by Gayle Buck
“Of course. You wish to see Grandfather,” said Cassandra with a semblance of cool self-possession.
“I received the message from Weems but half an hour ago. Steeves confirms to me that Sir Marcus made a turnaround earlier today. If true, that is the swiftest recovery that he has ever made,” said Sir Thomas.
Cassandra felt almost weak from relief. She was not going to be unmasked and shamed after all. She struggled to maintain her facade of calm. “I spoke to Grandfather myself this morning,” said Cassandra. “He seemed quite cognizant. We are all quite encouraged.”
“I shall judge his condition for myself,” said Sir Thomas. “I know it will not make the least impression upon you if I were to request that you remain below-stairs while I see to my patient.”
“Not the least,” agreed Cassandra, glad for the clue as to how her sister would have handled the physician’s visit. “Shall we go upstairs, Sir Thomas? You will want to speak with Weems, also.”
Sir Thomas agreed, somewhat sardonically. He bowed her out of the sitting room, retrieving a black bag from the butler’s care, and escorted her upstairs to Sir Marcus’s apartments. Cassandra knocked on the massive oak door. It was opened immediately by Sir Marcus’s valet.
“Weems, here is Sir Thomas come to attend my grandfather,” said Cassandra.
“Sir Thomas, pray come in. This is a welcome visit,” said Weems, opening the door wider so that the physician and Cassandra could enter.
“I understand that Sir Marcus has made a remarkable turnaround, Weems,” said Sir Thomas, carrying his black bag toward the bed.
“Yes, sir, he has,” said Weems without expression.
As Cassandra passed the valet, he caught her eye and gave her a look of significance. She wondered what the valet was trying to convey.
Sir Thomas put down his bag on the bed. “Well, Sir Marcus? How do I find you this fine day?”
The invalid snorted, even as he held up one hand to be grasped in a handshake. “My old friend, to what do I owe this pleasure? I quite thought I had run you off for the last time.”
“I wish that you would,” retorted Sir Thomas, checking his patient’s pulse. “Have you been taking the potion that I prescribed for you?”
“Weems makes certain that I am poisoned with it every day at the same hour,” said Sir Marcus sourly.
“Good. I am glad to hear it,” said Sir Thomas, quite unperturbed. “It is doing you good, as anyone can see.”
“Is that you, Belle? Come around where I can see you. This blasted candlelight is too dim for me. I cannot see you properly,” commanded Sir Marcus.
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Cassandra, obediently drawing nearer.
“Does the light seem too dim? Weems, perhaps you should open the drapes,” said Sir Thomas, turning his head toward the valet with his brows raised. As the valet made as if to go to the windows, he held up his hand to motion him back. “Is that better, Sir Marcus?”
“Yes, yes! I can see much better now,” said Sir Marcus in a testy voice.
Cassandra looked at the physician and the valet in consternation. The valet had not drawn open the drapes at all. There had not been the least change in the light whatsoever. In any event, the several branches of candles had made the room quite brilliant. “Weems—
The valet shook his head at her, while Sir Thomas again threw up his hand, this time to silence anything Cassandra might say. “Well, you seem to be coming along splendidly, Sir Marcus. I am very pleased to find you in such fine stirrups. We will have you up and about quite soon, I daresay,” said Sir Thomas.
“Of course I shall be up and about,” said Sir Marcus. He put a hand up to his eyes and pressed his fingers briefly to them. “I am tired of a sudden. It is your fault, sir. I am not yet up to your poking and prodding.”
“Then you must rest. Weems, I leave you in charge. We will continue with the potion that I have prescribed for Sir Marcus. And now, my friend, I must leave you. I am hosting a house party, as you may have heard, and my duties do not allow me to stay away for long,” said Sir Thomas, closing his black bag.
“Away with you, then. Pray give my regards to Amanda,” said Sir Marcus. He stirred restlessly. His voice slurred a little. “Would that I could join your entertainments. It is deuced dull being confined to this bed.”
