Cassandra's Deception

by Gayle Buck

  “Yes, I shall still have to talk to Philip,” said Cassandra, accepting it finally. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “I know that I shan’t enjoy it.”

  “Only an idiot would think otherwise,” said Belle roundly. She took a turn about the stable. “I don’t know what can be done about the other, Cassandra. About Philip’s marriage, I mean.”

  “Oh, what’s to be done except to wait? But at least, if Philip isn’t completely put off by my confession, he and I can wait together,” said Cassandra.

  “What about coming-out for the Season? What about Aunt Margaret’s plans for you?” asked Belle curiously, turning to stare intently at her sister.

  Cassandra shook her head. She wrung her hands in an unconscious gesture of indecision. “I don’t know. I can’t say just now.”

  “Cassandra, how long are you willing to wait?” asked Belle intently. “I’ve heard that it sometimes takes years for an appeal to be heard in Rome.”

  Cassandra looked at her sister. She didn’t have an answer. Her heart urged her to say that she would wait forever, if that was what it took. Her head said otherwise. It wasn’t practical to wait forever. She could decline into an old maid and be a demand on her uncle’s bounty for the remainder of her life.

  However, Cassandra could not imagine wedding anyone else but Philip Raven. She could not go with logic, not when her heart hurt at the very thought of losing him. “I want Philip,” she whispered.

  “Oh, Cassandra! I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry.”

  Belle swooped over to Cassandra and hugged her. There were tears in her own eyes. “I ... I’ll write the note explaining everything and send it over to the Hall as soon as I may. I hope that will make all right with Philip.”

  “What about our grandfather? Do you wish me to say anything to him?” asked Cassandra, dashing her hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears. The pounding in her head was becoming vicious.

  Belle shook her head. “No, not just yet. We can’t trade places again until the house party is over, which will be in another fortnight. I shall meet you here then.”

  “Yes.”

  Belle turned quickly away and went to her mount.

  Cassandra mutely watched her sister untie the reins. There seemed to be nothing more to be said.

  Before leading the chestnut out into the sheeting gray rain, Belle looked back. “Cassandra, it will be all right. You’ll see. Everything will work out just as it is supposed to, I promise.”

  Cassandra nodded, a smile wavering over her lips. She watched her sister disappear into the weather. Then she gathered the reins to her own mount. The gelding followed her obediently out into the rain and stood stoically while she mounted from the standing block behind the crofter’s cottage.

  Icy water trickled down Cassandra’s face and inside her cravat. She gathered the leathers and turned the gelding. She was fast becoming soaked. It would be a most unpleasant ride back to the Hall, she thought dimly.

  By the time that Cassandra rode into the stable yard, she could scarcely think or see. The din in her head was monstrous loud, and the blinding, pulsating lights that interfered with her sight hurt her eyes. She practically fell off of the gelding and stumbled over the long hem of her skirt. The aged groom caught her before she actually fell forward onto her knees.

  “Miss! Are ye hurt? Were ye thrown?”

  Cassandra heard the alarm in the old groom’s voice. She clutched his arm for support. Her legs didn’t seem to want to bear her weight. “It ... it is all right, Young John,” she murmured, and felt herself reeling into a darkening swoon.

  It seemed but a moment before Cassandra felt herself swung up into a powerful embrace. A dearly familiar voice whipcracked over her head. “The door, Young John!” There was the sensation of movement before rain was striking her face. With an inarticulate protest she hid her face against a strong shoulder, the damp fabric of a man’s coat rubbing against her cheek.

  She recalled nothing else until she felt herself lowered onto a bed. Cassandra tried to rouse herself, pushing up on her elbow. “What—?” She looked up, but she could make out nothing through the pounding but some moving shadows. She put a hand to her pounding temple. “Oh, my head.”

  “The maid and I will take care of her now, Philip, rest assured.” A door closed, and there was the rustling of skirts.

  Cassandra fell back against the soft pillow. She knew that voice. She puzzled over it until she had it. “Biddy,” she sighed.

  “Yes, I’m right here, dear Belle. We are going to get you out of those wet things now.”

  “My head, Biddy. It hurts so.”

