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“Indeed she is,” said Mrs. Cathcart, before Cassandra had a chance to answer. Cassandra had not the slightest interest in history, was, in fact, woefully ignorant upon the subject, although she had heard tell of the Civil War in the century before last, when the king fought Parliament and lost his head as a consequence.
Mr. Wexford was not at all ignorant of the war. In fact he was appallingly well-informed, and a stream of information, from the death of Strafford to the defeat of Charles II at Worcester—“with his famous flight and hiding up an oak tree, you will know the story, Miss Darcy.” He also knew every detail of the battle that had been fought on that very spot, and he expounded with enthusiasm about the positioning of the Roundhead forces, the charge that Prince Rupert had made, and the exact regiments that were involved.
Cassandra was too polite not to listen, but her eyes slid round to where Eyre was talking to Miss Lawson, what could he find to talk about in that animated way to her? She wished she might be talking to him, instead of being obliged to endure a history lesson from Mr. Wexford. Fortunately, their lunch was now spread out beneath the trees, and she could be spared any more facts and figures about what seemed to have been an interminable war.
Mrs. Cathcart took pains to make sure that Mr. Eyre was not seated anywhere near Cassandra; her sharp eyes had noticed the effect he was having upon Miss Lawson, and even Miss Quail, while apparently listening to Mr. Northcott imparting some tedious anecdotes of the Civil War, had been giving the young man some covert glances.
Cassandra found herself sitting next to Miss Lawson, who was shy, and who turned big, anxious eyes towards Cassandra when she was addressed by her. But she grew more at ease, finding that Miss Darcy wasn’t as toplofty and disagreeable as Miss Quail had said, and confided to her, as they ate a delicate honey ham pasty, that her mama had said that Miss Darcy was to make a match of it with Mr. Wexford, and was that indeed so?
Cassandra nearly choked on her food. “Why,” she said in a much louder voice than she had intended, then, more quietly, “that is all nonsense, I have only met the man today, and I have no intention of marrying anyone just at present.”
Colour flared into Miss Lawson’s cheeks. “Oh, I am sorry, then, to have spoken as I did. I must have misunderstood. So many girls come to Bath looking for husbands, you know, and they say Mr. Wexford is a very good catch, for he is quite rich. Only, he’s rather old, don’t you think?”
“In his thirties, I would imagine,” Cassandra said, having recovered her calm. “Too old for one of your years, perhaps, or indeed for me, but he will do very well for some young woman of six- or seven-and-twenty who may be looking out for a husband.”
“La, would he marry such an old maid?” said Miss Lawson, looking shocked. “My mama says I’m too young to be thinking of a husband, for I am but seventeen, but my best friend from school was married at seventeen, indeed on her seventeenth birthday, do not you think that odd?”
Lunch was over, and a walk was agreed upon, a gentle walk of a mile or two along the ridge would offer them a most astonishing view. “And I can show you where the Royalist army camped the night before the battle,” Mr. Wexford said to Cassandra.
Quite how it happened, Cassandra was never sure, but as the group walked along the lane, Mr. Wexford fell into deep conversation with Mrs. Cathcart, Mrs. Quail kept up with them, wanting to hear what they were saying, Mrs. Lawson, no great walker, fell behind, and then said she would rest on the bank, and await their return; that her daughter would stay with her—at which what was almost a pout might be seen on Miss Lawson’s pretty face—and so it was that Cassandra found herself walking beside the gallant lieutenant.
How different his conversation was from that of any man she had known. He was witty and droll, and told stories about naval life that were about other men, not about himself. He drew her out, but in a courteous way, that could give no offence, asked her about her drawing—“For when I saw you on Sunday, you were sketching, were not you?”—and said that he had met a Miss Darcy, a Miss Isabel Darcy, in London; was she a relation? An entrancing creature,” he said, “and I am sure I heard that she was engaged to a Mr. Roper.”
“Nothing came of that,” Cassandra said. “There never was anything in it. She has lately been staying with us. Are you making a long stay in Bath, Mr. Eyre?”
“I wasn’t,” he said at once, “but I find that there are one or two things that may keep me in the area for a little while yet.”
