by Gayle Buck
Cassandra stood quite still, hit by several emotions at once. First and foremost was fear—fear that she was in a fair way to being unmasked and fear that her grandfather’s precarious health had taken a decided turn for the worst. “I wish that you had not given me such ill tidings, Steeves,” she said, her fingers clenching more tightly about the shaft of the riding whip.
“Of course not, Miss Belle.” The butler’s voice was compassionate. “However, we must all remember that Sir Marcus has always rallied before.”
“Yes.” Cassandra stood a moment longer, thinking over the dilemmas that had been thrust upon her. It was obviously not a good time to go up to visit with her grandfather, as she had hoped to do as soon as she had changed. There was also this matter of the letter that the butler had mentioned. She had no notion what she should do, but obviously the butler expected her to do something.
“This letter—do you know anything about its contents, Sleeves?” she asked cautiously. She was hoping that she would not be forced into the position of making herself mistress of her grandfather’s private correspondence. It was one thing for her sister to open their grandfather’s mail, but she felt it would be the height of indelicacy for her to do so. She had no right, after all. Surely, there was nothing so important that it could not wait until Sir Marcus had regained his senses.
“Not in so many words, miss. I am aware, however, that Sir Marcus had written a rather urgent communication to his man of business just before his last bout. I assume that this letter is in response. Sir Marcus will undoubtedly wish to know at once what his man of business has to say. However, if he does not recover as Weems anticipates, and it is an urgent matter, it may be something that you will need to address,” said Steeves.
“I see.” Cassandra sighed. Little as she wished the position or the responsibility, it was hers because it would have been Belle’s. She had to do what Belle would do, at least for the time being. Cassandra felt that the masquerade was a bit rockier than either she or her sister had anticipated. At least she had recalled that Weems was the name of her grandfather’s valet. She hoped that she would be able to recognize him from her sister’s description as easily. She fleetingly wondered how Belle was doing in her shoes. “Very well, Steeves. Bring the letter to me.”
“Very good, Miss Belle.”
Cassandra fled up the narrow backstairs to the second landing, where she hesitated long enough to carefully count doors. When she was confident of the right one, she turned the brass knob and stepped inside the room. A maid was cleaning the grate of ashes, and upon Cassandra’s entrance rose to dip a curtsy.
“I was just finishing, miss.”
“Oh ... that’s quite all right,” stammered Cassandra, a little taken aback. She hadn’t expected anyone to be in the bedroom, and she had bolted into it like a rabbit taking refuge in its hole. Now she felt unbelievably awkward. She didn’t know where to look or what to do. The maid had returned to her task and was cleaning up. Should she say something else? Cassandra jerked the whip through her gloved fingers, feeling the curls of panic again. What was the girl’s name?
She saw that the girl was glancing at her, and a moment later had again looked over her shoulder at her. Cassandra swallowed, trying to think of something, anything—
“Don’t worry so, miss. The master is a tough old bird. He’ll fight his way back. That’s what we all say below-stairs,” said the maid.
Cassandra was startled. “I beg your pardon?”
The maid flushed and cast down her eyes. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, miss. You just look so worried, is all.”
“Oh! That... that is quite all right. I ... I appreciate your concern.” Cassandra was hugely relieved. The maid had taken her ill-concealed trepidation to be worry over her grandfather. She was safe, after all. Then Cassandra felt guilty, because of course she should be thinking more about her grandfather than herself. All of a sudden she felt monstrously self-centered, and tears started to her eyes.
The maid dipped a curtsy, picked up her covered bucket and exited the bedroom. Cassandra made certain that the heavy oak-paneled door was locked, and then she sat on the canopied bed and had a good, quiet cry. She felt immensely better afterward. She got up and went to the washstand. Pouring cool water from the pitcher into the washbowl, she splashed her heated face. She had never thought herself as being of a nervous disposition before, but now Cassandra solemnly considered it. She had never simply broken down like that, over such trivial happenings, too. However, in a few moments she had recognized that she had never borne such stress before. She had lived such a sheltered life. All life-shaping decisions had been taken out of her hands. The most momentous decision that she had ever had to make on her own had been the choosing of the perfect shade of ribbons for her new bonnet.
