Chapter Two

Lila and I stared at each other. My mind flew to my childhood home, North Commons Abbey, and the stable there. Besides the head hostler, there were two under-hostlers and six stable boys. My sisters and I each enjoyed our own riding horse with no thought of its care. When we wanted to ride, we ordered our horses. Someone else groomed our mounts, tended their hooves, saddled them, and cleaned their stalls.

I blushed at the notion that Dr. Carter thought us—me especially—quite useless. “I am sure we will manage, Lila.”

“Well, it seems we must!”

Carter rose. “The rain falls still, ladies. Let us repair to the kitchen and make chowder. Mattie, you will not be sorry to take a pot of it home to the farm?”

“It would be welcome, sir.”

Something in the air of John Carter caused one to quietly accede to his wishes. Even Lila could not resist his call, and we followed him into the kitchen. Mattie lit the coal stove while Dr. Carter talked of the proper cooking of clams.

“Look here, ladies. In this corner is a vat filled with water and cornmeal. After one captures clams, one places them in this vat for three days. They ingest cornmeal, which replaces sand and mud in their bellies. We will place the new clams in the vat and remove the seasoned clams for cooking.”

Lila and I peered into the vat. Mr. Carter filled two large iron kettles with water and placed them on the stove. The cooking lesson began and soon two wonderful-smelling soups steamed and bubbled.

“There are two distinct types of chowder,” declared Carter. “One receipt calls for adding tomatoes, onions, and potatoes to the broth—the chopped clams, as I told you earlier, go in last.”

“And the other type?” asked Lila.

“Potatoes, onions, and perhaps corn go into the pot—no tomatoes. When the vegetables are soft, one adds the clams and then a cup or so of heavy cream and a few dashes of sherry. I prefer the cream version, but Mattie prefers the tomato one; therefore, we can demonstrate the cookery of each and she can take her preferred chowder home to her family.”

The lesson continued. When all was completed, we sat in Dr. Carter’s dining parlor—all of us, even Mattie—and enjoyed the delicious soup, along with crusty bread and cold white wine. I ate more than I had on any occasion since the day my angry father had put me in the North Commons coach on the first leg of my journey to the west.

Later, as we three women trudged home in the cloudy afternoon, Lila took my arm and whispered, “You must be on your guard, Cassie, for it is evident that John Carter admires you greatly.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, that is not possible. What on earth would cause you to make such a silly statement?”

“Silly? I caught him staring at you when you turned away to speak to Mattie. And I am not taken in by his desire to have my nursing assistance. A convenient excuse to call on us, no doubt.”

I smiled. “Perhaps he finds you to his liking, Lila.”

“Ridiculous! I am a good five years older than he, and he has an air…”

“Does he?”

“Yes, an air of loneliness, as if his heart is open to a woman who can attract him, if such a one exists. I have a sense of these matters, and I advise you to remain aloof from him, lest he become even more besotted than he already is.”

“I will heed your warning, but I believe you are mistaken.”

****

I awoke the next morning to sunshine, and my first conscious thought was that yesterday I had made a friend! I laughed at myself as I dressed. Mrs. Stanfield of London’s fashionable Wimpole Street would never have stooped so low as to befriend a village physician; and yet I had spent several happy hours in the company of just such a man. Mrs. Stanfield, leader of London society, had waded in the sea, captured clams, and made soup in a cottage kitchen!

Entering the dining parlor, I encountered my sister. She was leafing through a pile of books and papers and for once did not find a reason to scold me.

“Are you searching for something, Lila?”

“Yes, a receipt given me years ago by the housekeeper at North Commons Abbey. It is for the rum torte she made every Michaelmas. I mentioned it to Dr. Carter yesterday, and he suggested I find the receipt so we could try to create the cake. Ah! Here ’tis!”

“Dr. Carter seems a worthy gentleman,” I commented idly, as I poured tea.

“Indeed. I like him. However, do not forget my caution as to encouraging him.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Did Mattie fetch the post? Are there any letters?”

“They are on the chest in the parlor as always.”

I hurried to the parlor. Letters were my only connection to my past life, and my main correspondent was my former lady’s maid, Rosamund Quinn. There were two letters from her. I settled into a chair but did not immediately open the earliest. I gazed out the parlor window toward the lane, and my thoughts wandered into the past.

I once hated Rosamund as my bitterest enemy. She had come to live at North Commons Abbey at age nine, a mousy, timid creature. Her mother, a highborn woman of good family, had married unprosperously. Her husband died after a few years and left her nearly penniless. Rosamund came to North Commons to learn the duties of a lady’s maid and, in a sense, had grown up with us: me, my younger sister, Aleta, and my brother Frederick. Lila, ten years older than me, had already married. My elder brother, Winslow John, a year younger than Lila, was sowing his wild oats in London before he had to take command of the estate in his father’s stead.

