A Flight of Fancy (16 page)

“And I still have a hole in my arm and a concussion in my head,” Whittaker shot back. “I will not risk this again. Do you understand what I am saying? I will not be your emissary with the Luddites any longer. I would be unmasked right now if one of them instead of one of my loyal men had found me lying on the road. As it is, my weavers wonder why I was dressed like one of the laborers. It cannot continue, and I have responsibilities here at home.”

“All seems to run quite smoothly from my perspective.” Crawford smiled. “And I have been here to notice.”

“We have more guests now. And I need to oversee repairs at the mill.”

And watch over Cassandra. He had left her on her own, and she got herself ill and one of her wounds had gone septic again. Miss Honore and Mama could never control Cassandra’s willfulness, and now with the distraction of Miss Regina Irving—the considerable distraction—the household was going to be in an uproar.

“My uncle has sent my cousins here so he can have some peace and quiet to recover from some illness,” Whittaker continued, “and—never you mind my family business. You can find someone else to blackmail into performing your dirty work.”

“But is that not the difficulty, my lord?” Crawford asked. “Your family business?”

A shout rang through the orangery, one of the cousins, a family responsibility Whittaker felt unprepared to manage at the moment. Later, with his own sons . . .

“Preserving her ladyship’s reputation,” Crawford added, “so your family isn’t socially ruined and you can marry an heiress.”

Whittaker sighed. “I do not wish to marry an heiress.”

“Not even Miss Irving?”

“Not even Miss Irving.”

Miss Honore had whisked her off to an upper-floor bedchamber to refresh herself, and Whittaker had not seen the beauty for hours. But a man did not forget looks like hers. She smoldered like a fire about to burst into a conflagration. Cassandra would not stand up well to the heiress in looks or dowry, yet he held not a hint of interest for Miss Irving and spoke with sincerity. Cassandra would care nothing about a scandal involving his mother. Discretion was not one of her qualities.

Nor his, to his shame.

The major’s lips tightened at the corners. “But neither would you wish to see her ladyship’s name dragged through the mud over a scandal thirty years old.”

“It was not a scandal then; it will not be one now.”

“You did not think that three weeks ago.”

Nor did he think it now. Whittaker knew Society too well to believe that so much as a whisper that his elder brother may not have been the legitimate earl, even for the short time he had carried the title, would make Mama a pariah amongst her friends. It could damage business for the mills, as many believed taint spread through the blood and would believe her younger son of too passionate a nature for their delicate daughters.

He pictured Cassandra’s pretty lips mouthing the word
swine
because of his pain-spawned reminder of her own passionate nature, and curled his hand into a fist against his thigh. “I need another week at the least. How can I explain my absence?”

“You will.” Crawford shrugged. “You’ll have to. If you don’t,
you’ll get a worse blow over your head the next time, probably with some blacksmith’s hammer that will turn your skull into a crumpet.”

“Charming description.” Whittaker’s fist tightened. “Now if you will excuse me, I have guests.”

“Not until you give me a date when you will return. Your mills were spared the other night, but another one was destroyed last night.”

“Whose?” Whittaker felt the blow as though it had been his looms destroyed.

“Featherstone’s.”

“He is a decent fellow. I am sorry to hear that.”

“It could have been prevented if you were working with us.”

“I could have been working with you if one of your men had not shot me.”

“It won’t happen again. England needs you, Whittaker, and you are the only person young enough whom we can . . . compel to help.”

“There will be an end to this, Crawford. I will not—”

A rush of air signaled the opening door, and he stopped, expecting either Miss Honore or Miss Irving, but not the two of them. The new arrival was not talking, as would be the case if both ladies arrived in tandem.

A solitary lady stood half behind the door, peering around it like a rabbit poking its nose out of its warren to sniff for danger. Her gaze met his, and she took a step backward, catching the wide sleeve of her robe on the door latch. It clanged like a gong, and her pallid face turned the color of Mama’s summer roses.

Crawford spun around, his hand dropping to where his sword would hang when he was on duty. “Miss Bainbridge. Good—good evening.”

