“When I find you, my dear lady, I will . . . will . . .”
He would hold her tightly with her feet on the ground. And she would hate that. Perhaps not the holding part. But she wanted no one telling her what she could and could not do.
“Do not scold,” he told himself as he reached his cottage in midmorning and made himself a bit of bread and cold sausage. He ate standing in the cottage doorway, staring up at the sky. He could not simply trot across the fields in the middle of the day, not Whittaker Hall fields, and wait for her to land—if she landed neatly and not in a heap of blazing wreckage.
When he climbed the narrow stairs to his bedchamber, little more than a dormer beneath the roof beams so low he could not stand upright, he could not sleep for seeing Cassandra caught beneath flaming silk. A single dose drove memories of the celebrations through his mind, the pounding on his carriage, the taunts directed at him, the torch dropped on her gown.
He jerked upright, sweating despite the chill away from the fire. He had slept, and in his sleep he had dreamed a memory. In waking he began to worry on a notion that sent him downstairs to heat water for shaving and washing, with the lightest application of his own soap rather than a spy’s rough lye.
He donned a clean shirt, then, as the early autumn dusk began to fall, he set out through the meadow and woods to see Cassandra. After that, he would find Major Crawford and tell him about the knife too close to his back.
With the major staying at the Hall, not to mention Miss Irving, who had clung to him at the assembly like a limpet to a rock, Whittaker waited on the edge of the parkland until he saw everyone gather in the dining room for supper. Miss Irving clung to the arm of Roger Kent of all men, the major escorted both Mama and Miss Honore, and Cassandra tucked her hand into the crook of Philip Sorrells’s elbow. Her face positively glowed in the candlelight as she gazed up at the man, and he bent his head over hers like a bird of prey over a mouse. Or perhaps merely possessively. Either way, Whittaker clutched a branch so hard it snapped off in his hand with a crack like a pistol shot.
At once, a footman appeared at the dining room window and drew the curtains.
Whittaker left his hiding place and skulked around the perimeter of his own home, his own house and lands, until he reached the orangery. He looked first to ensure his cousins and their tutor were not occupying the one indulgence that Mama insisted Whittaker keep going, then cut through it to Cassandra’s sitting room. A maid might enter her bedchamber to turn down the bed, bring hot water, and refresh the fire, but she had no cause to be in the sitting room. Miss Honore might arrive first, but Whittaker could manage her. As for Cassandra? He had proven himself incapable of managing her at all. But they needed to talk. He needed a description of the man who had thrown the knife, if she had one. He needed to talk to her.
He needed her.
He waited beside the settee, ready to dive behind it if anyone else entered one of the ladies’ chambers. No one did, not even a maid, though an open periodical and Cassandra’s spectacles lay on a chair by the hearth as though she had been called away in haste.
Beyond the curtains, clouds gathered in the sky and rain began to patter against the windows. The fire died down to nothing more than winking red eyes on the hearth, and Whittaker left his post to shovel coal onto the sparks before they died altogether. He had just set the poker back in its stand when he heard her coming. No tap of her cane but deliberate footfalls, one slightly lagging behind the other. He pressed his hands against his thighs to stop himself from darting forward and flinging open the door. He could be mistaken. It might be a maid bearing a heavy load of water cans.
Cassandra opened the sitting room door first and headed straight to her chair. With a sigh that turned into a yawn, she slipped on her spectacles and began to settle on the chair.
“Cassandra?” He spoke her name in a murmur.
She gasped and spun around. The periodical sailed from her hand to land splayed open on the carpet. “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to talk to you.” He gripped the mantel to stop himself from closing the distance between them. “About this morning. But we cannot talk here. Miss Honore could come in.”
“And the maid and perhaps your mother and—go away. This is not proper.”
He held his tongue. The words “Your flying in a balloon is not proper either” burned on the tip of it, but he managed to hold them behind his teeth.
“Will the orangery be empty now?”
“Yes, the others are playing charades. I have had enough company for one evening and pled fatigue.”
“You look weary.”
Up close now, he saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the puckering of her brow—signs of fatigue for her. A white line encircled her mouth too.
He took a half step toward her. “Are you in pain?”
“A little. I took a bit of a tumble this morning, and I—” She pushed her palms toward him. “This is none of your concern. Go change your dress and join the party. I am quite certain Miss Irving wished for your attendance this evening . . . again. She is looking better than fine in diamonds tonight.”
But Cassandra wore his pearls.
“I have no interest in Miss Irving, Cassandra. We need to talk about this morning.”
“Ah, that.” She rose. “I suppose you are correct in that. I wanted to stay and see, but there was nowhere to land—if you chide me about flying, I will go back to the great hall and you can either follow me there and explain why you are looking like a ragamuffin, or—”
“Do not blackmail me. I have enough of that to manage without you adding to it.”
She stared at him. “What did you say?”
“Too much.” He sighed. “Not enough. But we cannot stay here. Besides being highly improper, Miss Honore or a maid may indeed arrive. Will you join me in the orangery?”