Until this day, Cassandra amended. She had made the decision to rendezvous with her sister, resorting to subterfuges that were reprehensible. She had agreed to the momentous step of exchanging places with her twin. And she had actually carried it through, without wavering and with far more bravado than she had ever believed she possessed. Really, she was quite impressed with herself.
Feeling calmer, Cassandra finally took stock of her surroundings. She had been too preoccupied by the maid’s presence and her own turbulent thoughts to notice anything about her twin sister’s bedroom.
It was a small room of pleasing proportions and very well-furnished. The matching carved set of bed, wardrobe and vanity were from a previous decade that had since fallen out of fashion, but there was nothing drab or worn in any of the upholstery. The drapes at the windows were velvet and of the finest quality, as was the carpet.
The tall, lead-paned windows overlooked an expanse of lawn that would be pleasant to look out on in the spring, but was now browned and strewn with leaves from the trees bordering it.
Cassandra turned back from the windows. A generously built fire crackled quietly on the hearth, warming the room to a comfortable temperature. It didn’t appear that the chimney smoked, which was a good thing. She thought that during her short visit at the manor that she would feel at ease in her sister’s bedroom.
Cassandra took off the riding habit and found a dark blue merino day dress in the wardrobe. She was a little clumsy with the mother-of-pearl buttons, being unused to doing without a maid. She was fortunate to be able to reach all of the buttons, she thought; but then she concluded it was not all that surprising, after all. Belle had told Cassandra that she generally dressed herself since she did not have a lady’s maid. Naturally, her clothes would not be made with the more fashionable rows of tiny buttons down the back that required help from a lady’s maid. Cassandra wondered with a half smile what her sister felt about having a lady’s maid and being dressed. She found a gold-fringed Kashmere shawl and placed it over her shoulders as the final touch to her new outfit.
Cassandra looked at herself critically in the burnished mahogany cheval glass. She looked like herself, and yet did not. She puzzled over the odd notion that something was different about her. Then she realized that Belle’s day dress was not as sophisticated as what she was used to wearing. There were not the deep ruchings of lace at the bodice and hem. The cut of the gown was not as good, and it was slightly out of fashion, the skirt being longer than what she was used to. Only the Kashmere shawl could make claim to being fashionable.
Once again, Cassandra was brought face-to-face with the realization that her sister’s life was even more retiring than her own. Not for Belle a come-out that spring. Cassandra felt a surge of compassion for her sister. Belle would have spurned self-pity, of course. Cassandra felt confident enough of that. However, it really was little wonder that Belle had expressed a longing for a taste of society.
Cassandra turned to the bedroom door, feeling herself to be ready to go downstairs to the sitting room. However, coming face-to-face with the necessity of stepping outside the sanctuary of the bedroom to where her every word and every facial expression would be under observat
ion, her tiny balloon of self-confidence instantly deflated. She could be impressed with herself all she wished behind this sturdy door, but it was quite another thing to imagine the hurdles she might have to face on the other side of it. The initial excitement she had felt at the beginning of this masquerade had unequivocally faded.
All of a sudden, Cassandra recalled the gleam in her sister’s hazel eyes and Belle’s enthusiasm. She had discovered Belle to be no different in person than she had been in her letters. Her sister was warm, frank, confident and assured. Cassandra felt certain Belle would have pooh-poohed the feelings of inadequacy and trepidation that crashed over her. Belle would surely have laughed and swept all difficulties before her.
Cassandra squared her shoulders. “Very well, then. I shall be Belle. I shall be independent and self-reliant and brave.” As she again reached for the brass doorknob, she said under her breath, “Oh, God. help me!”
