The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (4 page)

 “Mrs. Franklin!” said a voice. The face came into focus.

“Mr. Stockard!” she cried with relief.

“I decided to bring your music myself,” he said. “I think I must have given you quite a start.”

“Oh yes,” she said, her heart pounding. “I am so relieved to see you! I cannot find the inn.”

“It is right here,” he said, and in a few steps they were through the front of the door and inside.

“I am afraid I am not used to the fog.” She touched her damp brow with the back of her gloved hand.

“It can be quite treacherous,” he replied. “Sir,” he called to the porter, “Help Mrs. Franklin to a chair and bring her a glass of wine.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she said. “I think I will just go to my room. Thank you so much for your help. You are my hero today.” She thought she detected a blush.

“I am just happy I arrived when I did. Miss,” he called out to Betsy who had come over to see what the commotion was. “Will you please carry this package upstairs for Mrs. Franklin?”

“That will not be necessary,” said Cassandra, “I shall take it. I really am fine now, I assure you. But thank you again.”

“It was my pleasure,” replied Mr. Stockard, smiling. “Goodnight then,” he said, tipping his hat to her. “I hope we meet again.”

“I hope so too,” responded Cassandra graciously. “Goodnight.” She smiled and shook his hand again. He opened the door and stepped briskly into the murky evening.

Cassandra ordered the wine in her room after all. If she was ever in need of a “soother” it was now. She told the porter she would have supper in the dining parlor in an hour. She didn’t feel like spending the evening alone.

Her fire had been lit. She threw off her cloak and gloves and sank onto the bed. She looked over at the window; it was as if someone had hung a gray blanket outside. She sipped her wine and allowed its relaxing effect. Eventually she got up, lit some lamps and candles, and pored over her new music. Hunger finally led her to set it aside, and she wandered down to the front desk to have a coach ordered for nine in the morning to take her the forty miles to Hampshire the next day.

In the dining parlor, she was seated at a round table with four other guests, three men and a forlorn-looking young woman, thin and pale with light brown hair and large dark eyes in an oval face. During the course of the meal of leek soup, roast chicken and potatoes, boiled Brussels sprouts, fresh rolls and butter, cold ham and roast beef, dried fruit, cheese and cake, she chatted with the gentlemen. Each of them was a merchant of different sorts, in town for varying lengths of time to sell their wares.

Cassandra found it difficult to draw much information out of them because they were mostly curious about her. They wanted to know all about America and her reasons for travelling alone so far. Cassandra didn’t reveal much except that she was born in Lyme Regis on the southern coast of England, and had moved to America with her parents when she was barely six years. She had married, had a son, and was eventually widowed. She’d longed to return to her homeland, and was going to Hampshire while her son studied at Harvard.

The young woman seated with them at the table had been staring at her.

“Do you mind if I ask where you are traveling to?” Cassandra said, turning to her. The merchants lost interest and began to talk among themselves.

The girl addressed her plate. “I am going to Kent, ma’am.” Her light brown hair was pulled tightly into a bun, making her sharp cheekbones all the more prominent.

 “I am Cassandra Franklin. Do you mind if I ask what takes you to Kent?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Rosalind Carr. I am going to be a governess, ma’am.” Her response was barely audible.

“Oh!” said Cassandra. “How many children will you care for?”

“Four, ma’am.”

“Girls or boys?”

“Three girls and a boy. The eldest girl is seven. The boy is the youngest; he is two.”

“Ah.” Cassandra felt inadequate in her response. Her questioning was not having the enlivening effect she had hoped.

“Have you met your employer?” She asked in a last effort.

“No,” said Rosalind with a tremor in her voice. Her pointed chin began to quiver.

Cassandra gently touched her arm. “Oh, I am sure they are a lovely family.”

“I am sure they are, ma’am.” The young woman retrieved a hankie from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Please excuse me,” she said, pushing her half-eaten supper away. “I am terribly exhausted. I think I shall retire. Goodnight.” She hurried out of the dining room.

Cassandra sighed and finished her meal in silence. The men finally took their leave to go smoke cigars, and, fatigued, Cassandra went upstairs to her room.

She pulled out her journal. It looked exactly like any lady’s diary of that time, and though she’d begun practicing the archaic art of putting pen to paper a few months ago, the pages remained blank. There was a slim, golden bookmark attached with a clip to the book. Whenever she made an entry containing anachronistic information, she would run the bookmark over the page and her entry would disappear into the microscopic chips, residing both in the bookmark and the page. She dipped her pen into the inkwell.

