A Flight of Fancy (30 page)

Cassandra had been more than happy to admit she could not act and to remain near the fire. Mr. Sorrells had joined her in the adjacent chair, as he had the day before. She had still been chilled from her walk through the garden and her wait for Whittaker in the woods, not only from the drenching she had taken but also from apprehension for his safety. He was not the sort of man to make an assignation and not keep it. Considering she had seen someone try to kill him, she knew reason for her concern.

If she were not so excited about the potential to go ballooning the next day, she would have been praying he would get a message to her so she would know for certain he was safe. She had said a few prayers the day before and thanked the Lord no dead bodies had turned up along the way.

Now, however, all her focus lay in Mr. Sorrells’s announcement
that the balloon would once again be ready for going aloft if she was interested.

“May I go alone?” she asked, then held her breath, waiting for him to be as protective as a nursemaid with a newborn, as Whittaker tended to be. He would say no without hesitation.

Mr. Sorrells took several moments before he shrugged. “I don’t see why you can’t. Roger and I have gone up on our own, and it is a simple matter. Now that we know you need a little assistance, we can bring something you can use to climb up.”

“Lovely. Lovely. Lovely.” If she did not fear falling on her face, Cassandra would have sprung to her feet and danced around the great hall in excitement. As it was, her voice rang off the stone walls and spread across the vaulted ceiling. The players stopped their action to turn and stare at her.

And Whittaker walked through the door from the family wing. “Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen.” He bowed to the would-be actors at the far end of the room, then turned his attention on Cassandra. “What is so lovely, Miss Bainbridge?”

“Hmm, um, just some improvements to the balloon.” She tried to avoid his gaze.

He would not let her. “Perhaps you can tell me about them sometime.”

“Yes, if you—” Cassandra began.

Miss Irving glided forward as though she possessed wheels instead of legs. “No boring balloon talk now. Lord Whittaker, you are right in time to take the role of Henry Tudor.”

Cassandra expected him to decline with the excuse of estate or some other business. Instead, he agreed without hesitation and followed the heiress back to the makeshift stage.

“A sturdy box will do.” Cassandra turned back to Mr. Sorrells as though their dialogue had not been interrupted.

They continued talking about the flight. Cassandra even looked into Mr. Sorrells’s eyes a few times, admiring their clear, gray irises and direct intelligence. Another time, she dared touch his arm while she made a point about how often they should apply the sealant to the balloon silk.

“It will evaporate, you know,” she concluded.

Mr. Sorrells rose. “And now that you speak of evaporating, time seems to have done so. We have been invited for dinner and I must go change my attire.”

“Yes, and my sister is determined there shall be music.” Feeling a little queasy, Cassandra held out her hand and Mr. Sorrells helped her to her feet.

He continued to hold her hand. “But you won’t dance.”

“No, I still cannot.” From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Whittaker watching her, and she extricated her hand from Mr. Sorrells’s—slowly. “Mrs. Dunstan is highly superstitious like the prince regent, and I would make thirteen to table so offered to not come.”

“But Lord Whittaker is here now, which will make the table even,” Mr. Sorrells pointed out.

“If he intends to remain home.” Focusing on happier thoughts, Cassandra said, “But I will be at the balloon bright and early.”

“And so will we.” Philip Sorrells bowed, bade farewell to his host and hostess, and all but dragged Roger Kent from the house.

The boys and their tutor headed up the steps for the schoolroom, and Honore swept down the corridor to her room with an exclamation about the bird’s nest of her hair needing repairs before she received guests for dinner. Miss Irving followed her young cousins upstairs with her own excuses of changing for the party.

“Must go don my uniform,” said the major, who wore country garb of buckskin breeches and woolen coat. “Makes me stand
out like a lighthouse beacon, but it is expected of me. Be seeing you shortly, ladies, Whittaker.” And he too left the hall.

