive senses in a feeling of great fulfillment.

After the final notes of the piece sounded, Cassandra sat quietly at the piano, her eyes still resting on the music. Mr. Johnston took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. They looked at each other. A smile formed at the corners of his eyes, and she could not suppress her delight.

“How immensely pleasing,” Mr. Johnston noted.

“I could not be happier,” remarked Cassandra.

“Will you stay to dinner?”

“I shall be honored.”

Mr. Johnston rode back to Sorrel Hall alongside Cassandra. William had become frantic at her long absence (she had quite forgot about him) and had sent two stable boys out to look for her. Cassandra apologized profusely, and after Mr. Johnston explained how he’d discovered her lost, William seemed appeased.

From the stables, Mr. Johnston walked Cassandra to the house. “When can we meet again to play?” he asked.

Cassandra thought for a moment. “I think we should meet here, at Sorrel Hall. I am afraid—” She wasn’t sure how to put it delicately. “That our playing together may seem a bit—”

“Unorthodox?”

She laughed. “Yes, unorthodox, that we are meeting to play at all. But if we do so at my home, at least my household staff and, perhaps our various neighbors, will not be as disapproving as they would of my going to a gentleman’s house unescorted.”

“Yes, I understand your thinking. When are you free next to meet?”

She briefly ran over her social calendar in her head, which was, thankfully, sparse.

“Saturday, I believe, would be perfect. You like to play in the morning, though I prefer the afternoon, but I would be happy to accommodate you—”

“I would not hear of such a thing. We can alternate mornings and afternoons. And we can communicate by messenger to arrange day to day.”

“Yes, all right.” Her heartbeat quickened.

“I will see you the day after tomorrow, then. Shall we say ten o’clock?”

“I look forward to it immensely.”

“And I shall bring the Bach.”

“Wonderful!”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Franklin.” He took her hand and kissed it gently.

Her skin tingled. “Goodnight, Mr. Johnston.” She turned and went into the house.

The next morning, she informed Mrs. Merriweather to expect Mr. Johnston on a regular basis as her musical partner and guest, her stomach churning as she did so. The housekeeper merely nodded in response as she inspected a silver serving spoon she had been polishing.

“Mrs. Merriweather, please tell me if what I propose is shocking,” Cassandra ventured to say. “I am not familiar with the British etiquette concerning this sort of thing.”

The woman looked at Cassandra directly, and after a moment spoke. “Well, I must admit that it is not the usual thing to do.”

Cassandra steeled herself to form a rebuttal.

“However, you are a grown woman, Mrs. Franklin, independent, and with a grown-up son to boot. This is your house, and I should say you can make your own decisions and to blazes with anyone who does not like it.” She set the spoon down firmly on the credenza, picked up a meat fork, and began rubbing it with resolve.

“Thank you, Mrs. Merriweather. I appreciate your open-mindedness.”

The housekeeper looked up at her again. Cassandra gave a small, awkward bow, turned and walked away, wondering when she was going to stop saying bizarre things, but also marveling at the fact that Mrs. Merriweather was far more ahead of her time than the woman could possibly know.

May 10, 1820 – Things are becoming more interesting. Mr. Johnston and I have been meeting to play music together for about three weeks to, it seems, our mutual satisfaction. His company has certainly made my experiment much more pleasurable than it had been just those few short weeks ago. Amazing what a difference it makes throwing a man into the mix
—not that I have any intentions of any sort. It’s just nice to have his company.

Lady Holcomb was reclining in the sunlit window seat of Cassandra’s sitting room, pouring cream into her tea. The two had been chatting for some minutes when she asked Cassandra if she would dine with them the coming Saturday. Cassandra replied that she was free and would be delighted.

“Good,” said Lady Holcomb, “Because Mr. Johnston wishes it.”

“Mr. Johnston?”

“Yes. I sent him a note yesterday, inviting him to dine with Jane, Jeffrey, and me, and he replied in the affirmative, and then, as a side note, inquired if Mrs. Franklin would be joining us. Of course, I was on the point of sending you an invitation, but I thought it was curious that he was so anxious for your company.”

Cassandra blushed.

“Hmmm,” the lady continued. “Your former protests about the gentleman are not so persuasive now.”

“No, no! I do not know why he asked about me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” Cassandra’s eyes flitted away from the gaze of her friend and wandered to the piano where a copy of the Bach sonata sat open on the music stand with an inscription in Mr. Johnston’s hand. She’d memorized it. It read:
To Mrs. Franklin, your copy to practice and to enjoy. May your possession of it bring us both a great deal of musical pleasure. –Benedict Johnston.

“Well, then, forgive me for being nosy,” Lady Holcomb said. “I fear it is one of my faults.” She took a sip of tea.

“You are too strict with yourself, my dear Charlotte. We all love a little gossip. It is just that in this case, there is nothing to tell.”