Sir Thomas said good-bye again and motioned for Cassandra and Weems to follow him out of the bedroom.
As the valet closed the connecting door between the bedroom and dressing room, Sir Thomas looked at both of them with a serious expression. “It is as I feared. When Steeves told me that Sir Marcus was doing so unexpectedly well, I suspected as much. We have the calm before the storm.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cassandra sharply.
Sir Thomas laid his hand on her arm for a short, comforting second. “My dear Belle, you must recognize the signs by now. I am sure that Weems understands.”
The valet nodded, his expression troubled. “Aye, it always happens just this way. The master comes to himself for a few hours, and then he succumbs to another, worse bout of the fever. When he complains about the light, it is a certain sign of it happening. It is as though his eyes forget how to see.”
“But you said that he had made a surprising turnaround, Weems,” said Cassandra quickly. “How can you say he is going to be worse now?”
“Belle, you must prepare yourself,” said Sir Thomas quietly. “And I greatly fear that this might be the worst struggle that Sir Marcus has yet faced, simply because the time between bouts is shortened. He has not had the usual time to gather his strength.”
“Are you trying to say that he might not live?” asked Cassandra. What she read in the physician’s expression answered her question. “No! I shall not believe it! You are wrong, Sir Thomas!” She turned quickly away, then whirled back about. “You will forgive me if I do not show you out. You know the way, of course.”
Sir Thomas bowed. He opened the dressing room door for her. Cassandra turned away from the physician again and quickly made her escape down the hall; however she was not yet far enough away that she could not hear the physician’s sad observation to the valet.
“Ah, Weems, it will be very hard on her when the time comes. Very hard, indeed.”
Cassandra fled without giving thought to where she was going. She was already well past Belle’s bedroom when she began thinking again. She wanted to be alone for a while to gather herself. Miss Bidwell would probably be in the sitting room at that time of day, so she did not want to go there. She kept walking until she found herself in a part of the manor that she did not recognize.
Cassandra opened a door and looked down the long length of a gallery. It was deserted, and she slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The gallery served a dual purpose. It connected the west wing of the manor to the east wing. On the one hand was a row of tall, stately lead-paned windows that looked out on the extensive lawns and gardens at the back of the manor. On the other hand the oak-paneled wall was covered with tapestries and countless portraits, both great and small, serving as a portrait gallery. The portraits captured Cassandra’s attention and suspended her distressed thoughts.
She went slowly down the gallery, her footsteps soft on the several carpets that covered the polished wooden floor. She discerned at once that the portraits were ancestral, and that was what made them of interest to her. Gentlemen in velvets and lace, in slashed doublets and hose, in somber coats and white cravats. Ladies in ringlets and frills, in high white wigs and panniers, in decorous gowns and ribbons. All stared back at Cassandra with very nearly the same painted expression, their eyes knowing and their expressions distant.
She had been reading in Sir Marcus’s family history about many of those same personages who looked down on her from out of the wooden frames. It seemed so very odd that their lives actually formed a part of her.
There were two portraits that she looked at for a very long time. One was of her uncle and her father when they had been young boys. T
hey had posed in a careless fashion, leaning against marble columns, their youthful figures radiating life. The other portrait was of her parents, with two infants in long white gowns held protectively between them. Their expressions were serene and confident.
“How much I wish that I had known you better,” she said quietly, lightly touching the painted canvas.
Her thoughts were somber. She had learned much about herself and her background, true. She had met her grandfather and had learned to care about him in a very short time. The advantages of the masquerade were plain. But she had not expected to experience such trepidation and pain because of it.
Cassandra leaned her head against the massive gilt frame that had captured her family in a stilled, perfect moment of time. “Oh, Grandfather.”
After a moment, she straightened and left the gallery. She did not look back. There was nothing there but memories, and most of those were not hers.