Cassandra stood beside her chair, irresolute. To get to her chamber, she must pass Whittaker and his mother. The former looked at her with sympathy, the latter with some confusion. Both would want to say something to her about the evening’s entertainment. If she said she did not care about not being able to dance, as a small country dinner party held no interest for her, she doubted they would believe her. What single lady of one and twenty did not enjoy a party?

One like her, the bluestocking who disliked the vapid gossip.

She had waited too long to make her exit. The Gileses needed to walk past her to get to their wing. Both of them stopped by her chair.

“Do you not need to get yourself ready too?” Whittaker asked. “Not that you do not look charming.”

“She does.” Lady Whittaker spoke a bit too brightly. “That pink suits her, brings out the natural roses in her cheeks, which have returned since she has been here.”

Returned and now bloomed. Cassandra’s face heated. “You are too kind,” she murmured. “I should go see that Honore has everything she needs and allow the two of you to get ready.”

“You are not coming to my mother’s party?” Whittaker asked.

“I offered to stay away so Mrs. Dunstan does not have palpitations over thirteen to table.”

“Surely you did not agree to this, Mama.” Whittaker narrowed his eyes.

“I did not agree.” Lady Whittaker twisted her hands together. “But I had no idea if you would be home or not, and Mr. Danby could not come. And the Dunstans are our closest neighbors and we do not wish to insult them.”

“Balderdash.” Whittaker’s jaw hardened. “I will not have one of my guests insulted in favor of a woman afraid of a number. I will be here for dinner.” He turned on his heel and stalked into his wing of the house.

“I do believe,” his mother said, “he is coming into his role quite nicely.”

“Which may be the greatest reason it is best we are not going to be wed.” With Whittaker had departed Cassandra’s warmth, and her throat felt tight. “I would not make a good countess.”

“I thought the same when my father told me I was to marry Geoffrey’s father. You will learn the role.”

Choosing to ignore the verb tense her ladyship used, Cassandra said, “I have no idea what to wear.”

“Wear that gown with the silver netting you wore to dinner here the other evening,” Lady Whittaker suggested. “I have rarely seen you look prettier.” She laughed. “Oh dear, that sounded rude of me. I meant that you looked prettier than you always do.”

Cassandra laughed. “I am not the beauty of the family, I know. But thank you. I will do my best.”

Cassandra could not wear the pearls with the white silk gown, with its overskirt of silver gauze. They were too creamy. But Honore produced some silver earrings set with diamonds that their parents had given Cassandra upon her twenty-first birthday.

“Did you pack all my jewelry?” Cassandra could not help but laugh.

“I knew you would forget.” Honore spun in front of Cassandra, sending her lace ruffles flying. “Will I do well enough? Do you think the major will wish to kiss me again?”

“I expect he will wish to, but whether or not he should is another matter. You know you should not be kissing or even holding hands without a declaration of intentions from him.”

“Says Saint Cassandra.” Honore pouted at her sister. “And I suppose Whittaker did not take you on the Lovers’ Walk at Vauxhall Gardens and kiss you three weeks after you met?”

“Well, yes, but—” Cassandra turned away to hide her blush.

“And what about you and Mr. Sorrells today? That was as near to hand holding as not.”

“I do not think that was holding hands.”

“Ha. Everyone else did. I thought Whittaker was going to land him a facer.”

“Honore!” Cassandra shook her head at her sister’s use of cant. “Do not use such vulgar language in company, please.”

Honore giggled. “You have gone so righteous of late. But you do not fool me. Your Bible has dust on it.” Shot fired, Honore swept from the room and allowed the door to close a little too loudly behind her.