Aleta and I were not kind to the poor mouse Rosamund. We were not unkind, but we did not behave to her in such a way as to lessen her fears of us all—but Frederick did. He was her friend and champion, and the poor girl worshipped him as a god.

Time passed, and we all grew into young women. Aleta and I, blessed with golden hair, sparkling eyes with thick dark lashes, and slender figures, were cried up as “the belles of Kent.” Invitations to balls and parties and teas and picnics flowed in continually. Rosamund had attained considerable skill as a lady’s maid, although she was still timid and rather bookish. Her face was pretty and her figure light and slender, but she kept to her duties with downcast eyes and spoke only when necessary. The only circumstance that would bring a smile to her face and excitement to her air was the appearance of Frederick. When he entered a room where she was sewing or reading or assisting us in some manner, her face would glow with pleasure.

My mother, suffering from imaginary ill health, shirked her duties as our chaperone and left them to her elder daughter. Lila looked about for a great match for me and settled on Mr. Charles Stanfield, with ten thousand pounds a year and a fine old family estate. While I dutifully danced with and charmed Mr. Stanfield, following my sister’s orders, I fell in love with Bartholomew Loch, the cousin of my sister’s husband, Silas Loch, the vicar of North Commons Parish. When I ventured to inform my sister that I liked him, she told me he was “not suitable.”

“He is a gamester and a vicious seducer. Before he died, old Mr. Loch paid out pounds more than once to settle Bart’s gambling debts and pay off the families of women he ruined.”

“I can hardly believe he is so wicked,” I replied in the innocence of youth. “Where is the proof of such accusations?”

“I have no proof, only the word of my husband. And do not ask for further information. Mr. Silas Loch says the details are not fit for female ears.”

But young women are not always wise. Although it was difficult for Bartholomew and me to escape the watchful eyes of our family, we met clandestinely several times. He swore that he loved me, and I could barely control his roaming hands when he kissed me, so great was my passion for him. I was sure he would offer marriage, and I could then break my engagement to Mr. Stanfield.

But, alas, there was one person in the household who was not blind to my assignations with Bart—Rosamund! She did not inform my sister of my indiscretions; she went straight to my father. I awoke on a rainy Sunday morning with my life in tatters. Bart had fled the parsonage, my father lectured me for an hour, and Lila informed me I was no better than a tart on the streets of London.

I wanted to break my engagement to Mr. Stanfield, but my father would not hear of it. “I have given him my word as a gentleman,” he informed me. “You agreed to marry him, and I gave my written permission. To withdraw would drop us into the severest disgrace.”

My every emotion of sadness and fear turned into anger at Rosamund. I dismissed her from her duties and forced one of the upstairs maids to care for my clothing and brush my hair. Rosamund cried and begged forgiveness, saying she had betrayed me for my own good.

“Mr. Bartholomew Loch is a bounder, miss. He would have given you great trouble.”

“He loves me!” I screamed. “And I love him! You ruined my happiness, no doubt for your own spiteful reasons!”

Time marched on, and when the appointed day arrived, I rode to my wedding as though it were an execution. After the ceremony, Mr. Stanfield drove me to his townhouse in London. As soon as we had settled into our respective suites, he knocked on my chamber door and entered without waiting for permission. He disrobed me with rough hands and took my virginity while I shuddered from the pain and humiliation. He then left me, and I spent the rest of the afternoon alone.

As difficult as my first days of marriage were, I adjusted to the situation, as one must do. My husband was generous with his wealth, and my allowance gave me the pleasure of purchasing jewels and gowns to my heart’s content. I visited the best of the London shops with the city’s most elegant society matrons. My social status, wealth, and relative freedom were compensations for my disappointed heart and dislike of my husband, who performed his marital duty once or twice a month and left me alone otherwise. I attempted to forget Bartholomew as he had apparently forgotten me.

One morning in late March, the post brought a letter from Aleta. My younger sister was lazy about writing, so I opened the letter expecting it to contain news of something important enough for her to sharpen her quill. These were the contents:

My dear Cassandra,

I have news that will startle you. About two months ago, Mr. Bartholomew Loch returned to the parsonage to stay a time with his cousin Silas. Lila was ill with a fever that was lingering on, so my mother sent Rosamund to stay at the parsonage to assist her.

There was nothing in that to cause anyone surprise, but a week ago, Mr. B. Loch came to call on my father. It seems he had fallen in love with Rosamund and was determined to marry her! He came to ask my father’s permission!

To say we were stunned is a great understatement! Rosamund was wellborn, but she is a lady’s maid! She should have been beneath his notice, and how she could have attracted him with her silent demeanor is beyond my comprehension!

