A Flight of Fancy (3 page)

“No—no, sir. I was the scholarly one of the family.”

The reason Cassandra said she had first taken an interest in a younger son rather than his dashing older brother, John.

“I never thought I’d become the earl. Though,” he added with a need to defend himself a bit, “the Luddite rebellion taught
me a bit more about the use of firearms and blades. Still, I am not in your class.”

“And if my daughter so much as loses a toe, let alone dies from her burns, I will be sorely tempted to forget that fact.” Despite the harshness of his tone and words, Bainbridge’s eyes glistened with unshed tears.

He was a harsh and often dictatorial father, but no one, not even the daughters who complained of his strict rules, doubted that he loved them, especially after the events of the spring.

Whittaker held the obsidian gaze. “It would be nothing less than I deserve, my lord. I fully confess that I am in the wrong.”

Not that Cassandra had protested against his advances. On the contrary. She read things in Greek and Latin her family would never approve of. Probably things a Christian lady, let alone a single one, should not read at all. Things no lady should read, perhaps. She was curious, something he loved about her and despaired over at times.

If she died, he would have worse things over which to despair—guilt, the hole her absence would leave in his life . . .

He suddenly had the urge to run out of Bainbridge House and seek the quiet shelter of his house in Grosvenor Square, where he could send out his valet on a trumped-up errand to give himself the privacy to release his fear and pain in unmanly tears.

He swallowed down the impulse and held his ground. “I love Cassandra and will marry her no matter what happens, so long as she lives.”

And she would live. Whittaker vowed to get on his knees and pray for a day, a week, however long it took to ensure Cassandra did not succumb to any of the ways people died from serious burns.

“The wedding,” Bainbridge pronounced like a judge giving
a prisoner his sentence, “will of course be postponed yet again. You may leave now. We will keep you informed as to her condition and progress.”

Whittaker stared at the older man. “I cannot stay to see what the apothecary says? I would like to see her.”

“I expect she has been dosed with laudanum.” Bainbridge’s mouth twisted and his jutting chin grew more firm. “For the pain.”

“Of course.” Whittaker’s arm began to pulse with pain too. It was one blister the size of the pad of his thumb, big enough it would leave a scar but nothing serious, nothing debilitating. But Cassandra’s entire skirt . . .

Unable to hold back the lump rising in his throat, he swung toward the door. “Send someone for me with news, please.”

“Of course.” Bainbridge was as cold as the torched gown had been hot.

Whittaker hurried to the front door. He did not wait for the footman to open the portal but flung the latch up himself and raced into the night, to the cooler, if not fresher air of the city. Not until he reached his house in Grosvenor Square did he realize he had forgotten that his coachman and footman had vanished into the night. No matter. They would come home, and he could send them for news.

But when they arrived in the mews, shame-faced and contrite, having missed him at Bainbridge House, they did not have any information other than the apothecary calling in a physician. Other than them arguing between the use of ice or oil on the burns. Other than both agreeing Miss Bainbridge should be kept sedated, for she cried out in pain when awake.

The wedding was postponed too late to stop half a dozen of Whittaker’s relatives from arriving in town. Whittaker sent his mother to Bainbridge House to make enquiries. Five days had passed since the celebrations that ended in riots and burnings in protest over too few illuminations to honor Wellington’s victory. Five days since the torch caught Cassandra’s skirt on fire. Five days since Whittaker’s conversation with Lord Bainbridge in the library. No one had sent him word of any kind, and his own enquiries had gone unanswered. When he called at Cavendish Square, the porter told him the family was not at home, which was too absurd a lie for response. But surely they would allow Lady Whittaker into the house, if not the sickroom.

They did. An hour after departure, Mother returned home, her beautiful face blotchy, her eyes puffy as though she had been weeping.

“I am so sorry, my son.” She pressed a damp cheek against Whittaker’s. “Lady Bainbridge’s companion and Miss Honore received me. Miss Honore gave me this.” She handed him a folded but unsealed piece of foolscap. “And yes, I did read it.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

Whittaker sat down at his desk, the strength having left his bones. Mother would not be crying if Miss Honore had conveyed something good.