Cassandra glanced at the bedside table on which rested her Bible. A light coating of dust undisturbed by so much as a thumbprint marred the tooled leather cover. Other than a few quick prayers for Whittaker’s safety the previous day, she had not read her Bible nor prayed since thanking God for the healing of the infection in her leg. Not six months ago, she was certain God had control of her life. She still believed that—He had made marriage to the man she loved unthinkable. He had also punished her for her bad behavior, and for that she had abandoned the Lord as a parent bent more on her good appearance to others than on anything she wanted, as with her own father. So she rebelled, as she had so often rebelled against her father. She did not wish to stop rebelling. That might mean no
more flying, no more experiments, no more Greek translations. It might mean marriage to a suitable man.

Deliberately, she turned her back on the dusty Bible and left the bedchamber without her cane. She would manage without it. Someone would lend her his arm to lead her into dinner.

Miss Irving met her inside the great hall, as though she had been waiting to pounce before the guests arrived. “You are looking very fine this evening, Miss Bainbridge.”

Cassandra smiled graciously. “Not as fine as you always do.”

“How kind of you considering . . .” The older lady laid her hand on Cassandra’s arm. Her face was earnest, perhaps even a bit tense. “Are you quite certain your betrothal is over?”

“Yes, of course I am.” Cassandra looked Miss Irving in the eye. “If Lord Whittaker decides to court you, do not give me a moment’s consideration.”

“Thank you.” Miss Irving bowed her head. “It would please my father so much if I married a title.”

“But would it please you?” Cassandra asked, but Regina Irving had already turned toward the far side of the hall where Whittaker and his mother had arrived, and she either did not hear or ignored the query.

“And would it please Whittaker?” Cassandra asked no one at all.

Seeing him take Miss Irving’s arm and lead her to a chair, Cassandra knew a courtship between them would not please her. She was such a dog in the manger there. Cassandra did not want him, but she did not want anyone else to have him either.

Except she did want him. She simply knew she could not have him. She offered him nothing that he needed—the right airs to be a countess, enough money to ease his financial straits, the beauty he deserved.

Not wanting to trail behind Whittaker and Miss Irving, Cassandra hesitated inside the hall and fiddled with a button on her glove. If she waited long enough, surely someone else would arrive.

Someone else did, in the form of Mr. Kent and Mr. Sorrells. They greeted her with enthusiasm and vied for which one of them would lead her to a chair. Amusement diminished her tension, and she could greet the other guests with her head high, if her walk still a bit unsteady.

Then dinnertime arrived. As she was the highest-ranked lady other than his mother, Lord Whittaker led her into the dining room and seated her on his right side. Lady Smithfield, the young and jolly wife of a knight, sat to his left. She commanded most of his attention, and the young man to Cassandra’s right seemed more interested in the food than conversation, so she was spared the necessity of talking to Whittaker at any length. He did, however, manage to murmur before Lady Whittaker led the ladies back to the hall for cups of tea, “I will talk to you later.”

Cassandra did not have the time to say she could not. She needed to follow her hostess and the other females.

“I have chalk for your slippers, since I have learned that my nephews’ tutor plays the pianoforte rather well. He has moved it onto the gallery above us.” Lady Whittaker removed a small wooden casket from the drawer of a Pembroke table and held it out to Miss Irving with an apologetic glance at Cassandra.

“Can you not dance at all?” Miss Irving asked.

“Perhaps something more sedate like a minuet.” Cassandra stared down at her silk-covered legs. “But no one dances the minuet anymore.”

“A pity. It is such a pretty dance.”

It was a courting dance, with all the bowing and curtsying and partners moving toward and away from one another.

“If you change your mind,” Miss Irving said, “I will help you chalk your slippers.”

“Thank you.”

Such kindness now that she seemed to be catching herself a title to please her father.

And Cassandra had rejected a title to please hers. To please both her earthly and heavenly fathers, both of whom now disapproved.

She had her flying. She must remember she had her flying.

Had she been at a larger party in London, she would have sought out the library once the dancing commenced. It would not have been the first time she had done so at a ball or party. The heat and smoke from the candles, added to numerous perfumes and pomades, made her head ache. She favored the company of a good book, preferably one she had not discovered before, to ballroom flirtations.