It was raining on Saturday, so Cassandra ordered the carriage to take her to the cottage. When she arrived, Mr. Johnston was already there. He leapt up when she walked into the parlor and hurried over to take her hand. “Mrs. Franklin, how wonderful to see you again!”

“I am equally delighted,” she returned. She let her hand linger in his, then remembered her friend and looked over to see Lady Holcomb and Jane sitting on the sofa, staring at them both.

Before another word could be spoken, Jeffrey bounded into the room, wet and red-cheeked. “Hello, Mr. Johnston!”

The gentleman let Cassandra’s hand drop and reached out to shake Jeffrey’s. “Hello, my boy, how are you doing?”

“Jeffrey!” his mother scolded, “What do you mean coming in here all wet and muddy? For goodness sake, go remove those boots and change your clothes!”

“I have been out hunting with my brother, sir,” said the boy. “The manor house keeps an excellent stable and hounds. Upon my visit to you, I mentioned that you must join us one day and take advantage. I could not mean that more sincerely. We are going out tomorrow morning again, will you join us?”

Mr. Johnston glanced at Cassandra. They’d been scheduled to practice together in the morning. She gave the slightest nod of her head and smiled. He returned his gaze to Jeffrey. “I should like nothing better. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Fine! Does nine o’clock suit you?”

“Perfectly.”

“My brother’s bitch has recently whelped eight gorgeous pups. The finest hunting hounds anywhere. Perhaps he would be willing to make you a gift—”

“Jeffrey!” screeched Lady Holcomb. “Will you please stop haranguing Mr. Johnston about hounds and hunting and go change your clothes!”

“Yes, mother,” he grinned and bounded off.

“Goodness, what a troublesome boy,” she said looking after him, her voice full of affection.

Once Jeffrey was dry and suitably coifed, the group sat down to dinner with Cassandra seated next to him, and Jane next to Mr. Johnston, who was diagonal from Cassandra. Lady Holcomb presided at the head. Talk proceeded along the lady’s favorite topics of weather, neighbors, servants, roses, and gardening. Then, while Jeffrey and his mother returned to the subject of his impending naval career, Cassandra and Mr. Johnston fell into talk about music and composers. Jane was listening eagerly.

After dinner, Lady Holcomb suggested that Jane perform. The young woman leaned forward as she played without taking her eyes from her music book. The piece she’d chosen was not difficult by Cassandra’s standards, but she executed it well. The American glanced at Mr. Johnston seated near her on a rose-pink chair. He was absorbed in watching the performer, smiling and nodding.

Next, Lady Holcomb asked Cassandra to oblige them on the instrument. She declined at first, but was urged so much by the lady and by Mr. Johnston that she finally assented, settling on a few simple pieces from her repertoire.

 After the performance, the friends chatted until Cassandra excused herself. The weather was not improving, she noted, and she ought to get home. Mr. Johnston agreed, and so the party broke up in spite of the protests of the hostess. As he escorted Cassandra from the cottage door to her carriage under his umbrella, he had a chance to utter the words, “Tomorrow afternoon, then.” She tilted her head in agreement and accepted his hand for the coach step.

With June almost halfway over, Cassandra rode out often on horseback around the countryside, accompanied by Jimmy, the Merriweather’s great-nephew. He was a quiet boy of twelve years, not given to conversation, which suited Cassandra. On a particularly sunny Thursday, they had ridden to visit one of the farmers’ wives that Cassandra was beginning to get to know well. The visit had lasted longer than Cassandra had planned, and now she was rushing back for an afternoon practice session with Benedict (as she now called Mr. Johnston), pressing Daisy to a slow cantor. Jimmy came up behind her, holding his own reins with one hand and munching an apple with the other. They had passed Gatewick House on the way and she found herself wishing she could just stop off there for practice rather than having to meet Benedict each time at Sorrel Hall. She hopped off in front of her stables and turned Daisy over to Jimmy.

She hurried into the sitting room while pulling off her bonnet. Benedict was sitting coolly in a chair, absorbed in a copy of
Tom Jones
that she’d left on a table. He looked up at her, amused. “This is a fascinating bit of fiction you have been partaking of.”

Heat crept up over her neck and face. “Yes, it is not what I usually read, but I have been finding it…interesting.”

He stared at her, eyes twinkling, lips pressed tightly to hide a smile. “Interesting? Is that what they call such things in the states?”

“You are making fun of me!” She went to him and playfully snatched the book from his hands, flinging it onto the table.

“I would
never
do such a thing.”

“At any rate, I am sorry to be late.” She turned her back on him, hoping the pink in her face would recede, and went to lay her bonnet on the mantle.

“It is of no importance. I was receiving a welcome education at the hands of Mr. Fielding.”

She ignored his remark as she removed her gloves. “The ride back from MacIntosh Farm took longer than I imagined it would. It made me think that perhaps we could sometimes meet at Gatewick House to practice, rather than you always coming here.”

“Would the neighborhood not be scandalized?”

“To blazes with them, as Mrs. Merriweather says!” She immediately regretted the outburst.