Chapter Nine (#ulink_54979b2e-fc94-5572-aa0e-3bed4a8064f0)
Cassandra was in love. It had come to her as a bolt from the blue, but by the end of the picnic, she was aware that she had never taken such pleasure in any man’s company as she did in Mr. Eyre’s. For her, it was a new world, as though the sun had suddenly come out from behind dark clouds, illuminating everything; her life was at once full of joy, combined with a heightened awareness of the world about her. Birdsong sounded sweeter than it ever had, the green of the trees was more intense than she had ever seen it, and people around her looked to be as glad to be alive as she was.
“Is it not a wonderful day?” she said to Petifer when her maid drew back the curtains around her bed and opened the shutters.
Petifer took a sceptical glance out of the window at a blustery Bath day, and sniffed. She knew quite well what was up with her mistress, and she was much alarmed—only what could she do about it? Caution Miss Darcy? As well caution the wind or the waves as try to bring someone down to earth who felt the way Cassandra did. Drat that man for being in Bath, and for being so handsome and charming and so obviously delighted by her mistress.
It was a strange, secretive courtship. Cassandra quickly learned to be inventive and, she thought ruefully, two-faced. Her former self would have deplored such behaviour in anyone else, and, looking back to her days at Rosings, she would have told anyone who suggested that she might ever behave in such a way, that it was impossible, preposterous.
And to do it all for a man, she, who had thought it possible, nay, likely that she would never marry, who scorned her friends as they laid aside their childish habits of girlhood, their Amazon ways, to pretty themselves and simper, and regard every single man as a potential husband.
At least that she had never done. If she’d been on the lookout for a husband, Mr. Wexford, who was clearly very taken with her, would have been the better choice, in any worldly sense.
That was how she’d been able to deceive the wily, watchful Mrs. Cathcart. Mr. Wexford liked Cassandra, sought out her company, suggested to Mrs. Cathcart that her niece might attend a ball or a supper party, or an outing of pleasure or a picnic, or a walk among ruins, or along shady paths or up hills to gaze out at the surrounding countryside. All good schemes for dalliance, only, where Mr. Wexford went, there, too, went his good friend Mr. Eyre. Mr. Wexford was uncommonly proud of James Eyre, openly envious of his naval career, looking up to him as a much cleverer man than he was, and admiring his ready wit and savoir faire.
Mrs. Quail uttered words of warning; she heard from Miss Quail how often Cassandra and Eyre wandered off, while Mr. Wexford happily stayed with the rest of the party, talking about his everlasting battles and campaigns. So much so that Miss Quail was moved to protest: Why did he not become a soldier himself? Then he could fight battles and skirmishes and engagements on his own account, and spare them the details of all that long-ago warfare.
This rebellious outburst astonished her mother, who said reprovingly that she was picking up Miss Darcy’s outspoken ways, and she wanted to hear no more such comments about Mr. Wexford, who was as civil, agreeable a man as ever lived. But if what her daughter said was true, that Mr. Eyre was intent on cutting out his friend with Cassandra, then Mrs. Cathcart must be told.
“I would not do so,” said Miss Quail, smarting under her mother’s reproof. “Mrs. Cathcart will see what she wants to see, and Mr. Wexford is monstrous taken with Miss Darcy, although I cannot see what there is about her to make the gentlemen admire her. She flirts with Mr. Eyre, but she will marry Mr. Wexford.”
Her words gave her mama pause for thought, and she held her tongue, watched Cassandra with a hawkish eye, and, thanks to Cassandra’s well-bred manners and natural reserve, concluded that it was no more than flirtation. Not that she would care to see any daughter of hers carrying on in such a way.
She would have been shaken if she had seen Mr. Eyre and Miss Darcy slip away while on an outing to the Sydney Gardens, on a summer evening when scent of the flowers hung heavy in the air, and fireworks distracted everyone’s attention; only Miss Quail noticed the brightness of Cassandra’s eyes as she looked about her and then removed herself unobtrusively from their company.
How almost delirious with happiness Cassandra had been, when she found herself in James’s arms, to meet his lips with hers, to lose herself in a passionate embrace and give herself up to those sensations which were so wholly new to her. And the happiness lasted when they parted, and she arrived back to join the others, a little breathless, her eyes aglow, her heart pounding. That night she hardly slept, as the intense joy of knowing that she loved and was loved was beyond anything she had ever known.
