A Flight of Fancy (17 page)

Cassandra stared down at her book with the note from Whittaker peeking out the top. “I will never do as a countess, and we . . . I think God has other plans for your son and for me. And those plans do not mean the two of us together.”

“Why are you so certain of this, my dear? Geoffrey was so happy—ah, the tea.”

The door beneath the staircase swung open on a draft that sent sparks flying up the chimney with a roar as a maid appeared with a tray. China clinked against silver, and a billow of steam from the spout of the teapot promised a hot refreshment.

“Just set the tray here, Molly.” Lady Whittaker indicated a table beside her chair.

The maid did so, then stepped back, her small, plump hands twisting in her snowy apron. “Milady, begging your pardon, but Tims said I ought to be telling you straightaway about the bell in Miss Bainbridge’s room.”

“What about the bell? And why was Tims in the house?” Her ladyship’s gaze focused on the maid.

“I know as how he’s naught but a groom, milady, but he’s
right handy with mechanics things like the bellpulls, and when we in the kitchen noticed how it weren’t working when we pulled it, we had him come in to have a look.”

“If he is good at mechanical things, I can understand that.” Lady Whittaker nodded. “Go on then. What did he say?”

“He says—” The maid shot Cassandra a troubled glance, then returned her focus on her mistress. “He says as how the one in Miss Bainbridge’s room has been disconnected like—”

“Like what?” Cassandra posed the question on a sudden chill running up her spine.

“Well, um, I don’t like to say it.”

“Say it,” Lady Bainbridge commanded, her gentle voice suddenly hard. “How was it disconnected?”

“It were cut, milady.” The maid looked as though she were about to burst into tears. “I didn’t want to say aught, but you asked for the tea and someone had to say and—it weren’t none of us, milady. I’ll promise before the vicar or anyone I speak the truth. We all will.”

“Molly, you dear child.” Lady Bainbridge reached out and patted the girl’s hand. “Of course none of you did this to Miss Bainbridge. The question is, who did?” Lady Whittaker mused aloud. “If you hear of anything, even what you might think is simply gossip, do come tell me, all right?”

“Yes, milady.” Molly dipped into a curtsy, a silent plea to be dismissed puckering her face.

Lady Whittaker nodded and the girl fled, no messenger killed this time.

“I expect it was one of Geoffrey’s cousins playing a prank.” Lady Whittaker bent over the tea tray and poured a cup of fragrant bohea. “Milk or lemon?”

“Lemon, thank you.” Cassandra tucked Whittaker’s letter
into her book and set it aside so she could accept the cup her ladyship handed over. She cradled the warmth between her hands, not realizing how cold they had become until she touched the tea-warmed china. She inhaled the sharp citrus tang of the lemon wedge floating in the dark brew, hoping it would clear her head, exchange the dark thoughts in her mind for sensible ones.

One sensible notion was that her bellpull had not been working since before the cousins arrived. Neither of them could have found the line to the attics and severed it so quickly. Likely only one person in the house other than the servants even knew how the lines ran. Yet why would he play such a mean trick on her?

For the same reason he had reminded her, with one word, how her holding the coverlet up to her chin while he was in her bedchamber was false modesty around him, had reminded her of her shame. She had hurt him—his pride, if nothing else. Wounded people, like wounded animals, lashed out when hurt. He’d regretted his words even before she called him a swine for saying such a thing to her. She had read it on his face. Now the two acts of unkindness, of ungodly behavior, lay between them, hidden and festering like the sore on her ankle.

That, however, was far different than cutting her bellpull. Not letting her contact a servant for assistance when she needed it was too low. He simply would not do such a thing no matter how wounded his pride or even his heart. But who else in the house cared to discommode her?

“You look troubled, my dear.” Lady Bainbridge broke into Cassandra’s thoughts. “Surely you do not think this was anything beyond a prank.”

“It is just such an odd prank.” Cassandra sipped at her tea.

“But easily repaired.” Lady Bainbridge sighed. “Perhaps Tims can repair it, though Geoffrey can likely fix it himself once his
arm is better. But I have been wondering what would happen next and hope this is all it is.”

“My lady?” Her ladyship’s words made no sense to Cassandra.