He lifted an eyebrow. “I see.”

“I mean to say—”

“Oh no, quite perfectly said. And I agree with you. Meeting at Gatewick would suit me just fine.”

“Oh good,” she sighed with relief and moved toward the piano.

“Do you need a moment to refresh yourself before we begin?”

“No. I am most eager to start.” She plunked herself down on the piano stool and positioned the music to her liking.

Benedict removed his violin from its case, which had been resting on the piano, and began to tune it. Cassandra arranged his music for him on the flat piano lid. It was the Bach Violin Sonata in G, the same they had been working on since they started playing together.

After the violin was tuned, she looked up at him and their eyes locked. Benedict tapped his foot to set the pace; Cassandra looked down at her music, took a breath, and began to play. It was a piece that required great precision. The first movement flew at an incredible pace, and the concentration that was necessary from both musicians consumed them for the three and a half minutes. The second movement was slow and mournful, a brief interlude. Cassandra lifted her eyes from her music and found Benedict’s. She felt herself connect with his emotions: sad, longing, hopeful. She sensed the barriers of formality drop away and in doing so, felt suddenly vulnerable. Then the movement ended and the connection shifted. The lengthy and complex Allegro permitted the musicians to only glance up from their music occasionally, smile, nod, check their tempo, and continue. Cassandra felt her heartbeat keeping time, racing with the exuberance of the bond she felt with her companion. Then came the Adagio, slow, though not sad, almost romantic. Cassandra closed her eyes, confident of the music, and as she played imagined a dance from the 18th century—two lovers, eyes locked, hands barely touching, stepping in sync, communicating with only a blush, a downcast glance, a shy smile, a searching look. The dancing couple resolved into her and Benedict. She opened her eyes and shook the image away. It was time to concentrate on the final movement: joyous, exalting. There was an exchange of power, one minute the violin took lead, the next the piano. It was a chase in Cassandra’s mind, lovers racing through the woods, now hiding behind a tree, now jumping out to surprise, laughing, playful, hungry with desire. The movement culminated in a rousing finale. Benedict pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Cassandra stood, went to a table bearing a porcelain pitcher and glasses, and poured water for herself and Benedict. She took his glass to him and he drank without a word.

Finally he spoke. “Again?”

She nodded, took her seat, and the performance was repeated. This time they stopped and adjusted where necessary, playing over again one part or another until they were both satisfied. They then continued on to one of Benedict’s favorite works of Mozart’s, and when they’d played that piece three times through, Cassandra needed a break.

“Would you do me the honor of staying for dinner, Benedict? We shall have it early, I think. I had a late breakfast and seemed to have skipped lunch.”

“Are you going to be serving one of those famous salads of yours, or will it be an actual meal?”

“I thought you enjoyed my salads!”

“Oh, very much!”

She had got in the habit of sometimes having nothing midday but fresh lettuce from the garden, sprinkled with roasted chicken and sheep’s cheese, or whatever meats and vegetables were left over from the night before.

“Well, for your information,” said Cassandra, “I do not know what Anna has planned for the meal, but let us go and annoy her. She so loves when I intrude on her kitchen sanctuary.”

Benedict put his violin in its case, and the two of them tip-toed through the house, being careful to avoid Mrs. Merriweather or the other servants, until they arrived at the kitchen. Cassandra opened the door slightly and peaked in. Anna’s back was to them as she stirred something in a pot over the fire. Two roasted partridges sat cooling on the table in the center of the room and a variety of raw vegetables lay nearby. A ribbon of steam rose from a pot of boiled potatoes. They could hear the clank of dishware in the distance, which meant Mrs. Merriweather was probably organizing dishes in the dining room. Lydia sat in a chair snapping peas into a bowl in her lap. When she saw Cassandra’s face peering in through the door, she exclaimed, “Oh! Mrs. Franklin!” She leapt to her feet.

“Please, Lydia, sit down. Do not mind me.”

Anna turned to observe the trespasser. “Hello, Mrs. Franklin,” she said kindly. “What can I do for you?”

“May we come in? Mr. Johnston and I?”

“Oh yes, of course.” She quickly wiped her hands on a towel.

The two entered the kitchen. Benedict looked about with interest. “I perceive this is quite a privilege you have allowed us, Anna. My own cook never lets me set foot in my kitchen,” he said.

“Mrs. Franklin is always my honored guest,” the woman replied smiling. Her eyes nearly disappeared into her red cheeks as she did so. “I have never known a lady so interested in cooking and such.”

“Yes,” Cassandra replied. “In America we participate much more in the preparation of meals for our families.”

There was silence as the three others in the room stared at Cassandra.

“How odd,” Anna remarked.

“I suppose. Anyway, we did not come merely to harass you,” Cassandra continued. “I came to let you know that Mr. Johnston will be joining me for dinner and to ask you how soon we could eat. We are hungry.” She breathed the wonderful aroma wafting about.