* * *
Chapter 3
Dominant in Cassandra’s mind as she made her way down the long hall was the terrible thought of the looming post. She knew it was ridiculous to feel such timorousness, but she could not help herself. Most terrifying of all was the letter from her grandfather’s man of business. Its contents would mean nothing to her, of course. She simply hated so much the necessity of opening that letter that she could scarcely bear it. It was so utterly foreign to her to rifle through someone else’s possessions.
But wasn’t she rifling through someone’s life? The thought was startling in its intensity. Her hand on the smooth banister, Cassandra faltered on the worn stairs. The masquerade was different, she told herself, resuming her descent. She and Belle had willingly chosen to trade identities for a few days. It was scarcely her fault that she was thrust into the position of making decisions that should rightfully only be made by her sister. She was her sister for all intents and purposes, and she might as well get over these misplaced scruples of hers as soon as possible. If Belle wished to call her on the carpet later for her brash behavior, then she could, and with Cassandra’s goodwill. In the meantime, she had to play the part that she had taken to the very best of her ability, even if that meant opening and reading the post and, yes, the all-important letter from Sir Marcus’s man of business.
On that bleak thought, Cassandra entered through an oak-paneled door to what she hoped was the sitting room. It was, she saw with relief. Her sister’s insistence that she repeat over and over the geography of the house was standing her in good stead. She quickly surveyed the well-appointed room, taking instant note of the fire burning on the stone hearth and the deep carpets. Her grandfather did not stint on creature comforts, she thought fleetingly, which gave her a good indication that Sir Marcus was not of a pecuniary nature. She looked for the silver salver holding the small stack of envelopes and discovered it sitting on the gleaming occasional table on the wall opposite. She started toward the table.
“Good morning, my dear. I trust that you enjoyed your ride.”
Cassandra started, assuming until that moment that she was alone in the room. She now saw that a slightly-built lady was seated on the settee, half concealed by a painted wooden screen that reflected back the heat from the fire. The elderly lady’s soft white hair was swept up under a delectable lace cap, and there were discreet touches of lace at the high throat and at the cuffs of her gown. The lady was tatting an intricate piece of lace, her thin, agile fingers handling the delicate thread and needles with skill.
Cassandra at once recognized the lady. She strove to respond in the manner she thought her sister might. “Yes, thank you, Biddy, I did. The wind was a trifle brisk, but I do not regard that.”
Miss Bidwell, who had been retained as Belle’s governess, and was now comfortably situated as Belle’s companion, gave a small chuckle. “No, I wager that you do not. I have known you practically all of your life, Belle, and I have never observed that you gave the snap of your fingers for any of those things that other young ladies might find daunting.”
Cassandra was pleased that she had struck just the right note. At last she had done something right. The knot in her stomach eased, and she breathed freer. Yet, the next instant she was thrown off balance again.
“My dear Belle, you appear pale today. Are you feeling quite the thing?” asked Miss Bidwell. Behind her spectacles, her keen blue gaze was fixed on Cassandra’s face.
Cassandra swallowed and managed to summon up a smile. “Am I? I can’t imagine why. I don’t feel in the least unwell.”
“No, perhaps not. But it is always difficult to maintain one’s optimism in the face of such anxiety as you have had thrust upon you these past few months,” said Miss Bidwell with a sympathetic note in her voice.
“Steeves told me when I came in that my grandfather was in a delirious state,” said Cassandra quietly. She thought the less she said the better it would be. She would not make any excuses for the paleness of her complexion; let the lady make what she might of it. As she had hoped, Miss Bidwell instantly made the connection that Cassandra had intended she would.
“I thought that might be it.” Miss Bidwell nodded. “Like many other high-strung young ladies, you allow your emotions to rule you too much, Belle. You mustn’t dread the worst. Sir Marcus is a very determined gentleman.”
“Yes, I know.” A smile played about Cassandra’s mouth as she recalled her sister’s assertion, and she repeated Belle’s words as her own. “He said that he had matters to set right before he allowed death to claim him. I must believe that.”