  “I’ll give you a powder in just a few moments, my dear.”

  Later, Cassandra would recall nothing more than a brief struggle as her soaked riding habit was removed before she was allowed to rest, warm and dry in her nightclothes. A horrid-tasting draft was poured down her throat. Then she fell back down in the black well and knew nothing more.

  Cassandra was dreaming luridly. She was caught fast. She had been thrown by Rolly into a deep ditch. She had to climb out. It was raining and the water was rising. She had to get out.

  Half conscious, Cassandra mumbled feverishly. There was light somewhere. It hurt her eyes, and she squeezed her lids shut, uttering an incoherent protest. Suddenly, she sensed that she was not alone. She tried to wake up. She knew that she was not awake. She had been dreaming. Perhaps she was still dreaming. The bed was going around and around. She had to hold it still. She clutched the bedclothes, trying to stop the awful spinning.

  Sir Marcus’s voice rolled over her in deeply disturbed tones. “I don’t mind telling you, Philip, that I am worried. It is unlike Belle to be ill. I’ve never known her to be sick a day in her life.”

  Mr. Raven’s calm voice answered. “Sir, this is not Belle.”

  Cassandra stopped struggling against the lethargy that threatened to overcome her. Acute dismay shot through her. He knew, and he probably hated her. She started to tremble.

  The dark well was opening up beneath her again, and Cassandra did not try to stop herself from falling. She allowed herself to spiral once more into unconsciousness, thankful for her escape.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Cassandra wakened, her head clear. She moved it experimentally. There was no more pain, thankfully.

  “Oh, miss! You’re awake! I’ll run and get Miss Bidwell!”

  Cassandra turned her head and saw the maid’s flapping skirts disappearing through the door of her bedroom. The door was left ajar. She was puzzled why the maid had been in her room. Then she remembered having been ill. She had begun remembering other things, too, when the door was thrust fully open.

  Cassandra looked across the space of the bedroom apprehensively to meet Miss Bidwell’s inscrutable gaze. The elderly lady advanced toward the canopied bed, her hands folded before her. Cassandra cleared her throat. “Biddy, I—”

  “There is no need for you to say anything, Miss Cassandra,” said Miss Bidwell. She bent to place a cool palm on Cassandra’s forehead. “The fever has broken, just as I had hoped last night that it would. You gave us quite a scare, my dear.”

  Cassandra’s heart had plummeted upon being addressed by her rightful name. “Does everyone know? Who I am, I mean?”

  “Indeed we do.” Miss Bidwell’s expression was noncommittal. “It was a thoughtless and reprehensible trick that you and your sister have played. However, it is over now, I am happy to say.”

  Cassandra felt tears pricking her eyes. After coming to know and love her sister’s companion, it hurt unbearably to be treated with such civil indifference. She felt that she deserved it, though. “I am sorry, Biddy. It ... it wasn’t meant to drag on as it did. I simply wished to meet my grandfather and—” The tears overflowed at the unresponsive expression on Miss Bidwell’s face.

  Miss Bidwell’s countenance at once underwent transformation. She sat down on the bed and gathered the younger woman into
her arms. “There, there, my dear! Everything is all right. You’ve done wrong, though I suspect that this deception was not entirely to your liking. Indeed, Belle has staunchly maintained that it was all her doing and that you wanted no part of it in the beginning.”

  “I am so sorry, Biddy! Pray forgive me,” sobbed Cassandra.

  “Dear Cassandra, you mustn’t go on so. You’ll make yourself ill again. And I don’t think that your family could endure much more upset just now,” said Miss Bid-well. “Your aunt and uncle are below-stairs at this moment, and they are very anxious to have some word of you.”

  Cassandra drew back, amazed. “Uncle Phineas and Aunt Margaret are here—in this house?”

  “Yes, you cannot be any more astonished than I am,” said Miss Bidwell. “Sir Marcus had little choice but to consent to their coming, however, when Mr. Weatherstone demanded that he and his wife be allowed access to their daughter.” She suddenly chuckled. “Such a to-do as you cannot imagine, Cassandra. And Belle in the middle of it, giving Sir Marcus a royal rakedown. You and your sister accomplished between you what was previously impossible. All of the family is now under one roof.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Cassandra could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “And ... and no one has murdered anyone yet?”

