The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (3 page)

“This looks delightful, Betsy, thank you.”

“Will you be requiring anything else, ma’am?”

“No! Thank you. This is plenty.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” The maid went out and closed the door.

First things first, Cassandra thought. She went to her case to extract a bottle of pills. The tablets would serve to regulate her digestion and protect against parasites or food or water-borne bacteria. She could not afford to get seriously ill; she had no way to call the team for help. They had supplied her with as many prophylactic and first aid substances as possible, but she could only carry so much. She had five-hundred of the digestive aids, more than enough for one a day.

In addition to protecting her digestive tract, she had certain dietary concerns. Mostly, she could eat anything, but she wasn’t used to caffeine, and the British tea was strong. Therefore, another tiny tablet, which she could carry with her and drop into her tea, would neutralize the effect of the stimulant. If someone wondered what she was putting in her cup, she would show the label, which read “Nerve Tablets for Ladies.”

She also needed to be careful about her sugar intake. In 1820, fine pastries were made with the white sugar that her system was not used to handling. She had to be prepared to eat what was offered to her in the interest of politeness, but God knows she didn’t need any hysterical episodes brought on by a blood-sugar crash.

Having fortified her system, she got set to explore the breakfast. The flavors were distinct and vivid, fresher than she’d ever tasted, though she was in the middle of London and people in her own world had access to the very freshest foods. The chickens were probably out in back of the inn laying the eggs, she thought. The ham was probably just recently smoked on a farm outside the city, the rolls baked moments ago in the inn’s oven, the cream delivered every day from some nearby dairy farm, the tea, black as could be and thrillingly bitter. She ate more than she thought possible.

Breakfast finished, she looked over her planned schedule for the day. She had much to accomplish within eight hours. First she would post a note to the housekeeper in Hampshire, who was awaiting her arrival at her new home. She had brought a small writing set, the kind commonly used by a lady of her position, and, schooled in the flowery script that was nineteenth century handwriting, penned a quick note saying that she was in the country and expected to be down the next day. She could afford to pay anything it cost to get the message there in one day, and its destination was indeed an entire day’s ride by horseback.

Her next task was clothes shopping. Jake had found a first-rate dressmaker nearby. She and Jake had walked there and back to the White Hart several times in the simulations they were able to create after he had returned from his advance journey. He had noted the names and addresses of the shops and businesses she would need, and the VR library had done a spectacular job of recreating those few blocks of old London with the information Jake had given them.

She was gathering up her cloak and gloves to go out, when she began to feel the need for the water closet. She had used the chamber pot in her room the night before and again that morning for urinating, but this urge, she had learned from her research, ought to, if at all possible, be deposited in the water closet down the hall. She stepped nervously into the hallway and peered around. All clear. She tiptoed down the hall and rapped on the door. No answer. She took a deep breath and opened the door. She was in luck, it flushed! It was rudimentary to be sure, but a crank on the side actually flushed it with water, though it didn’t fill afterwards. Thank God, she thought, all right, here goes. She went in and latched the door
-
—she could only hold her breath so long. She was forced to inhale at last. It wasn’t so bad.

That done, she went back to her room, washed her hands in the basin, and put on her cloak, hood, and gloves. On the way out, she handed her letter to the desk clerk with the money for the post and a generous tip, and was assured it would go out that morning. She was carrying about ten British pounds in coins, divided between hidden pockets and her purse, to hold her over until she could get to the bank.

She stepped out the door of the inn into the street, and the stench hit her, a cross of human and animal excrement, rotting food, and shallow cemeteries. The simulations couldn’t prepare her for this, and the night before, in her hurry, with the freezing temperatures, and the streets being so empty, she didn’t notice it. But now the sun was warming the streets full of horses and carriages. She remembered that London, at this point, had a sewer system, but it essentially emptied into the Thames.

She set off for the dressmaker’s, clutching a kerchief to her nose, but generally not attracting undue attention due to her hood and cloak, though it was odd for a woman of her obvious upper class to be out on the streets with no escort. It was unbelievably cold, but she knew the way there and arrived quickly. Brown and Clark’s it was called. She entered, lowered her hood, and was met with stares.

“Good morning,” Cassandra smiled.

“Good morning, miss, how may I help you?” asked the proprietress.

“Yes, I…I am recently arrived from America and need some gowns and underthings. I am afraid I am ill prepared for the British climate. I hope you can help me.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the woman relaxing her gaze. Her face was pock-marked and she wore spectacles. Together they rifled through the bolts of fabric and reviewed dress patterns. Cassandra submitted to a fitting, and the shop owner essentially abandoned her other customers, though they didn’t seem to mind, so fascinated were they with the striking American. The woman then found her some good woolen stockings, as well as heavier weight chemises and drawers. Cassandra’s shoes were as fit for the weather as could be expected, as were her gloves and her cloak. She was beginning to feel she would be able to deal with the cold as long as it didn’t get too much worse.

Paying the lady for her purchases, supplying her with the Hampshire address for their delivery and tipping her generously, Cassandra then hailed a hackney coach to take her the distance to the bank on Threadneedle Street. She carried only a small package containing her new undergarments. She would pay for the finished gowns when they were delivered to her.

When the cab stopped in front of the bank, Cassandra stepped out gingerly onto the muddy street and picked her way to the entrance of the enormous columned building, the original Bank of England. A doorman opened the heavy wooden doors, and looked down at her, lips pursed. Inside the bank, the air was only slightly warmer than the outside; a fire burned impotently in a great stone fireplace. The ceilings were too high, the granite walls and marble floors too unforgiving to allow themselves to be warmed. Before she could decide whom to approach, the bank manager hurried up to her as fast as his girth would allow, a frown creasing his flushed brow.