“That sounds much more like you, dear,” said Miss Bidwell.
It crossed Cassandra’s mind that if her grandfather had not been ill, this masquerade would quite probably have been impossible. She was simply not an actress. As it was, however, her nervousness and her mistakes were all being put down to anxiety over her grandfather’s physical state. She was fortunate in that much, at least.
Cassandra only wished that Sir Marcus was well enough for her to see him. That was the whole point of this outrageous endeavor, after all. It was extremely unfortunate that her grandfather had taken a turn for the worst, in more ways than one. She and Belle had agreed to exchange places for just a few days. At the end of that time, they planned to meet again at the deserted crofter’s cottage and resume their own identities. Cassandra fervently hoped that her grandfather would recover in time for her to get to know him a little before she had to leave the Hall.
“I do wish you would stop fidgeting all over the room, my dear,” said Miss Bidwell, glancing up at her young companion.
Cassandra felt herself color. “I am sorry, Biddy. I didn’t realize that was what I was doing.” She set down the porcelain figurine that she had been unconsciously turning in her hands.
Miss Bidwell cocked her head to one side, the slightest frown on her face. “There is something different about you today. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
Cassandra’s heart jumped. She tried to keep her expression bland. “Is there? I can’t imagine what.” Nervously, she reached up to smooth back a rebellious lock.
“That is what it is! Your hair. You have done your hair differently.”
Miss Bidwell looked appraisingly at her, while Cassandra waited with dread for the verdict. It was ghastly that she and Belle had been so careless as not to change something so simple. Of course their hair had been dressed differently. Cassandra had come from the ministrations of a lady’s maid, who had arranged her hair in a simple but elegant style at the back of her neck. Belle’s hair, Cassandra recalled, had been pulled back and loosely tied with a ribbon.
“It suits you very well, Belle. You appear more grown up than is your wont,” said Miss Bidwell, almost with surprise.
“I am eighteen, after all,” said Cassandra. She was almost fainting with relief. She at once made the decision to brush out her hair as soon as possible and redo it in her sister’s style.
“So you are. Belle, I know that you have a great deal on your mind. Why don’t you read the p
ost? It might divert you. Perhaps there is a letter from your sister, Cassandra,” said Miss Bidwell, her gaze once more dropping to her handiwork.
Cassandra gave a slight start, quickly staring at the lady’s face to see if Miss Bidwell was voicing coy suspicions about her. However, there was nothing in Miss Bidwell’s placid expression to lead Cassandra to believe that the lady was hinting at anything. “Yes, Steeves told me that he would bring it in here.”
Miss Bidwell looked up from her tatting, the light glinting on her spectacles. There was an element of surprise in her eyes. “Steeves always brings the post into the sitting room.”
“He made particular mention of a letter from my grandfather’s man of business,” said Cassandra, desperately attempting to retrieve her mistake. She went over to the occasional table to pick up the mail, enabling her to turn her back so that Miss Bidwell could not see her expression. Cassandra knew that her renewed anxiety must show in her facial expression and her eyes.
“Oh, I see.” Miss Bidwell contemplated the information given her. “I suppose it has something to do with that letter that Sir Marcus was so insistent be sent. You shall have to open it, of course.”
Cassandra turned, having found the correspondence in question and holding it doubtfully in her hand. “Do you think that I should? It is Grandfather’s business, after all.”
“I do admire your scruples, my dear. However, in this instance I think we may dispense with them just a little, don’t you think? With Sir Marcus incapacitated as he is, and knowing that he was very anxious for this business of his to be attended to with the utmost speed, I think it is imperative that you make yourself mistress of the contents of that letter.” Miss Bidwell seemed to hesitate, before she added quietly, “Belle, you may be required to make some decision on Sir Marcus’s behalf.”
“That is precisely the reason that I am so reluctant to open it,” said Cassandra, almost to herself, and frowning down at the envelope she held.