“Who is she?” Laurence’s booted feet thudded up one of the aisles between the trees.

William thudded right behind him. “Cousin Whittaker, why is there a half-dressed lady in here?”

“I am not half—I mean, I will not be . . . I thought the orangery would be empty.” Cassandra spun around, lost her balance, and caught herself on the door frame.

“Allow me, Miss Bainbridge.” Crawford strode forward.

“What is wrong with her?” William persisted.

Indeed, what was wrong? Or more accurately, how badly was she injured? Whittaker knew Cassandra was using a cane to walk more than a few feet, but he thought it weakness. Now he realized her legs might be damaged worse than he’d thought.

The realization held him immobile, silent, until Major Crawford reached out as though intending to curve his hand around her arm. Whittaker all but charged forward and shouldered the officer aside—with his bad arm, unfortunately, shooting pain from elbow to shoulder—and curved his arm around her waist.

“You should not be out of your sickroom, Miss Bainbridge.” He spoke a little too loudly for the sake of his cousins. “If you wanted oranges, you should have rung for them.”

“I did, but no one answered. Now if you please, I can return to my room alone.” She grasped his hand as though to remove it from her waist with as much force as necessary.

A waist too narrow and a hip bone too lacking in flesh, apparent with only a layer of velvet and cambric between his fingers and her flesh, instead of stays that changed the natural form of a lady. He stepped behind her to shield her from the other man’s view and murmured, “Do not make a scene, Cassandra. I am taking you back to your room.”

“Perhaps you should be discovering why your household is so poorly run.”

“Not poor management. Too few staff and too many people in it to take care of.”

She flinched and her hand dropped. She said nothing as he led her from the orangery door and back toward her room. She need not have spoken. He had gained no points with her in whatever game of wills they played. She did not want his reminders of the state of his finances. He suspected he had lost ground by obliging her to leave the room as he had.

She did not move away from the support of his arm, though. Not because she wanted to be close to him, he suspected—because she needed it. Her steps felt uneven.

“Does your ankle pain you?” he could not stop himself from asking.

“I do not discuss my ankles with men, my lord.”

He almost laughed at her frosty haughtiness.

“Cassandra, do not be a widgeon. I am not a stranger.”

“We would be better off if you were.” She braced her hand on the wall and stared at the door to her bedchamber. “Thank you for your assistance. When there is some available, I would like some supper.”

“I will bring it to you myself, if necessary.” He raised his hand, aching to brush her hair back, touch her cheek, tilt her face toward his. He reached past her and opened her door. “Good evening, Miss Bainbridge.”

“Good evening, my lord.” She entered her room without so much as a glance at him. “Thank you.”

He leaned against the wall and watched her enter her chamber. The ache to touch her felt like a pinch compared to the pounding emptiness of loss deep inside him. She might fear
the amputation of her leg; he felt as though she had already excised his heart, mangled it, and then tried to hand it back. More than her shame over their behavior had driven her away from him. She knew God forgave one with a repentant heart. They had discussed that in the summer.

And had succumbed to temptation again.

Still, something more distressed her. He saw it in her skittishness around him. Miss Honore admitted to noticing it. If only Cassandra would talk to him.

But she would not, so he may as well make himself useful. Hearing his young cousins’ voices piercing through the orangery door, Whittaker headed in that direction again to head them off from disturbing Cassandra. And he would find Major Crawford to tell him that with or without the threat against Mama, he would go willingly back to the Luddites as soon as his arm healed enough.

14

Thoroughly weary of her bedchamber after nearly two weeks of confinement, Cassandra carried a copy of
Gulliver’s Travels
into the great hall and seated herself by the fire for an hour or two of entertaining reading and analysis of Jonathan Swift’s satirical prose. She had yet to find all the historical details to which he referred in the story and was determined to do so. She had occupied herself so much with the ancient world of the Greeks and Romans, she had not read much in more recent history, if a hundred years was recent. While at Whittaker Hall with its limitations in reading materials, and Father having restricted what books she could bring with her, she decided to remedy that lack in her knowledge, while the rest of the party, including the young cousins, took a ride on another gloriously sunny and cold October day.