“I . . . may.”
“No one will come looking for you?” He narrowed his gaze. “Mr. Sorrells will not expect a fond good night?”
“Not at all. We are not courting . . . yet.” Her smile was tight, brittle.
Whittaker stopped before he said the man was not good enough for her. Despite the title that made him good enough for any lady in many people’s eyes, Whittaker knew he himself was likely not good enough for her.
“But I believe that is in the near future,” she continued. “We get on well together. He does not scold me about flying. On the contrary, he encourages me.” She snatched off her spectacles to show her big, dark eyes. “And he treats me like a lady.”
“Then he has heard of ladies who go up in balloons at dawn?” Whittaker could not stop himself from firing back this time. “I have not. And if you thought that was such ladylike behavior, you would go in the middle of the day and invite my mother and everyone else to watch the demonstration. Or perhaps I am mistaken and they all eschewed their morning ride in favor of watching your ascent?”
“That was unkind and unfair,” she said in an undertone. “I thought better of you.”
“No, you do not.” He took a step toward the door. “You are angry with me because I have not always treated you like a lady, but I have yet to hear one word of protest from you. You were always more than complicit.”
“And which one of us will bear the reminder of my shame forever?” Tears starred her lashes and she rubbed her right thigh.
His heart melted, leaving his chest tight and his own throat thick. “Both of us bear it if you can never again believe I love you.”
“I cannot. It is lust. It is money.” She wiped her eyes on a corner of her shawl. “It is anything but me as I am now.”
“Why do you think that after a year and a half of believing me?”
“I was wrong. I saw differently today.” She did not look at him.
He moved closer to her so he stood in her line of sight. “What about today? Just flying?”
“No.” She shook her head hard, dislodging several hairpins. “I saw something different. W
hen I tried to climb into the balloon, I fell and my skirt came up. Mr. Sorrells saw my scars and was not in the least repulsed, as you were with the mere mention of them.”
“Cassandra, I was not repulsed.”
“You turned pale. You cannot deny that.”
“I may have. I was horrified, sickened, saddened.” He dared touch his fingertips to her cheek. “And guilt does not go down well.”
“So guilty you walked away?”
He strode to the door. “I am going to the orangery. If I promise not to scold you about the ballooning, will you please come?”
She pressed the back of her hand to her lips and her gaze darted back and forth, frightened prey seeking a bolt-hole. He left her alone to find it if she willed. The corridor stood empty and quiet. Fifty feet down the passageway, around a corner, and through a thick door, the great hall did not let sound into this wing of the house.
Whittaker turned toward the orangery. Its steamy, fragrant warmth greeted him in silence. No tutor or little boys sat about. The gardener had gone to his quarters. In the farthest corner from either door, a rustic bench nestled beneath a lemon tree with tangy, aromatic fruit dangling above. They smelled like Cassandra. No sweet, flowery perfumes for her.
He settled on the bench and prepared to wait in vain. Their brief but sharp exchange in Cassandra’s sitting room did not bode well for this discussion taking place at all. If only they could talk as friends as they used to. Now their contact had turned to sparring, lashing out, as though they wanted to hurt one another.
“What am I doing wrong, Lord?” he cried aloud. “I want to protect her. Shelter her. Love her.” He speared his fingers through his unkempt hair. “I want—”
The door opened and closed. Uneven footfalls sounded on the slate floor. “Lord Whittaker?”
He flinched. If anything she said had been calculated to hurt him, her use of his title wounded him the most. It placed such distance between them, made them mere acquaintances, not the friends and almost lovers they had been.
And therein lay much of the problem—the latter, the too much closeness. She placed social distance between them to protect herself from a lack of physical distance. Their behavior had been wrong, and she thought she was being punished while he could go off and court and wed beautiful, rich females like Miss Irving.
“I want no one but you.”
If Cassandra heard him, she showed no indication of it. Her face was smooth, neutral in expression. She seated herself as far away from him as possible on the narrow bench and looked straight ahead. “When ballooning,” she began as though lecturing his cousins, “you are greatly subject to the direction of the wind. Various methods have been employed to change this, to give one some directional ability. Paddles much like those employed on a canoe have been used to some good effect, and so have sails that are more like parasols so they can easily be raised and lowered to catch the wind in varying directions. Our balloon uses the latter in addition to raising and lowering our elevation to catch differing wind currents.”
“But you were not employing those sails today.”
“No, we were floating on the breeze, as it was good and strong and not going toward the sea.”
Suppressing the urge to ask her about the “we” she referred to, Whittaker said, “I could see where that could be a hazard—going to the sea.”
“Yes, though a few have flown to and from Ireland. Balloons have also come across the English Channel from France.”
“Ah, an invasion fleet from the French via balloon. Do the Martello towers on the coast have cannons mounted on the roof to take down armed aeronauts?”
She glared at him. “You are mocking me.”
“No, indeed, I am not. If Bonaparte had enough balloons, he would be difficult to stop, as they can fly so high, far out of gun range.”
“They would encounter difficulties when coming down.”