That evening at dinner there was scarcely a word spoken amongst the company. Mr. Raven had joined Cassandra and Miss Bidwell, and it would have been natural that the addition of a handsome gentleman to their number would have enlivened the conversation. However, they had all been informed by Weems only a few short hours after Sir Thomas’s departure that Sir Marcus had once more lapsed into fevered delirium. The depressing news had served to squelch the desire to exchange more than the polite civilities. The candlelight flickering against the gloom only enhanced the melancholy atmosphere.
Cassandra and Miss Bidwell ate quietly the tender meats and vegetables set before them and sipped sparingly at their wine. Mr. Raven’s appetite did not seem to be as adversely affected as that of his dinner companions. He made a fair dinner and afterward sent his compliments to the cook. Catching Cassandra’s gaze upon him, he smiled at her. There was a sympathetic expression in his own eyes. “You should try to eat a little more, Miss Weatherstone. Uncomfortable times are always faced better when one is well fed.”
“I have little appetite this evening, I fear,” said Cassandra simply.
Cassandra knew that she and Miss Bidwell must both be thinking the same thoughts about the ill gentleman upstairs, for every once in a while Miss Bidwell would make a comment that reflected her concern. Cassandra caught herself and Miss Bidwell glancing often toward the dining room door, as though willing someone to bring some word, whether of good or evil report. It would simply be a relief to be told something, anything at all.
As was the customary habit after dinner, the ladies retreated to the drawing room and left Mr. Raven to his after-dinner wine. However, he did not remain long, and after no more than a quarter hour, he joined them for coffee. The butler rolled the coffee urn into the drawing room promptly at the hour.
When Miss Bidwell inquired of Steeves if any word had been sent down by the valet regarding Sir Marcus’s status, the butler merely shook his head in a regretful fashion.
“At least Weems has not sent out the alarm,” remarked Miss Bidwell, giving a cup of coffee to Cassandra.
“Yes,” agreed Cassandra.
“Then we may assume that Sir Marcus is making a good fight of it,” said Mr. Raven, also accepting a cup from Miss Bidwell. He looked somberly from one to the other of the ladies. “You must understand, that is always a hopeful sign, for it is when a man gives up the fight that death usually comes. I have seen it any number of times during the war.”
“Thank you, Mr. Raven,” said Cassandra quietly. “I appreciate your attempt to reassure us.”
Miss Bidwell nodded. “Yes, indeed. Thank you, sir.”
The conversation lagged again, and the falling of a log in the fireplace sounded abnormally loud. Miss Bidwell bestirred herself to do something for the entertainment of their guest. “Mr. Raven, I believe that you will find the most recent newspapers there on the occasional table.”
“Thank you, Miss Bidwell,” said Mr. Raven. He went over to pick up the newspapers and returned to his chair. “I hope that you will forgive me if I glance at all the news. I have been gone so long from England that I fear I am grown quite ignorant of what is happening in our country.”
“Of course,” said Miss Bidwell, inclining her head.
Cassandra murmured her concurrence. She was actually relieved to be freed of the necessity of making conversation with Mr. Raven. She had been feeling some anxiety that he would wish to bring up old memories, which of course she couldn’t have responded to with any degree of lucidity, and that would have displayed her ignorance to Miss Bidwell, as well. She thought it a very good thing that Mr. Raven had taken up Miss Bidwell’s suggestion so readily. As for herself, she thought that she could endure the evening better if she were not put on the spot.
Cassandra had taken only a few token sips of the coffee before setting aside the cup. She noticed that Miss Bidwell had not finished her coffee, either, but had also set it aside in order to take up her tatting. Cassandra envied her companion the release that such creative activity provided and longed to be doing something with her hands, as well. But she had nothing to do and had to content herself with looking over the fashion plates in back issues of the Ladies’ Magazine.
She realized that Mr. Raven occasionally glanced in her direction, and she pretended not to notice, burying her nose a little deeper in the magazines as though she were riveted by what she was perusing.
It was scarcely nine of the clock when Miss Bidwell wound up her tatting in a decisive manner. “Well! I suspect that Belle and I would both be better for an early night’s rest. What do you think, my dear?”