January 15, 1820 – I met a young woman tonight, Rosalind, who is going to work as a nanny, obviously traveling alone, probably because there was no money for a maid or a companion. At least she has good lodgings, possibly paid for by the new employers so maybe they will be kind to her. The poor thing wasn’t unattractive; I suppose she has a chance of meeting a man and marrying, but if her family is so impoverished that they had to send her off to be a governess, that means she doesn’t have a dowry. I imagine she hasn’t had any marriage prospects thus far.

It makes me think that perhaps my own invention of a life as a wealthy widow is unrealistic. Most of these women had no say over their destinies
—
so often their husbands’ estates were left to surviving male relatives, whom their wives became dependent on. As the independent American, I am in an envious position.

At any rate, my year’s experiment has begun. This will be a fascinating time, learning from a perspective that no other research on the time period could ever hope to reveal. My one day here has already proven so interesting, so challenging. I am elated at the prospect of what lies before me.

Cassandra wiped out the final two paragraphs of her entry with the bookmark. She stretched. The room was warm and cozy from the fire that had been maintained while she was at dinner. She went through her nighttime beauty routine and climbed into bed. She had brought a couple of reproduced books with her, some of the Gothic novels Miss Austen so loved to satirize, so that she’d have them on hand and wouldn’t have to spend time in London searching for them. By the light of the candle, she read Ann Radcliffe’s
The Mysteries of Udolpho
until she finally blew out the flame. As the complete darkness enveloped her, the thrill of the story remained. For a moment, in Cassandra’s dreamlike wakefulness, fog swirled around a woman in a hooded cloak—the frail governess standing alone in the heath on the moors. In the next instant, without assistance from any potion, the time traveler fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning, Cassandra rose early, stirred up the fire, began to dress and pack up her things. She felt disgusting from not having had a proper bath. Hopefully I don’t smell too bad, she thought, God knows it’s going to be hard to go a year without a shower.

At eight Betsy appeared with her breakfast. The coach arrived precisely an hour later, and within a few moments, she bid farewell to the White Hart. A footman guided her step into the black, polished carriage pulled by four horses.

She stared out the window as the coach rattled on the cobblestone streets, passing closely packed shops with residences above them. The steps were well swept, the hanging signs brightly painted, and smartly dressed patrons hurried along, clutching their cloaks. The coach headed south and soon they were following the river. The spires of Westminster Abbey rose in the cold morning sun and Cassandra peered around to identify which other major landmarks of London had not changed between then and three hundred years in the future. Big Ben was not yet part of the skyline, nor certainly the London Eye or Grant Tower, the tallest building in Europe since the year 2100. But the Houses of Parliament were there, and farther south across the river she could just make out the top of Lambeth Palace. Her view of the Thames was suddenly blocked by a high brick wall that continued on for some time; it gave her an uneasy feeling of confinement and she was relieved when it was behind them.

The smell of rot began to penetrate the closed windows of the carriage. The streets ceased to be cobblestone and grew muddy with the urine of horses. The houses became narrower, squeezed more tightly together, some leaning against each other for support. A butcher exited his shop and flung a bucket of blood into the street, barely missing the coach. Children in rags scurried through the streets and Cassandra feared they would be crushed by the wheels of the many rushing vehicles. Once the coach was beyond the city proper, she noticed the neighborhoods grew prosperous again with large stone homes surrounded by gardens, now winter bare. The horses climbed a bridge over the Thames and Cassandra watched boats glide under and out from the other side. The countryside opened before her and she was struck by the stillness of it. The road narrowed, fewer people were walking, some on horseback, some in carts and coaches, all bundled against the freezing air, the sun impotent in the bright blue sky.

What a different a world it was, she thought, without rapid-rail lines, highway systems, and ground vehicles. By the year 2075, when Cassandra was ten years old, the rapid-rail system in the United States had been completed. She thought fondly of it now as she rode in the jolting carriage with no warmth other than the scratchy wool blankets provided. The rail system was elevated high off the ground and ran noiselessly. The cars were comfortable and sunny with domed roofs of flexi-glass to allow for an optimum view. It could deliver Cassandra from Boston all the way across the country to her grandmother’s in Portland, Oregon in only twenty-four hours.  