“Good morning, miss, is there something we can do for you?” he asked in a syrupy tone.

“Yes, I am, um, looking for a Mr. Howard,” Cassandra said modestly. “I am Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.”

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Franklin! Please forgive me. I am Mr. Howard.” He suddenly stood up taller and tugged at his lapels. After all, this woman’s legal representative had recently deposited several thousand pounds in his bank. “Right this way, madam. Please come into my office and we shall settle your business there.”

“Thank you,” she replied, and followed him into a large room with windows set high, a grand wooden desk with claw feet and two well-worn leather chairs, one on each side of the desk, all warmed somewhat more efficiently by a coal stove.

She withdrew two thousand pounds, more than enough to get her through the year. The full year’s rent on the house had been paid by Jake, which included the salaries of all the servants. It was odd handling money, Cassandra thought. In the twenty-second century, skin-cell scanning was how one was identified to every bank-linked computer in nearly every shop or restaurant. She took the bills and coins and put them in her bag, enjoying the new feel of the money in her hand. She thanked Mr. Howard; he bowed deeply and offered his personal carriage and a bodyguard to escort her back to the inn. She gratefully accepted, and, once she arrived at her room, locked the money in the false bottom of her suitcase.

Jake had assured Cassandra that Sorrel Hall, as her new country home was called, had a fine piano, and he’d designated a music shop for her in London where she could buy sheet music. She’d brought none for fear of inadvertently exposing any composers who had not yet been published. So after a modest lunch alone in her room, she walked the few blocks to the shop, Jake’s directions clutched in her hand. From halfway down the street she saw the sign
Stockard’s Music Shop
. She entered the quiet store, dimly lit by half-burned candles and a small fire flickering in the corner hearth. The familiar smell of wood and old paper was tinged with pipe tobacco. Sheet music stores haven’t changed in three hundred years, she thought.

The shopkeeper smiled at her. He was in his fifties, she guessed, with longish graying hair and warm brown eyes. His glance lingered on her for a moment; then he returned to closely examining a cello bow. She sighed with relief, knowing it was natural for a lady to be looking about in a music store.

Cassandra soon located Bach. The store had an admirable selection, and she chose several pieces that she had never tried to master. She then leafed through Beethoven; some of her favorite sonatas were there and some minor piano pieces. She browsed down the alphabet; there was plenty of Italian baroque, some of which she selected, but she didn’t recognize too much else until she came to the H’s where she found Handel and Hayden, some of which she had never seen before. She felt like a kid finding her Easter basket. Moving on, she located Mozart, and farther on Scarlatti, but no Schubert.

“Excuse me, you do not carry Schubert?”

“I am sorry, miss?” he looked up from his work.

“Schubert, Franz Schubert?”

“I am sorry, miss, I have never heard of him. Is he modern?”

“Yes, he is, quite modern. I heard him in Ger…Austria when I was there,” she said, remembering that Germany, as such, did not yet exist, and neither did the works of Schubert. “But, I am being silly; his work cannot be known outside of that country yet.”

“Do not trouble yourself, miss. Is there anything else I can help you find?”

“No,” she replied, looking at the pile of music in her arms. Realizing that it would not all fit in her suitcase, she said, “let me narrow down my selections a little,” and culling through her choices, she finally laid several pieces in front of him on the counter.

“Wonderful selections, miss. You must be quite a musician.”

She smiled. “I do not think I am, but I love to play.”

“That is all that matters, is it not? Where shall I have your package delivered?”

“The White Hart, Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.”

He stopped for a moment, surprised, and studied her. “My pleasure, Mrs. Franklin, I will have them there shortly.”

She paid him and then made the bold move to shake his hand. “You are Mr. Stockard?”

“Yes, I am, and it is delightful to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she replied.

“I hope to see you again.”

“I am moving down to Hampshire tomorrow, but whenever I am in London, I shall visit your shop.”

“I will look forward to it.”

“Good afternoon,” she said with a smile and stepped out into the waning daylight.

It was early, not yet four, but the days were short in London in winter, especially with the fog and overcast sky. She imagined it best to hurry back to the inn. Feeling confident of the way, she turned left out of the shop and walked past several storefronts until suddenly she felt disoriented. No, wait, she thought; she had come from the other way. She walked back and passed the shop again, continued to the end of the block, and turned left. Was it one or two blocks to Long Acre, she wondered. She couldn’t remember, and the fog was closing in, making it difficult to see. She had heard about these fogs. They were much more severe than in modern London, due to so much smoke, mixed with the vapors off the river. She searched her pocket for Jake’s directions but it was not there. She tried her handbag, but could not locate the slip of paper. Her jaw tightened. In spite of the fact that she had walked these same streets in the simulations, in reality, they did not look quite the same, and she now wasn’t sure if she had gone one block or two. She couldn’t see the street signs, nor even ten feet in front of her, and felt a twinge of anxiety. She continued on and nearly fell off a curb. This must be Long Acre, she thought. She could hear carriages passing in front and could just make out their looming shapes. The streets were starting to thin of people and vehicles. She turned right and walked for a few minutes, but it was getting darker and the fog was engulfing. She didn’t know if she had passed the inn now. She looked for the overhead signs, but could see nothing. Maybe she had gone too far. She walked back to the corner, passing the occasional pedestrian who would appear suddenly out of the mist. She then walked carefully back in the direction she thought the White Hart to be, feeling along the walls for doorways. Her panic rose. What if I can’t find it, she wondered. She could only dimly see the light of the gas lamps along the street. She kept walking; surely it couldn’t be this far. She began to turn back, when all of a sudden someone grabbed her arm. She gasped and tried to wrench away, while feeling for the knife in her cloak pocket.