Lady Bainbridge laughed, albeit without much humor in the sound. “The saying that troubles come in threes? First your accident happens, then Geoffrey is shot by someone on the side of right while he is trying to defend his mill, and now someone is playing tricks on you. Far better this than something worse.”

“Indeed.”

And her ladyship did not count the broken betrothal in the troubles.

“Of course,” Lady Whittaker continued, “Geoffrey would say that calling off the wedding again is a serious trouble. I do believe he shed a tear or a few over that, you know.”

Cassandra managed to refrain from a derisive snort—barely. The pounding of the door knocker saved her from having to say anything.

Though she shifted as though prepared to leap up and answer it herself, Lady Whittaker awaited one of the maids to emerge from the servants’ quarters to open the wide portal. Molly did so, dragging the thick, varnished wood back to a blast of chilly, hay-scented air and a sight that nearly brought Cassandra leaping to her feet.

She managed to stay in her chair yet could not suppress her smile or spontaneous reaction. “Mr. Sorrells. Mr. Kent.”

“Ah, Miss Bainbridge.” Philip Sorrells strode forward and clasped her outstretched hand. “So good to see you up and about again.”

“I trust we are not intruding?” Roger Kent addressed Lady Whittaker, bowing in more formal and proper greeting.

Blushing, Mr. Sorrells turned and bowed likewise. “Do forgive
my ill manners, my lady. I was overcome by joy to see our dear Miss Bainbridge looking so much better.”

“I understand.” She might understand, but a crease had formed between Lady Whittaker’s brows, and she did not smile. “I thought you said you were returning to—where are you from? Bristol men, are you?”

“Brighton, my lady.” Mr. Sorrells’s normally warm voice had turned as cold as a pond with ice rimming the edges, as he was apparently quite aware of the insult Lady Whittaker had dealt the two young men. “And Roger here is from Gloucester.”

“We met at the University of Glasgow,” Mr. Kent said, either unaware of or not heeding the tension in the room. “Both quite failing to become physicians.”

“But learning enough science to know balloon flight is possible and that Miss Bainbridge is the most intelligent female we have ever known.”

“More so than half the students at university,” Mr. Kent added.

Cassandra glowed under such praise. Her insides jumped and bounced with the urge to ask them questions about their flight, the effect the rain had upon them, how well the sails had steered them back. She compressed her lips to hold in the spate of enquiries until the gentlemen were seated, more cups and fresh tea produced along with a plate of Shrewsbury biscuits and seedcake, and comments about the bright but fine weather exchanged.

Finally, she burst out, “Tell me all about it. Did you get drenched in the rain? Did it harm the fire? Where did you—”

“Wait, wait.” Laughing, Mr. Sorrells lifted a hand holding a sweet. “One at a time.”

“The sails aren’t particularly useful yet,” Mr. Kent pronounced.
“But we did manage to land back in the field by changing our elevation to catch different wind shears.”

“Landing was a bit difficult,” Mr. Sorrells said, “without any torches.”

“The rain was a difficulty with that,” Cassandra began, then caught Lady Whittaker’s gaze upon her and shut her mouth before she admitted she had been lighting torches in the middle of the night for the gentlemen.

Mr. Sorrells finished his biscuit. “Never you mind that, Miss Bainbridge. It all went well. We were able to fill the balloon with enough air to rise above the rain and stayed almost perfectly dry.”

“More than did those on the ground.” Lady Whittaker looked directly at Cassandra.

“So sorry you got a chill from getting soaked,” Mr. Kent said.

Mr. Sorrells shot him a murderous glare.

“No matter, my friends.” Cassandra set her cold and barely touched tea aside. “I believe her ladyship knows I was out there. Lord Whittaker did already.”

His mother started. “He did? Is that how you saw him that night, Cassandra?”

“Yes, he was kind enough to assist us in our ascent,” Mr. Kent said before Cassandra found a proper response. “Most kind of him.”

“His intention was not to be kind,” Cassandra pointed out. “It was to ensure I did not go with you.”

“I suspected as much.” Mr. Sorrells glanced at Lady Whittaker. “Next time we will ensure nothing stops you from going up, Miss Bainbridge.”

Innards quivering like a bowl of jellied eels, Cassandra leaned forward. “Will you? I mean, you know I want this above anything. When will it be?”