“Fortunate for England. And I suppose he could carry only one or two men per basket with equipment along.”
“Yes, they are too small to hold more and remain aloft. Though if we are to make practical use of balloon travel, we must create one that is larger. We need to perfect the directional sails first, however. If the wind changes, one could find oneself over the water and then in Ireland or France before one could land, without intending to do so.”
“You seem to toss about this ‘we’ a great deal.” The words burst from Whittaker heedlessly, a little too sharply. “With whom were you flying?”
“Mr. Sorrells, of course.” She spoke too casually.
Whittaker attempted to match her tone. “So he knows someone tried to throw a knife into my back?”
“Yes, but he will say nothing to your mother. I made him promise.”
“Kind of you.” He took a deep breath to clear his next words of more sarcasm. “You two discussed me then?”
“Of course we did. You have had too many bad things happen to you in the past few weeks, and this morning you were in disguise and someone was again trying to harm you. We want to know why.”
“Why?”
“Because—” She twisted her fingers together on her lap.
He moved closer and took one of her hands between both of his. Despite the heat of the orangery, her fingers felt like she had soaked them in icy water.
“You still care about me at least a little?” he dared ask.
She looked down. “Of course I do. And I care about your mother. You are all she has left.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you do it?” Her head shot up. Light from the braziers blazed in her eyes. “Why are you taking foolish risks?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“But it has something to do with the mills, with the Luddites.”
“Yes, I’m quite certain now that they want me dead.”
23
Cassandra slowly drew her hand free of Whittaker’s to draw her shawl more tightly around her. She wished it was wool rather than the fashionable silk. Even in the steamy orangery, she needed more heat to stifle the chill racing through her.
“You have to stop whatever you are doing to anger them,” she said in a croaking voice. “Give the weavers whatever they like, sell the mills. Or—” Her eyes widened. “The disguise. Your absences. You are up to something dangerous.”
“I—Cassandra, I wish—” He sprang to his feet and paced half a dozen feet away from her, keeping his back to her. “I came to see you tonight to tell you that you need not worry about my suit any longer. I am needed elsewhere, and you—you—” He grasped a lemon tree branch, then released it, sending it swinging and swaying like a dancer, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You are best off encouraging Philip Sorrells to court you.”
“You are—you are finished with me?” Cassandra’s lips felt stiff, her middle tight, her eyes hot. “You finally agree with me that we can never have anything between us again?”
“No, I do not agree with you.” He faced her. “I am not finished with you, with us. I still love you as much as I ever did.” His voice held a hard edge that belied his words, but his eyes had taken on an odd sheen. “But I cannot risk your safety.” He sighed and shoved his hands through his hair. “And perhaps you are right. Perhaps God is saying we should not be together. I cannot say anymore what God wants for me. Once I thought it was the church and you for my wife. Then I inherited the title and you seemed so unhappy about that. And for the past six months, I have lost ground on everything I have set into my plans for Whittaker Hall, for my future.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “For us. So, yes, I think perhaps God has other plans we do not yet understand.”
“Then—then I should leave here.” She could not leave the orangery right then, let alone the house. Though motionless, she felt as though she swooped and swayed like the lemon tree branch. “Honore and I can join our parents and Beau in Scotland. I would have to leave behind my balloon, and—oh, Geoffrey, the flying was even better than I hoped. We rose up throu
gh the mist and then the sunshine broke through and it was so glorious and—” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “What am I saying?”
He smiled at her broadly enough for the dimple to show in his cheek. “You sound like my Cassandra. But the idea of rising through the clouds even to reach sunshine makes me feel a bit ill, to be honest. I am not fond of heights, you know.”
“No, I did not know.”
Somehow she should have. How, in a year and a half, could she not have known he did not like heights?
“Is that why you are so against my interest in aeronautics?”
“No, my dear, it is because balloons are dangerous and I think you have suffered enough.”
“But I saved your life today because of being in one.” She tried to smile.
His jaw hardened. “I know. And until I can extricate myself from men who want me dead, I cannot stop you.”
“You cannot stop me even if you were not—” She sounded like a petulant child and stopped, stared at him with her mouth open certainly unattractively wide for a moment before she managed to form coherent words. “What do you mean by extricate yourself? Is that an admission that you are up to something dangerous?”
“I’ve said too much.” He turned toward the outside door. “I must be on my way. Please tell no one I was here.”
“I think not, Geoffrey Giles.” Cassandra pulled herself to her feet and limped after him. “You cannot leave now. Not after what you told me. Or, to be more precise, did not tell me.”
“I cannot.” But he stood motionless with his hand on the door latch, gazing at their mingled reflections in the glass on the door. “All that should concern you is that you need not be bothered with me for perhaps as long as you stay here. I thought that would please you—me not being around to importune you further.” Though his tone had returned to its even keel, the dent in his right cheek—the dimple she had once loved to press her fingertip and her lips against—flashed in and out.
Laurie Alice Eakes - [Daughters of Bainbridge House 02] Page 21