But the shock did not end there. Rosamund refused Bart’s proposal. She told my father that Mr. Loch is a man not to be trusted, and she could never marry him.

There’s for you! What do you think of all that? I hope you are enjoying London. I am quite jealous!

Your devoted sister,

Aleta

My rage was as intense as it was unreasonable. Not only had Rosamund destroyed my chance of happiness with Bartholomew, but she had lured him into imagining himself in love with her! No doubt her bashful glances and modest demeanor had been the means of entrapment…but then she had refused to marry him! I could see these circumstances in only one light, as a mean-spirited attempt to cause me pain.

I was beautiful, wealthy, educated, sophisticated—but Bartholomew Loch preferred Rosamund! He loved Rosamund, the creeping mouse, who spent her days at North Commons fetching and carrying for my lazy mother and sister.

I took out my anger on my husband, and the rift between us deepened. Disdaining my household duties, I threw myself into my preordained position as a society hostess. My guests were the cream of the ton, and every London publication printed articles about my dinners and parties. The press referred to me as “the divine Mrs. Stanfield.”

One morning, the butler told me that a gentleman had left his card. I took it from his gloved hand, glanced at it, and froze at the name: Mr. Bartholomew Loch! There was a note on the back saying he was in town and intended to visit.

I prepared myself for this visit, and when it occurred, I behaved very well. Bart called when Mr. Stanfield was at home, and we had tea in the Rose Parlor. To my shock, he brought forward his pursuit of Rosamund—his hopes and fears, his efforts and challenges, and her continual refusal—without hesitation or scruple. This, although painful, gave me some satisfaction. The infamous bounder Bartholomew Loch had a broken heart!

I thought and hoped that this would be the last I saw of him, but it was not to be. The next time he called, Mr. Stanfield was out. Bart paced the room in agitation. I asked him how his suit was faring, and he declared that he might have found himself mistaken in his pursuit of Rosamund. My foolish heart beat at these words!

Bart confessed to being unable to subdue his attraction to me. “I believed when you wed Stanfield, my fever would die away, but it has not. If Rosamund were not keeping me in this hellish suspense, perhaps I would not find myself constantly thinking of Cassandra Tenley.”

I was scornful. “You had every opportunity to pursue Cassandra Tenley, sir, but now I am Mrs. Stanfield. Go away and continue chasing after Rosamund; she cannot hold out much longer.”

Bart stared at me. He was standing and I rested on a settee, but I rose to open the door of the parlor and dismiss him. I was sick of Bartholomew Loch and his mad addiction to Rosamund. Did I love him? Yes, but anger and humiliation had filled my mind at that moment and pushed love away.

Bart crossed the room rapidly, and before I could gasp with surprise, I was in his arms and he was kissing me. I tried to pull away, but he held me fast, and his kiss filled me with such desire I felt weak and had to cling to him to keep from falling. He pushed me onto the settee and thrust his body against mine. I gasped and shuddered as his groping hands seized my breasts and his searching lips found the sensitive places in my neck. I could not repel him; it was impossible. My desire for him, withheld for so long, trampled my sense of propriety and duty to my husband. I did not care; I was wild for him.

I jerked as the unmistakable sound of someone arriving reached my ears. Mr. Stanfield! I pushed Bart away, crying, “Get out! Quickly! No, that door! Hurry!”

I ran from the parlor by another door and followed the servants’ stairway to an upper floor. Running into my chamber, I hastily straightened my hair and frock. I cast about for a book, and when Mr. Stanfield tapped at the door and entered, I placidly greeted him with a smile, although my heart was racing.

The remainder of that day and evening was a form of hell. Mr. Stanfield partook of his rights as a husband, although the act seemed to afford him little pleasure. When I was finally quit of him, I had my maid prepare a bath, and I soaked in the hot water and scrubbed myself until every vestige of my husband was washed away. I knew then and there that I could no longer live with him. I sat in the tub of steaming water and cried. I did not know what to do. A woman in my stratum of society did not leave her husband.

The next morning while we were at breakfast, Mr. Stanfield received a letter from his mother. The dowager was in Bath, and it was my sincere hope she would remain there and not spend part of the winter in London. She wrote that she had been rather ill for a few days and wanted her son to spend a week in Bath with her. Charles wished me to accompany him, but I would have no part of the scheme. We quarreled, but he could not prevail, and I watched in satisfaction as he stepped into his carriage the next morning and began his journey to Bath with no other company than his man. As soon as he left, I felt I could breathe again. I settled in the Rose Parlor to consider my situation and form a plan to escape it.

Morning callers interrupted my thoughts. The Marchioness Berwick-Wright and her daughter, Lady Jemima Whitton, came to issue an invitation to their annual charity ball. I put on my best smile and accepted on behalf of my husband and myself. Next came the Misses Laycroft, insipid as always. When they were moving to depart, Lady Casselby arrived and invited me to dinner.