She hadn’t. The note was short and scrawling, as though penned in a hurry.

Cass wants me to tell you, W, that she never wishes to see you again. HB.

3

“The last place I want to go right now,” Cassandra declared from the chaise longue in the corner of her bedchamber, “is Lancashire.”

The last place she wanted to go was anywhere near people, not two floors below her bedchamber, let alone be more than two hundred miles north of London and mere yards from Geoffrey Giles, Earl of Whittaker and his dear, dear mama.

“Just take me home to Devonshire,” she continued.

“But we cannot.” Mama perched on the stool to the dressing table, her thin white hands clasping and unclasping on the lap of her blue cambric dress. “We will not be there.”

“His lordship is hiding us in Scotland until this new scandal dies down,” Barbara Bainbridge added.

Cassandra’s younger sister, Honore, flopped inelegantly onto the bed, sending her golden curls tumbling from their ribbons. “
Bainbridge
is going to become a byword for
scandal
if this continues. First Lydia takes up with a French spy—”

“Honore Elizabeth, that is enough,” Mama scolded.

Cassandra shifted on the chaise, a welcome change after four weeks in bed, but nothing truly lent comfort to the legs with
streaks and whirls of smooth or puckered flesh pulling taut on undamaged skin and muscle. That would improve with mild exercise, the physician had assured her. Some of the scars would even fade. Some would be there forever as a reminder of her folly. Of her sinful nature.

She leaned her head into the corner of the chaise and closed her eyes. “Take me to Scotland with you then.”

Hundreds of miles from anyone she knew and from Geoffrey Giles, Lord Whittaker.

Honore sighed. “Because we have not been invited. This is for old people.”

“Honore Elizabeth, that is not true and you know it.” Mama’s scold sounded as effective as a whack with a handkerchief.

The icy glare Barbara shot from behind Lady Bainbridge slammed into Cassandra as well as Honore. “Your mother has suffered enough distress over the past few months because of her daughters. Children are to be a delight, not a burden, and the three of you have caused nothing but trouble.”

“Yes, Honore,” Cassandra drawled like a bored young Corinthian at a gaming table, “we mustn’t forget your
tendre
for—”

“Do not mention that name around me!” With a shriek, Honore bounded off the bed. “I made a fool of myself, I know, but it will not happen again, which is why I am going to Lancashire with you. I will meet respectable men in Lancashire, if any men at all.”

“You may have Whittaker.” Cassandra managed the pronouncement with a smile and a flippant tone in full force. “I expect he is honorable to a lady who isn’t a freak.”

“A freak?” Honore stared at Cassandra. “You’re not a freak. I mean, it is not like anyone will see your . . . um . . . legs.”

“A husband will.” Cassandra swallowed the lump rising in
her throat and willed back the tears threatening to spill from her lashes.

“For shame, the two of you.” Barbara’s face turned as red as a costermonger’s apples.

“It isn’t proper talk for unmarried young ladies,” Mama agreed.

If only Mama knew . . . But everyone protected Mama from the truth of her middle daughter’s wantonness. Father knew. He’d almost called Whittaker out for nearly dishonoring Cassandra, as though it were all Whittaker’s fault, as if she weren’t complicit in, or even responsible for, their behavior the night of the fire. She had played the frightened maiden when she hadn’t been frightened at all. She simply wanted to be held, reassured that he loved her in spite of her interest in ballooning. And once she had him enamored with his attraction to her, she would ask him not to forbid her ballooning once they were wed.

Oh, but she was a wicked, wicked girl. Surely her burns, the pain she had suffered these past four weeks—pain so intense she wanted to down the entire bottle of laudanum to deaden the agony forever—were God’s punishment for her iniquities. She had been right in the spring—she and Whittaker should not be together.

The dam broke and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Leave me, everyone. I am not going to Whittaker Hall this week, this month, or this year. I will not r-risk seeing him.” Her voice broke on a sob to go with the tears. She wanted to crawl under the chaise and hide until they all left her alone. “I am one and twenty now. I do not need your permission to go anywhere.”

“But you need money,” Honore sang out.