“Yes, yes, I quite agree,” said Cassandra with some relief. It was nerve-racking to merely wait and listen to the clock tick. It seemed she had been turning the pages of the Ladies’ Magazine forever, and yet she could not recall one illustration out of the whole.
Miss Bidwell seemed to perceive her state of mind. “Never mind, Belle. You must know by now that Weems will inform us if anything does happen, one way or the other,” she said gently.
“Of course I do,” said Cassandra with more assurance than she felt. She dropped the magazine and rose to her feet. “I shall say good night, then, Biddy.”
“Good night, my dear,” said Miss Bidwell. “I shall just tidy up a bit here before I go up.”
Cassandra turned to Mr. Raven, who had risen when she stood up, the newspaper still in his hand. She extended her hand to him. “Mr. Raven, I shall say good night.”
Mr. Raven took her hand and lightly pressed her fingers, as though in reassurance. He smiled down into her eyes. “I shall look for you again in the morning, Miss Weatherstone.”
“Yes.”
Cassandra left the drawing room and went up the wide carpeted stairs, her fingers trailing along the burnished banister. Wall sconces lighted her way. She felt more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. It had been a thoroughly unnerving day, and it did not appear that the morrow would be any less harrowing, especially in light of Sir Marcus’s critical lapse.
She still hoped that the physician and Weems had been wrong in their gloomy pessimism. It would be horrible to have been able to see her grandfather so briefly, only to lose him altogether so swiftly to death. As for Belle, how ghastly it would be if she were to return to her place amidst such terrible circumstances.
As she prepared for bed, Cassandra prayed that things would not come to that. She would rather cut out her heart than be required to inform her sister that the old gentleman who had raised her had died in her absence.
There was a knock on the door. At once Cassandra leaped to the conclusion that a message concerning her grandfather was being brought to her, and she called out. Upon her hurried permission, the maid who had cleaned the grate earlier that day entered the bedroom.
“Oh, it is only you,” said Cassandra with relief. She discovered that she had clenched her fingers in the bedclothes, steeling herself against hearing bad news from Weems or Miss Bidwell. However, no such message would be entrusted to a lowly maid, and she was well aware of it.
Cassandra was glad to know the maid’s name at last. It would make it so much easier when she needed to address her. “Yes, Meg?”
“I have brought your chocolate, just as you like it, miss.”
“Chocolate!” Cassandra stared in consternation at the cup that the maid had set down on the bedside table. “I do not want it. Take it away!”
“But, miss, you always take a cup of hot chocolate before you retire,” said the maid, her expression surprised. “I’ve heard tell that you’ve done so since you were a child.”
“Have I?” Cassandra was shaken, but she quickly rallied. “Well, I don’t want it anymore. I have decided that it is too sweet before bed.”
The maid’s expression cleared. “Oh, is that it! Well, I can’t say as I blame you, miss.” She whisked the cup away and exited the bedroom.
Cassandra leaned back against the pillows. It had never occurred to her that her sister might have developed a habit of drinking something before bedtime. She herself never did. And chocolate, of all things! She had always been allergic to chocolate. She could scarcely take up her sister’s habit of imbibing a cup of chocolate every night. It would make her deathly ill.
However, it was certain that she could not suddenly and completely abandon such a well-known and ingrained habit, either. She would have to do something to conform to her sister’s known tastes.
Cassandra decided that she would drink milk each evening before she retired, if only to still any questions amongst the household. It was but for a short time, after all. And when Belle returned, she could tell the servants that she had changed her mind again and preferred chocolate after all.
Her dilemma solved, Cassandra reached over to blow out the candles. She slid under the warm coverlets and was asleep almost instantly.
* * *
Chapter 8
The next three days were anxious ones for Cassandra. She started to pen a short note to Belle to apprise her sister of Sir Marcus’s condition. It was in Cassandra’s mind that she could have the note delivered sealed to her sister. Almost at once, however, she crumpled up the unfinished sheet as she realized what degree of curiosity would be generated if one of Sir Thomas’s guests, and not Sir Thomas, was to receive a communication from the Hall.