“We are not certain.” Mr. Kent turned his attention on Lady Whittaker, who was stiff and scowling in her chair. “We need to improve the way we seal the balloon to keep it from leaking air. Our current formula isn’t working all that well.”

“Of course.” Cassandra leaned back in her chair, pretending to be relaxed, a little indifferent. She had understood her friends’ message—they would not give details in front of someone else who so clearly disapproved of balloon ascensions for Miss Bainbridge.

She nodded. “I have been working on a new formula for sealing the silk. Where are you staying? I will send over my new receipt.”

They gave her the name of their inn along the road to the Dale, then changed the topic to the mundane again and departed after a proper half hour.

Cassandra hated to see them depart. She wanted to talk more of balloons and formulas, but she understood that doing so in front of Whittaker’s mother was not wise. She could make arrangements to meet them with no one else the wiser, especially now that even Honore had people to entertain and keep her entertained. First, however, she would have to get through more conversation with Lady Whittaker.

Except she did not stay to continue their earlier dialogue. Murmuring something about seeing if Tims could assist Whittaker in repairing the bellpull, she left the hall soon after Mr. Sorrells and Mr. Kent, gathered up the tea things herself, and disappeared through the baize-covered door to the servants’ quarters.

Hearing the riding party returning, Cassandra beat a hasty retreat to her bedchamber. The sight of her bed brought on a wave of fatigue, and she lay down for a brief rest before supper.
It turned into a sleep so deep she did not even hear Honore go into her room to change from her riding dress, and supper arrived by way of a tray in her room because the hour of the meal had passed.
Gulliver’s Travels
, which she had left in the hall, lay on the tray. Beneath her notes on satirical points in the tale, a familiar hand had scrawled,
You are a bit harsh to our ancestors.

Whittaker, of course. Next time she saw him, she would ask him why her observations were harsh and not reasonable. They could have one of their good arguments, one of their—

She shook her head against a wave of emptiness at realizing those arguments would probably never happen again, and shook out her napkin.

Another note fluttered to the floor. This handwriting was far different, less legible. She picked it up with some difficulty and held it close enough to her nose to read it without her spectacles.

Next Monday. Three of the clock. Dunstans’ east meadow. Will try new sealant day after tomorrow. Dunstans’ west meadow. Yours, PS.

As cryptic as the words were, Cassandra understood Philip Sorrells’s note perfectly. The next ascension would be in five days. If she was there, she could go up.

She was going to fly.

15

“Miss Irving would be an excellent catch, do you not think so, my lord?”

Whittaker halted on his way across the garden and spun around to face Miss Honore Bainbridge. Her cheeks glowed pink in the brisk wind from the sea, and she breathed hard from racing after him. He had heard her footfalls but hoped he could outwalk her. If he stopped now, he might not catch up with Cassandra, who had left thirty minutes earlier but moved far more slowly. But he was too well-bred to not respond to a lady speaking directly to him.

“Yes, I expect she will be . . . for someone else.” He began walking again, though more slowly. “Now, if you will please excuse me, I need to catch up with Cassandra, as I do not know where she is going.”

Miss Honore fell into step beside him. “She is at the Dunstan home farm, or will be soon. Something about painting silk with some chemical process so the balloon stops leaking air.”

Whittaker closed his eyes for a moment, envisioned Cassandra catching herself on fire with a chemical explosion, and increased his pace. “Has she no sense?”

“Have you no sense?” Miss Honore grabbed his arm. His wounded arm, out of the sling sooner than the apothecary advised but healing well just the same. Still, the yank on it felt like a blow, and he glared at her.

She scowled right back. “If you stop her from this, you will never win her back.”

“And if I do not, I may not have her to win back.”

Miss Honore frowned, bit her lower lip, then released his arm. “All right, we shall join her so we can ensure her safety. Will that do as a compromise?”

“I suppose it must, if you can keep up with me.”

“I caught up with you, did I not?”

“You are rather impertinent to your elders, are you not, Miss Honore?”

She giggled. “You are barely four years older than I am, Whittaker.”

“Right now, child, I feel forty years older. Now speak your peace so we may be done with it before we catch up with Cassandra.”