Whittaker had gone too.

Cassandra had seen little of him since the night she stumbled upon him and the major in the orangery. He had, however, sent a stack of books to her chamber with a politely worded note:

My family is not usually of a scholarly bent; therefore, you will find little to your taste in the library. These are from my personal collection. Partake at your leisure and send for more as need arises.

Once folded, the sheet of fine paper, embossed with the Whittaker family crest at the top, made a fine marker for her place in the book. She opened to it now and drew it out to tuck against the back cover until she had need to close the book. For the first time, she noticed his signature at the bottom of the brief missive. It was his formal signature. The signature of a nobleman, an earl of the realm. Every other letter he had sent to her, at least two score, held an informal double G at the bottom for Geoffrey Giles. Then he had switched to a simple W when his brother’s death elevated him to the title. But this signature could have been used to frank a letter or conclude a letter of concern to the regent on behalf of Parliament.

Her chest felt suddenly tight, as it had during her fever. She took a deep breath to loosen it and coughed. That was all it was—the need to release some lingering congestion. Under no circumstances did the formality from her former fiancé distress her. He belonged to her past. If she must be good so she could go her own way, she must leave him behind.

With spectacles Miss Irving would no doubt outright sneer at perched on her nose, Cassandra bent over
Gulliver’s Travels
and began to read. What an odd age that had been when ladies invited gentlemen into their boudoirs so they could advise the female on her attire. No wonder Swift made such fun of it when his adventurer traveled in the land of the giants—the revoltingness of a woman’s flaws he could see from the advantage of their dressing tables and with his eyesight tuned to view much smaller objects. Pimples and moles normally covered by a gown or at least a fichu were monstrous from his perspective.

Cassandra’s own scars began to tingle, and she removed her spectacles to dab at her eyes with the edge of her shawl. Silly that a book intended as entertainment, as well as a political
commentary on society of the time, should make her weepy. She needed a distraction. If only she knew where Mr. Sorrells and Mr. Kent were staying so she could send word that she was now able to receive callers. Talking of aeronautics would certainly distract her. She had a dozen or two questions to ask them.

Instead of the friends she wanted to see, she heard the patter of light, quick footfalls coming down the staircase and glanced up to see Lady Whittaker approaching. She wore a bright paisley shawl that contrasted with her black dress in a rather striking fashion. Though she must have been in her late forties or perhaps even early fifties, Lady Whittaker was still a beautiful woman with warm brown eyes, slim and energetic, her hair barely touched with such a bright silver it looked ornamental. Her sons had certainly inherited their looks from her, though not their height and breadth.

She smiled at Cassandra and quickened her steps. “Good, you have come out. I am so glad you are well.” Her gaze dropped to the slippers.

“Nearly.” Unlike with Miss Irving’s scorn, Cassandra blushed over her footwear in front of Whittaker’s mother. “The apothecary suggested I not wear stockings for a few more days. Perhaps I should not be out here—”

“No, no, I was actually envying you.” Lady Whittaker laughed. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She had wanted some earlier, but no one responded to her ringing of the bell from her room, a regular occurrence these days.

“You must only ask for what you need.” Lady Whittaker rang a handbell on a low table, since the hall bore no pull. “We perhaps need another maid or two, and we have enough to ensure our guests want for nothing. Thanks to the mills, we do
not live in abject poverty, which might be the situation if my brother had not left his business to Whittaker.”

Cassandra squirmed a bit. One did not discuss money with people outside the family unless it regarded a business arrangement.

“So,” Lady Whittaker continued, “I do not understand why no one responds to your bell. No one here has taken a dislike to you. On the contrary. We like you quite as much as we have in the past, or even more so. Though I do wish . . .” She dropped onto a chair across from Cassandra. “I do wish you and Whittaker would not have broken your betrothal. And it has nothing to do with your dowry, I assure you.”