And two nights later, Mrs. Cathcart had found her locked in a passionate embrace in the best parlour. Wrapped up in one another, whispering words of love and ardour when their lips reluctantly parted, they had not heard the approaching footsteps, the door handle turning. By the time they sprang apart, it was too late, a furious Mrs. Cathcart was in the room, a torrent of abuse pouring out of her; Cassandra was no better than a whore, fit to be whipped at the cart’s end, a drab, fie on her for bringing her sluttish ways into a respectable household, while James, horrified, sidled to the door and escaped.
Mrs. Cathcart’s remedy for such wickedness was simple. She locked Cassandra in her room, forbade all the servants to speak to her, and took her a tray of bread and water morning and evening. She had written to her brother Partington, how angry he and Mrs. Partington would be to hear of this further disgrace, Cassandra was beyond redemption, if she were her stepfather, she would whip her and then have her shut up in an asylum, for she must be mad to behave in such a way.
Cassandra, hungry, defiant, and contemptuous of Mrs. Cathcart’s melodramatic outbursts, dropped a note out of the window into Petifer’s hands. Mrs. Cathcart had plans to send her off the next day by coach to Rosings, she wrote. James’s reply, bringing the offer of his hand and a dash to Gretna Green, was slipped under her door after her hostess had retired to bed.
Marriage! Did she want to be married? To be in love was intoxicating, but could it last a lifetime? a voice of caution in her head asked her. How right Emily had been, when she’d predicted that Cassandra would one day meet a man who would mean more to her than her art or anything else in her life; surely that man was James?
Chapter Ten (#ulink_a55c71d1-dcdd-560d-aad7-cc3c2b4a4000)
Now here she was in London, alone, with little money and no friends or acquaintances to ask for help. She must stop dwelling on what was past, even though her heart still ached from her betrayal by James Eyre, from the knowledge that her lover’s affection for her was not equal to hers for him, that prudence had ruled his emotions as it had not hers.
It was time to take stock of her situation and start planning her future. Life must go on. First, she decided, she should return to her lodgings, and collect her few belongings before moving elsewhere. That in itself seemed an insuperable problem, she had not the least idea how to go about finding respectable new lodgings.
She looked at the window on the other side of the doorway into the shop. There were prints and two paintings on display; looking at a water-colour of a collection of flowers, she told herself that she could do very much better than that, and if such paintings might be sold, then why not hers?
Cheered up by this, she opened the shop door and went inside, a bell proclaiming her arrival to the wrinkle-faced man who came bustling into the shop from an inner room. The air smelt of linseed oil and varnish, and gave Cassandra comfort. This was a familiar world, and one where she might find a truer base for happiness—if not survival.
She bid the shopkeeper good day, in her pleasant, well-bred voice. He glanced behind her, expecting, Cassandra knew, to see an accompanying maid or a companion of some kind.
She would begin with a purchase.
Mr. Rudge had the new blocks of water-colour, and she had to restrain her impulse to buy a boxful; she must take care of her money now. Then a chance mention of Herr Winter brought a smile and a gleam to the faded blue eyes of the shopkeeper. Herr Winter had long been a customer, a friend, he would venture to say, such a shame that he had had to leave London.
Of course, for any acquaintance of his, a pupil, did she say…? Indeed, then it was a privilege to help, and Cassandra found that the prices were suddenly less than had originally been quoted.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asked, as he made a neat brown paper parcel of her small purchases.
She hesitated. “Perhaps. I am to make a little stay in London, and my friends, with whom I was to stay, are longer out of town than they had planned,” she said, improvising rapidly. Did he know of some respectable woman who let out rooms?
He pursed his lips, and shook his head from side to side. “Not that would be suitable for a lady of quality,” he said regretfully.
It was an impasse, for she could hardly claim not to be what she so obviously was.
The bell tinkled, and a middle-aged woman, of smart appearance, dressed in bombazine, came into the shop. Cassandra stood to one side, hoping to have a further word with the proprietor when he had finished with this new arrival, who seemed to be an honoured customer. The design for a screen was ready, she would wish to see it and approve before any more work was done on the panels. He hurried into the back, and reappeared with several sheets of paper intricately worked with a pattern of peacocks and urns.
An unbalanced design, Cassandra said to herself, but she said nothing.
Mrs. Nettleton—for that was how Mr. Rudge addressed her—studied and questioned and approved. Then she turned and smiled at Cassandra.
“I am sorry to have interrupted your business here; I had thought you were finished.”