I smiled and said what was proper. Finally, I was alone. Considering no longer what I should do about my unhappy marriage, I stepped upstairs to my chamber. Instead of calling my maid, I pulled forth a valise and threw clothes and jewelry into it. I did not know where I was going; I only knew I must leave my husband’s house.

When my valise was packed, I hid it under my bed. I wanted no inquisitive servants asking me questions. I had decided on a course of action: I would take the public coach to North Commons Abbey and throw myself on the mercy of my father, Sir Winslow Tenley. He could deal with Mr. Stanfield. Sir Winslow could do anything he set his mind to, and he could extricate me from my marriage, if I could convince him it was impossible for me to live longer with my husband.

I intended to leave at night after Crowley had locked the house and the servants were abed. At eleven, the house was quiet enough to attempt my escape. Just as I pulled my valise out of hiding, a loud knock shattered the silence. I waited, my heart beating. Another knock sounded, followed by Crowley’s footsteps as he headed toward the door. The faint sound of voices reached me. The stairs creaked as someone climbed upward. I pushed my valise back under the bed.

Crowley knocked on my chamber door. When I opened the door, he said, “Madam, Mr. Loch has come. He said he has an urgent message from your sister and must see you.”

“Pray tell him I will be down in a moment.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

“And, Crowley, you may go to bed. I will see Mr. Loch out.”

“Thank you, madam.”

My heart pounded and flutterings skittered all through my body as I ran downstairs. It was as if I knew what would happen, and my complicity had been preordained. I entered the small receiving parlor and shut the door. Bart ran to me and clutched me in his arms, but I pushed him away.

“Come with me,” I whispered. “Hurry.”

We tiptoed up the stairs to my chamber. I locked the door, and we fell upon each other like two starving persons devouring a feast. Bart pushed me onto the bed and tore off his jacket and cravat. A sudden jolt of fear shot through me. I could not commit such a travesty! Crying out in shame and frustration, I scrambled off the bed and ran out of the room. I locked myself in my dressing room until I heard footsteps retreat and the front door slam.

I hurried to my chamber and pulled my valise from hiding. Soft footsteps startled me, and I swung about with a gasp to see Bart enter the room.

“What are you doing here? I heard you leave!”

He smiled. “You heard footsteps and a door slam.”

I stared in horror at his smirking face. “Bart, you must leave. I will not be any man’s mistress. I am not a harlot to be used and thrown aside.”

He shrugged. “As you wish. I have no need to force a woman. But tell me: why do you have a packed valise? Where are you going?”

“North Commons Abbey,” I replied, with determination in my voice. “And I will not return.”

He stared at me, his saucy smile fading. “Cassandra, think of what you are doing. If you leave Stanfield, society will shun you.”

Heat surged into my face, and my voice quavered. “I cannot stay with him. You have no idea of the horror I experience when he visits my chamber.”

He shrugged. “A wife’s duty. A fair exchange for his name and money, is it not?”

I clenched my hands together to keep from slapping him. “You had better go, Bart. You care nothing for me, and I am not such a fool as to allow you to use me for your wicked pleasures.”

Instead of leaving, he sat on the bed. “I should have married you before you threw yourself away on Stanfield!”

“Yes, but you did not.”

He sighed. “I was obliged to wait until some business interests had brought in some cash resources. But you left North Commons with your husband.”

“You might have informed me of your intentions!”

“Yes, but I was angry at your family and determined to forget all of you. Once you had gone, your father could make no objection to my being in the neighborhood, and so I immediately wrote my cousin Silas and told him to expect me. When I arrived at the parsonage, I found Rosamund living there to nurse your sister. We were thrown together every day, and she…I don’t know how to explain…”

I laughed bitterly. “You wanted to flirt with her and make her fall in love with you! But she turned the tables, did she not?”

“She did,” he replied. “I want her for a wife. But I want you also.”

“How humorous!” I cried. “In fact, my dear Bart, you cannot have either of us! She has repelled your every attempt to attach her, and I am married!”

He took me in his arms. “Come away with me,” he whispered. “When Stanfield learns the truth, he will divorce you, and then we can wed.”

I wanted this man with every fiber of my being. “Do you promise to wed me?” I asked, peering into his face.

He lowered his lips to my neck and kissed me.

With difficulty, I pushed him away. “Do you promise?”

He stepped away and donned his coat. He did not look at me when he answered, but I foolishly believed his words. “I promise.”

We crept down the stairs and exited the house. I paused and looked up at the star-filled sky. A great white moon hung over the city, and the streets were hushed.

In rapture, I breathed in the still night air. I was free!