  Miss Bidwell laughed. “The atmosphere is a trifle uncomfortable, but the civilities predominate.”

  Cassandra said tentatively, “I have always wondered why my grandfather and my uncle and aunt had such enmity built between them. Can you not relieve my curiosity, Biddy, for I suspect that there is little that you do not know about this family.”

  Miss Bidwell nodded. “That is very true. Very well! I shall tell you only what is most important. It is my understanding that Sir Marcus arranged a very advantageous marriage for his son. What he did not know was that Phineas had already betrothed himself to your aunt. When Sir Marcus learned of it, he demanded that Phineas renounce your aunt and wed the lady whom he had chosen. Phineas refused, and so Sir Marcus cast him out of the house. They did not speak for years, and only then when you and Belle had to be taken in.”

  Cassandra shook her head disbelievingly. “What an idiotic turn of affairs! And my grandfather tried to set up the same scheme with Belle and Mr. Raven.”

  “Yes, one would think that such a harsh lesson would prove a cure for tyranny,” remarked Miss Bidwell.

  The maid returned, carrying a large brass urn of water. Two footmen followed her, both carrying larger urns filled with hot water. The servants poured the water into the hipbath that was situated in front of the fireplace. Steam rose as the water splashed against the cool metal. A screen had been set behind the hipbath so that the warmth from the fire was reflected back onto the hipbath.

  The footmen left the bedroom, but the maid approached the bed. “ ‘Tis ready, Miss Bidwell.”

  Miss Bidwell rose. “Now, Cassandra, Meg and I will help you become presentable. There are several individuals who will wish to visit with you once it becomes known that you are awake at last.”

  “I should like a bath. Have I been ill long?” asked Cassandra, levering herself up against the pillows. She was astonished at her lack of strength.

  Miss Bidwell helped her to get up out of the bed and supported her as she replied, “For several days. When Sir Thomas examined you, he gave it as his opinion that you had contracted an inflammation of the lungs. We were all quite concerned.”

  Cassandra was helped into the brass hipbath, and after she had bathed and the maid had washed her hair, she was given a clean nightgown and her robe. Miss Bidwell directed Cassandra to sit down on a stool in front of the fire and toweled and brushed out her hair until it was dry. While they were thus occupied, the maid changed the clammy bed linens and ran a warming pan over the sheets.

  Miss Bidwell put Cassandra back to bed. The clean linens felt wonderful, but Cassandra felt that she should not languish in bed in the middle of the day, especially when everyone wanted to see her. “I really wish to get up, Biddy,” she said.

  “No, my dear. We must first see that you regain your former strength,” said Miss Bidwell firmly. “Meg will bring up a nice bowl of broth. You may begin with that. No, Cassandra, I will have no more nonsense out of you. I will go downstairs now and send up Mr. and Mrs. Weatherstone.”

  Cassandra subsided, a wry smile on her lips. She wondered if her sister had been so easy for Miss Bidwell to cow as she had been. She thought about all that had happened during her masquerade and in some ways felt regret that it had come to an end. It had been stimulating to act her sister’s part, to say the least. However, her strongest feeling was one of relief. Cassandra would be very glad to step back into her own shoes.

  Her reflections were cut short when the bedroom door opened and her aunt and uncle entered. “Uncle Phineas! Aunt Margaret!” Cassandra held out her arms and with a glad cry Mrs. Weatherstone ran straight over to her. They embraced, both beginning to cry.

  “I am so, so very happy to be with you again,” exclaimed Cassandra tearfully.

  “We are just as glad to have you back,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, settling down beside Cassandra on the bed.

  Mr. Weatherstone had been waiting for his turn, and he bent to hug Cassandra. “My very dear girl. What a turn you’ve given us. I am thankful to see you looking so much better. When we were last in this room, I—“ He stopped, clearing his throat.

  “I am sorry, Uncle Phineas,” said Cassandra softly.

  Mr. Weatherstone straightened, and he looked down at Cassandra with a stern expression. “We shall talk about this disgraceful start of yours and Belle’s when you are feeling more the thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It was you at the soiree, pretending to be Belle?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone, clasping Cassandra’s hand.