Her voice was ladylike, and her smile was pleasant but not over-familiar.
“No, pray do not worry. I have made my purchases, I was lingering to ask Mr. Rudge about another matter.”
“A pupil of Herr Winter’s,” Mr. Rudge told Mrs. Nettleton. “I mention it, for you bought one of his paintings some years ago, a fine work, on a mythological theme, if I remember correctly. Miss”—he looked enquiringly at Cassandra—
“Kent,” she said quickly.
“—is but recently come to town, but finds herself at a stand for lodgings, her friends not having returned as soon as they were expected. Your best course,” he said, addressing Cassandra, “will be to put up at one of the hotels.”
Mrs. Nettleton nodded her approval, but the look she gave Cassandra was shrewd and appraising.
“Do you live far from London?”
More invention came into Cassandra’s head. “I have come from Bath, where I resided until recently. I am a widow, my husband was wounded at Waterloo, and was never well again, and he died last year. From his wounds. My friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fortescue, dwell in Wimpole Street.” Cassandra had little idea of where Wimpole Street was, but had heard Emily describe it as the kind of place where maiden aunts with no great social position or money often chose to live.
Mrs. Nettleton looked faintly surprised. “Wimpole Street? Indeed. I would have thought…but that is no matter. Are there no servants at home?”
“The knocker is off the door. They have been away in Scotland, but were due to return last week; I can only conclude they have been delayed. I hope no mishap can have befallen them.”
“Is your stay in London to be of some while?” Mrs. Nettleton asked.
Cassandra blushed. “I intend to establish myself here, I am well-taught as an artist, and I hope that I may find employment instructing young ladies”—she turned with a smile to Mr. Rudge—“as Herr Winter did me.”
“Have you no family in London, no other acquaintance?” Mrs. Nettleton said.
“I fear not. My parents are dead, I have no brothers or sisters.” Cassandra felt a momentary qualm, consigning her mama to the grave, but she didn’t want Mr. Rudge to pursue the subject of her family; it was best to keep away from the county of Kent.
Mrs. Nettleton searched in her reticule and produced a card, which she handed to Cassandra. It was engraved in an elegant copperplate, and gave her address as 7 St. James’s Square.
“It so happens that I have a room which I let out from time to time, only to ladies of good family, and generally to persons I know. My house is large, and I am glad of the company that a lodger provides. It is a comfortable apartment, on the second floor.”
Cassandra stared at the card and then looked up at Mrs. Nettleton. Could her problem be solved in this fortuitous way?
“You know nothing about me,” she said.
“Mr. Rudge vouches for your master, at least, and I am sure Herr Winter would instruct none but those who came from the best houses, is that not so, Mr. Rudge?”
“Indeed, a man of Herr Winter’s standing and reputation might pick and choose where he chose to teach, and I did hear that he has pupils at several great houses in his neighbourhood…” Mr. Rudge looked questioningly at Cassandra.
“That is so,” said Cassandra. “But he also instructs young people from more modest establishments, such as myself. My late papa was a clergyman.”
Why had she not thought to say that sooner? It was not so far from the truth as some of her wicked lies, for was not her stepfather, although still alive, an ordained clergyman?
The clerical touch worked magic. Mrs. Nettleton and Mr. Rudge beamed approval. She was placed, she was respectable.
“Pray step round at any time to suit you,” said Mrs. Nettleton. “You have my direction. Where are you staying at present?”
“With my old nurse, in Parker Street, but it is not precisely convenient for her…”
“And not suitable for a young lady such as yourself,” said Mrs. Nettleton firmly. “I have a numerous acquaintance; perhaps it will be possible for me to find some houses with daughters in need of a drawing teacher.”
“I will keep my ears open, also,” promised Mr. Rudge, “although it is an overcrowded profession, especially here in London. However, a pupil of Herr Winter’s would come highly recommended, I feel sure.”
The two women left the shop together, shaking hands as they stood outside on the pavement.
“I hope to see you soon, my dear Mrs. Kent,” said Mrs. Nettleton. “Shall we say tomorrow morning?”