How odd, she thought, to be riding for so many hours with literally nothing to do but look out the window since it was too bumpy to read, or write in a journal. When the driver stopped to let the horses rest and drink water from a half-frozen pond just off the main road, she stepped out to stretch her legs. She pulled her arms inside her cloak for warmth and meandered a ways out into a meadow, brown with dead grass. There were no birds in the bare trees, no wind blew, no houses were near, and there was no one else traveling on the road.
The only sounds to be heard were the cajoling of the coachman as he unhitched the horses one by one and led them to the water, the light jingling of their bridles as they drank, an occasional soft whinny. It occurred to her that in her future world, one was always aware of the hum of civilization no matter where you were, even though
relatively noiseless cars ran along grooved roads that provided the needed energy; the super-sonic jets that streaked through the skies were nearly silent, and in the cities, sleek, efficient subway trains whooshed quietly underneath. But here, outside of the major towns, the silence was absolute.

They were soon on their way again and as she rode and observed the countryside she realized that it was also strange to be seeing so few buildings. In her world, she thought with satisfaction, at least billboards were now forbidden in most countries, and power lines unnecessary, but progress marched ever onward and Cassandra knew there was hardly a place on earth anymore where it didn’t leave its mark.
In this world there was nothing to mar the vista of fields, woods, stone fences, and hedgerows, just an occasional farm or manor house and the small towns that they traveled through.

They rode into the Village of Selborne with a short row of shops along High Street. She pressed her forehead against the window as they passed the house she recognized from her research as the Wakes, large and rambling with peaked garrets and multiple chimneys jutting up into the darkening sky, surrounded by gardens that she imagined infused with color in the spring. Its previous owner, renowned naturalist Gilbert White, had died two decades before, but was still considered the father of modern scientific documentation, meticulously journaling his thoughts and observations on the natural world.

Not long after they’d left Selborne behind, they turned onto a road surrounded on all sides by bare trees and shrubs, just wide enough for the coach to pass through. She was feeling nauseated from the ride and also hungry. She had the blankets wrapped around her tightly but her feet and face were frozen. She hoped it wouldn’t be long now. Ten minutes later the coach passed between high evergreen hedges, and Cassandra felt it must be entry to the Sorrel Hall grounds. Moments later, the view opened out onto the vast browns, greens, and yellows of the gardens and parkland, and there was the house in the distance. It was set on a slight hill and flanked by a sentinel of oaks, their branches reaching up past the roof. Beyond the house, Cassandra could perceive a massive stretch of lawn and a silver glimmer of lake, and surrounding it, rolling hills and dense forests. A gazebo was off to the left, perched elegantly on a hill, and to the right, down a gentle slope at the edge of the woods, she spied a fairy tale cottage that could have been made of gingerbread, a ribbon of smoke rising from its chimney. The sun was setting and the world glowed in a soft, pink light.

Sorrel Hall was more beautiful than she ever imagined. It was two stories, built of pale yellow stone. Garrets on the two front corners and the peaked roof of the nursery in the center added a third story. Tall windows lined both levels, and on the two front, lower corners, bay windows jutted out from diminutive towers. Jake and Cassandra had considered, in the days between his return from 1820 and her own departure, driving down to Hampshire to see the grounds, as the manor was now an elite boarding school. She had decided against it, for she wanted to experience it in its original glory. She was grateful she had waited.

The coach pulled up to the front of the building, and the footman leapt off to open the carriage door and help her out. She flexed her stiff knees and stretched her back, then paid the driver and turned to face the house. The grand front doors opened, and the housekeeper stepped out, greeting Cassandra with a stony stare. She was a woman of about fifty, sturdy, and handsome, with strong bones, clear gray eyes, and steely hair pulled back neatly into a bun.

“Mrs. Franklin.” the housekeeper stated without expression as Cassandra walked up the steps.

“You must be Mrs. Merriweather!” she replied, remembering the woman’s name from Jake’s notes.

“Yes. Welcome. Footman!” she commanded. “Bring that in here,” and directed him to carry the luggage inside. Cassandra tipped him and then nervously stepped through the doorway. She pulled herself up straight and tried to feel like the mistress of the manor. The walls of the entryway were paneled in golden oak, and the floor was pale green marble, worn from a hundred years of use. There was a chandelier wrought of intricate ironwork and countless crystal teardrops suspended from the high ceiling. There were two small, marble-topped tables on either side of the door, and a few steps beyond, a large, elaborately carved, cedar armoire for coats. The entryway culminated in a grand stairway to the back of which, and on either side, were two sets of French doors, candlelight sparkling invitingly through the glass. On the left and right sides of the entryway were four more sets of French doors, the closer of which were delicately curtained in lace. Mrs. Merriweather led her through the first set of doors on the left.