  “Yes, and it was the most exceedingly uncomfortable night of my life,” said Cassandra candidly.

  “I can well imagine that it was,” said Mr. Weatherstone, and laughed.

  The door opened and the maid entered, bearing a dinner tray. “Begging your pardon, but I’ve brought Miss Cassandra’s broth.”

  Mr. Weatherstone nodded. “Very well. We shall leave you for now, Cassandra. We don’t wish to tire you.” Mrs. Weatherstone reluctantly rose to her feet.

  “No! Please stay. I ... I have missed you so,” said Cassandra, holding out a hand to each of them.

  Mrs. Weatherstone glanced at her husband, who smiled. She sat down again. “Well, only if you promise to drink your broth, Cassandra. Here, I shall hold the bowl for you.”

  Mr. Weatherstone sat down in the chair beside the bed.

  While Cassandra was consuming the broth, Sir Marcus entered the bedroom on the arm of his valet. He stopped upon seeing his son and daughter-in-law. “I shall come back,” he growled.

  “Here is a chair, sir,” said Mr. Weatherstone, at once getting up to pull another chair close to the bed.

  Sir Marcus grunted and nodded his thanks. He allowed the valet to settle him into the wing chair before he turned to Cassandra and demanded, “What do you mean by impersonating my granddaughter?”

  “I only wished to know you, sir,” said Cassandra simply.

  Sir Marcus tried to hide his pleasure at her answer. He scowled, drawing his brows low over his winter-blue eyes. “Humph. Well, I suppose I must forgive you. And Belle, too. I’ve already given her a thundering scold, and she declares that she is repentant.”

  “As I am, sir,” said Cassandra. She had finished the broth, and her aunt took away the bowl, to set it aside on the night table. Cassandra was surprised at how tired she felt and how filling the broth had been.

  “We shall see,” said Sir Marcus. He gave a grim smile. “There is one other that deserves your apologies, granddaughter. With Phineas’s permission, I shall send him in.”

  Cassandra at once knew of whom her grandfather was speaking. She was dismayed. It had been difficult to face everyone else, but she feared it would be much more difficult t
o own up to her sins to Mr. Philip Raven. “Pray—

  “I spoke with Mr. Raven at some length during our mutual vigil for you, Cassandra. I am impressed with the young gentleman’s character and good sense. I believe that you do owe the gentleman the courtesy of a few words,” said Mr. Weatherstone.

  Sir Marcus nodded to the valet, and Weems went to the bedroom door. Opening it, the valet spoke quietly, and then he stepped back to allow Mr. Raven to come into the bedroom.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Weatherstone,” said Mr. Raven politely. His keen gaze was fixed upon her face.

  “Mr. Raven,” faltered Cassandra.

  Mr. Weatherstone looked from one to the other and smiled slightly. “Come Margaret. I believe that we should return below-stairs.”

  “Yes, Miss Bidwell mentioned that she wished to discuss a certain matter with me when we had finished visiting with Cassandra,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, rising. She looked at Sir Marcus and remarked, “I believe that it has something to do with our bringing Belle out this Season.”

  Sir Marcus at once snapped, “What? Why wasn’t I consulted? I have something to say to the purpose, Mrs. Weatherstone!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Weatherstone were already at the door. Mrs. Weatherstone paused to glance over her shoulder at her father-in-law. “Then do, pray, come downstairs and join our discussion, Sir Marcus,” she said cordially. “We will be most happy to take into consideration whatever suggestions you might have, sir.”

  “Am I to be mocked in my own house? Weems! Get me downstairs at once, sirruh! I’ll not have Belle run roughshod over Mrs. Weatherstone, as she is likely to do if I am not there to apply the bit,” said Sir Marcus.

  “Yes, Sir Marcus,” said the valet, the slightest smile easing his countenance.

  Mr. Raven was still standing beside the door and in fact was holding it open for those exiting the room. Sir Marcus paused momentarily before moving past the door, recommending that he give Cassandra a thumping scold. “For I have not been given time to do it!” he exclaimed. “Weems! Let us be off!”