That was a bit of an inconvenience. If she did not do what
her parents wanted, they could cut off her pin money and she would have no means of support. No one would hire a governess or companion who needed a cane to hobble around.

“The sea air will do you good at Whittaker Hall,” Mama said.

Neither she nor Honore nor Barbara seemed to notice Cassandra blowing her nose and mopping at her eyes. They had all seen her, the quiet, stoic one, weep too much in the past month to pay it any attention. It was the laudanum, the doctor said, and now the effects of taking less each day until she no longer depended on it to dull her pain. It wasn’t working anyway now, not dampening the ache in her soul.

She could go to Lydia and Christien if they were home in Shropshire. But they were taking a delayed wedding journey to a location they had not disclosed, quite possibly so Cassandra could not run to them.

“Lady Whittaker wants you there,” Mama persisted. “And the Hall will be easier for you to manage than that drafty castle in Sutherland your father wishes to visit for—what is it, Barbara? Pheasant shooting? As if England doesn’t have enough pheasants of its own.”

“I believe it is salmon fishing,” Barbara said. “And England doesn’t seem to have those.”

“Ugh.” Honore shuddered, then turned her huge, deep-blue eyes on Cassandra. “Whittaker isn’t even home right now. His mama has assured us of that, and she has promised us some entertain—” She gulped.

“Dancing, perchance?” Cassandra asked dryly.

Honore charged across the room and hugged Cassandra gently, as though she were a woman-shaped egg and would break if handled with anything other than the utmost care. “Oh, Cassie, you’ll dance beautifully again. The physician said so.”

“Peculiar, that.” Cassandra offered her sister a twisted, damp smile. “I could not dance before.”

“Levity at a time like this.” Barbara sniffed.

At least not going to Scotland would keep Cassandra from her mother’s companion. How Lydia had managed to live with their increasingly bitter spinster cousin for seven years went beyond Cassandra’s ken.

She could become just as dried up, as sharp-tongued and disapproving, now that she would never marry. Though her scholarly interests might save her. Especially her interest in flight. If she could fly, float through the heavens like one of the clouds, forget the world below . . . If she could do something important like create a balloon that could be steered, make a living giving expeditions, as did Sophie Blanchard in France . . .

Or perhaps she could learn a new language. Study Hebrew and translate the Old Testament of the Bible just for the entertainment of it. Or Sanskrit. Or Arabic. Yes, Arabic was closer.

The laudanum was talking in her head again, fogging her brain without dulling the pain.

“May I please have some coffee?” Cassandra asked. “I can make a better decision then.”

“There is no decision to be made.” Barbara gave out another one of her sniffs.

“You may have some coffee,” Mama said. “Honore, will you—that’s a good girl. We all head north day after tomorrow.”

Honore pulled the bell rope by the bed, two quick tugs, a pause, and two more—a signal Cassandra had devised so she could get what she needed quickly while completely bedridden the first weeks after her accident.

At least everyone called it an accident. Cassandra called it an act of God, a divine spanking.

“Barbara shall go arrange the packing.” Mama rose, one hand braced on the dressing table, suggesting she felt weak that day despite the sunshine and mild temperatures. Not consumption, the physicians assured the family, but she never had recovered from a lung fever the previous winter. Perhaps Barbara was right and the antics of her daughters drained Mama of her vitality.

One more whack to Cassandra’s conscience.

She glared at her sister, wanting Honore to go away too. But as Mama, holding onto Barbara’s arm, departed from the bedchamber, Honore sank onto the vacated stool and began to remove pins from her hair and scatter them about the table and floor.

“I shall keep you company.”

“I do not want any company.”

“Which is precisely why you shall have it. We will strategize our time at Whittaker Hall.”

“I’d prefer to strategize a way of eluding time at Whittaker Hall.” Cassandra shifted to a sitting position, her slippered feet on the floor. Although her right ankle bore a burn that would surely leave a scar forever, her feet had been spared. She would not be permanently lame. She needed to walk, and walking in the city was impossible, if not outright unpleasant, what with a few people being in town and giving her pitying looks. Lancashire would give her more than enough space for walking, especially with the hunting season not opening until after Christmas. At least, not fox hunting. And all that open land for ballooning.