“Please sit down if you care to; I shall order tea. Mary,” she called to a short, plain-looking maid, “come take Mrs. Franklin’s cloak.”

“Thank you very much,” Cassandra said to Mary, “but I shall keep my cloak for now.” She clutched it against the chill of the interior. “I shall have tea in a while, but at the moment would very much like a glass of water.” The maid scurried off to fetch it. “I should like to examine the house if you do not mind.” Her tone was commanding and Mrs. Merriweather nodded her assent. Cassandra then turned to admire the room she had just entered. Her nerves were getting the better of her, and she had to fight the urge to giggle as she beheld the beautiful space. It was not as formal as she had expected. The chairs and sofa were plump and newly upholstered in rich fabrics, with carved, marble-topped low tables of mottled gray placed conveniently about. The fire in the large fireplace was blazing—ineffectually. It reflected off a shining, wood parquet floor, scattered with Turkish carpets of vivid reds and rusts. The front of the room faced out onto the approach of the house, and through the many tall windows the countryside beyond could be seen in the waning light. There was a built-in seating area within the circular bay windows in the right front corner of the room. It was covered with velvet green cushions where, Cassandra imagined, she would lounge and enjoy the view from the gothic windows framing it.

She turned her attention to the grand piano, a Broadwood, one of the finest English pianos ever made, she well knew, situated near the front windows.

“I must take a moment to try the instrument,” she said to Merriweather.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Cassandra detected resentment in the woman’s tone. Pretending not to notice, she sat down, opened the cover, and began to play a little minuet by Mozart. She had only meant to play a few measures to test the piano’s quality, but once she began, she couldn’t stop. She ended the last chord and glanced over at Mrs. Merriweather to see her face soften before she turned away.

Cassandra wondered how the housekeeper felt about the landowners. Jake had told her that the Collins had raised five children in the home; three of them married girls, and there were two boys. The parents had managed their finances badly, and the eldest son’s debts from gambling were so great that they decided to move to Bath where they could live less expensively in a townhouse. The younger son was a parson, unmarried, and still lived in the rectory on the property about a mile away. Cassandra imagined that Mrs. Merriweather had been displeased about the family’s decision to leave and turn over the house to a stranger.

She rose from the piano and asked if she could be shown the rest of the house; the housekeeper nodded her assent. “Though you will want to look it all over again in the light of the day,” she commented, “I will take you through now, so that you can admire the rooms by lamplight.”

She led Cassandra across the entry hall, through the opposite French doors and into a parlor, identical in dimensions to the one they had just left, but furnished with stiff, brocade chairs and sofas, spindly side tables and flowery rugs and draperies. Cassandra knew she would never use this room for herself. This was the parlor for receiving company, and it seemed cold and uncomfortable compared to the opposite room.

“The Collins much preferred the sitting room to this parlor,” said Mrs. Merriweather.

“And so do I,” replied Cassandra. “Though it is lovely,” she added politely.

A glimmer of a smile flitted across the housekeeper’s face. Mary arrived with the water and Cassandra drank it in a few great swallows then handed the glass back to the maid. The girl looked from the glass to Mrs. Merriweather, while Cassandra instantly regretted her action. The housekeeper nodded Mary away and turned to lead her new mistress back into the entry hall and through another set of doors into the dining room. Beyond it was the breakfast room with windows facing to the east. A door to the left led them into the warm kitchen, where the servants had gathered to eat. The kitchen was capacious, had a pump sink, a wide hearth hung with pots, copper pans lining the walls, and herbs and strings of garlic and onions dangling from the ceiling. Cassandra liked the look of it; she enjoyed cooking, but although she would be helping to plan the meals, she would not be expected to help prepare them.

Mrs. Merriweather introduced Cassandra to the assembled staff, at once on their feet upon her entering the kitchen. She nodded at them with a smile and they each nodded in return. As Mrs. Merriweather began to lead her back out again, Cassandra tapped her shoulder, and whispered to her that she required the water closet. The woman indicated a door off the kitchen, which Cassandra hastened to open. There she found a narrow hallway and the first door she opened revealed nothing but a wooden seat with a hole in it. With some difficulty she gathered up her cloak, petticoat and skirt, yanked down her drawers and sat. Cold radiated up from some unknowable source and she gasped. She finished peeing and looked around for something to wipe with. There were a pile of clean rags next to the seat, so she used one and deposited it in a bucket on the floor with others. The room stank and she hoped that the water closet she would be using on a regular basis would be more pleasant than this one, which she assumed was for the staff’s use.