Cassandra walked back to Covent Garden with a lighter heart than she had had for many days. Even the hostility of Mrs. Dodd, who was not her old nurse at all, but James Eyre’s, could not upset her that evening. Mrs. Dodd thoroughly disapproved of her, for she had a great fondness for James, as was only natural, and knew that he and Cassandra had had a violent quarrel. Cassandra suspected that only the knowledge that Mr. Eyre would expect to find Cassandra there when he came back prevented Mrs. Dodd from tossing her and her possessions out into the street. She was grateful for that small mercy, but nonetheless, she must be gone before James did return. He was in Ireland, to visit a sick godfather, from whom he had expectations; he had said he would be away less than a week, and that time was nearly up.
She had arrived at Parker Street in Covent Garden in quite a different mood to that of the present. Their departure from Bath had been sudden and thrilling, slipping out from Laura Place at midnight, the door left on the latch for her by a reluctant Petifer, with the few things she could bring with her hastily made into a bundle.
She had left a note for Mrs. Cathcart, saying that she was bound for Gretna Green; this she had laid on her own pillow, knowing that by the time it was discovered in the morning, she and James would be many miles on their way northwards.
It was not until the first raptures of their journey had abated, that Cassandra had discovered they were not heading for the border.
“On reflection, my love,” James had said, “I came to the conclusion that we are better off in London. It will be harder for them to trace or follow us, you know, and after all we do not wish to be hauled back like a pair of school runaways. In London, we may make our plans without any fear of interference.”
Cassandra would willingly have accepted a suggestion that they set off for the steppes or the wilds of Turkestan, if that had been what James wanted. He was older than she was, and much more experienced in the ways of the world. And the last thing she wanted was to find Mrs. Cathcart banging on an inn door on the road to Scotland, summoning her for retribution and separating her from James.
She asked whether they could be married so easily in London, since she was underage, but he smiled at her tenderly, and said that anything could be arranged in London, she was to leave it all to him. It might take a little time to arrange, but as long as they were together, what did a few days matter?
“We had best tell Mrs. Dodd that we are married, however,” he said. “I do not suppose you have a ring you could wear, no, of course not. We must stop and purchase one, only I am very short of funds just at present. It’s a dashed nuisance.”
“I have my mother’s wedding ring,” Cassandra said. “Will Mrs. Dodd believe that you are married, with no announcement of an engagement or a wedding?”
“She is used to my impulsive ways, and when she meets you, she will love you as much as I do, and not ask any awkward questions, you need have no fears on that score.”
Mrs. Dodd did not seem exactly enthusiastic over their arrival, but she was obviously fond of James, if suspicious of Cassandra. “You’re in a scrape, James, and too old for me to get you out of it as I used to when you were a little boy. You may have the best bedchamber, you and the new Mrs. Eyre.”
Even if there was a hint of sarcasm in Mrs. Dodd’s voice, it warmed Cassandra’s heart to be called Mrs. Eyre. And an idyllic night of love with her beloved James made her care even less when and how their marriage was to take place. She was living for the moment, and these moments were filled with rapture and happiness. In the daytime, they strolled arm in arm about London, exploring and laughing together. He told her tales of his nautical life, and she hung on his every word. She gave him all her money, although it seemed sadly depleted; she must have spent more in Bath than she had thought.
“It’s only a temporary difficulty,” James said. “I shall come back from Ireland with full pockets, and this will last us meanwhile.”
Cassandra could not bear to be parted from him. “Must you go to Ireland?”
“I wouldn’t leave you dear heart, not for an hour, if it were not necessary. My godfather has not been well for some years, and he looks forward to my visits, I cannot disappoint him. And you know, he has named me in his will, I do not want to incur his displeasure. I shall leave on Tuesday, and be back by that day se’ennight, if I travel fast.”
What a fool she had been, how wrapped up in her love and in James! Cassandra looked about the best bedchamber with an aching sadness; how could she imagine that her dream could shatter in such a way?
“Shall we be married when you return from Ireland?” she had asked him.
“I have it all in hand, do not concern yourself about it.” He gave her a hearty kiss. “I am going to leave you in here for an hour, no more, for I have some business to conduct, and Mrs. Dodd has given me the use of her parlour. I beg you will not stir from here, do not come downstairs, for I would not have you seen.”
“Is this business with someone I know?” she asked in a teasing voice.
“No, why should it be? Of course not. What put such an idea in your head?”
“Do not snap at me, it was a remark, I do not mean to meddle in your private affairs.”
“My affairs are your affairs, but in matters of business, you know, one deals face-to-face, and does better with no distractions.” Another kiss, and he was gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.
