Chapter Three

My thoughts jumped back to the present. I was once again in Caemre Cottage, and Lila stood before me, her head tilted and eyebrows raised.

“I beg your pardon, Lila. What did you say?”

“What news from Rosamund?”

“Oh! My mind wandered, and I have not yet read her letters.”

Lila left the room, and I tore open the earlier-dated envelope. Rosamund had written a brief letter, scarcely more than a note. These were the contents:

My dearest Mrs. Stanfield,

This letter will be brief, for I cannot stay long from your mother. She is in a state of great nervousness and fear, for your brother Frederick is unwell. The fever he suffered a year ago has come back upon him. We are all frightened.

I am doing my best to sustain your mother’s hopes and spirits, but she has been cast down since Sir Winslow set up the establishment for you in Wales. She cried this morning and said she could not bear to lose another child. The butler and I are giving Sir Winslow and Miss Aleta every comfort, and I am spending every moment with your poor mother.

I hope you and Mrs. Loch are well. I will write again as soon as I have more information. Your father has summoned a team of London doctors, and there is hope that their treatments will improve Mr. Frederick Tenley’s condition.

With deep respect,

Rosamund Quinn

Frederick ill! Perhaps already dead! I fetched breath to call Lila but hesitated. The other letter…I must know the worst.

With a rapidly beating heart, I slit open the letter.

My hand trembled as I unfolded the letter, smoothed it, and forced myself to glance at the first line. The breath I had been holding released itself as I read the beginning.

My dearest Mrs. Stanfield,

Let me allay your fears immediately; Frederick is better. The London physicians are staying at North Commons for the present, but they expect him to make a full recovery.

I have another matter to relay to you, and although it may be painful for you to read, duty requires me to convey it.

You will remember that Mr. Bartholomew Loch’s sister, Miss Bettina Loch, was staying here as Miss Aleta’s guest during the fracas between you and Sir Winslow that resulted in your having to relocate to Wales. As I told you in an earlier letter, she quietly removed herself from North Commons and returned to her uncle’s house in London, once it became clear that Sir Winslow blamed her brother for your desertion of Mr. Stanfield. It was clear to Miss Loch—and all of us—that no further friendship could exist between her and your family. Poor Frederick was the sufferer, for he was forced to accept his father’s command to desist in his pursuit of Miss Loch. (Perhaps you were not aware that he had fallen in love with her.)

This was the situation as it has existed for several months; but yesterday I had a most unexpected summons—from Miss Loch. She sent a note to inform me she was staying at the parsonage for a few days. An old schoolfellow of hers, Miss Josephine Pipp, now Mrs. Appleton, had married the new vicar, so Miss Loch had no difficulty, apparently, in securing an invitation. She wrote that she needed to see me on an important matter, so as soon as I could, I hastened there, although I was dreading an interview with her. She has always blamed me for being unwilling to marry her brother; perhaps I am self-deluded, but I cannot learn to feel that I should have married him against my own wishes!

Miss Loch and Mrs. Appleton were alone when I arrived, for Vicar Appleton was in Bath for a week. Mrs. Appleton greeted me in a friendly manner and poured tea.

Miss Loch was more subdued than I had ever seen her. She appeared very much chastened by the events of the past year. Her rejection of Frederick’s pursuit because he was not the elder son and was to become a clergyman had been more of a game than a serious refusal—in my opinion—and she perhaps realized that because of her brother’s actions, she had lost the man she truly loved and would have accepted after toying with his affections for a time.

She did not sport with my curiosity for long. I will not repeat her exact words, but the gist is that she has not heard from Bartholomew in three months and she cannot locate him! She is sincerely worried; Bartholomew, for all his faults, is fond of his sister, and it is odd that he has neither written nor visited for such a long time.

Naturally, Miss Loch was anxious to know if I had heard from him. I could not satisfy her on that head, for I knew nothing of him. They begged me to contact you, Mrs. Stanfield, to ascertain any knowledge you might have of his whereabouts, and although I did not want to raise such a painful subject with you, I could not refuse.

If Bart has contacted you, please write and inform me. As always, send your letter under cover to the North Commons housekeeper. I know in time Sir Winslow will relent and at least allow your mother and brother and me to correspond with you openly; but at this juncture, his anger, combined with his anxiety at Frederick’s situation, is rendering him unable to bend. I have a great deal of shame and guilt at deceiving him by my correspondence with you, but I cannot feel otherwise than that you were unfairly treated and my greater duty is to give you what small comfort I can.

Rosamund

I tossed Rosamund’s letter aside and leaned back in my chair. My gaze was toward the window with its view of the lane, but I saw nothing. Bart out of touch with his sister! I could easily conjecture that she would be anxious. For my part, I would be happy to learn he was dead!

My thoughts flew back to that night we fled my husband’s house. My euphoria had not lasted long. When Bart’s carriage reached the outskirts of London, he pulled up before an inn.

“Why are we stopping?” I asked.

I could see Bart’s face in the wavering light from the carriage lamps. His eyes were as gray and cold as the North Sea.

“You will stay in this inn tonight, Cassandra, and tomorrow you will ride post back to your husband’s house or to North Commons, whichever you prefer. I cannot marry you because my heart is still Rosamund’s and always will be. It’s best you go back to Stanfield.”

My tears and recriminations accosted him, but Bart was adamant. He installed me in the inn with a story to the innkeeper to cover the oddity of the situation. As soon as I was settled, he departed.

I spent that terrible night alternately crying and raging. Twice, a tired maid tapped on my door and begged me to stop disturbing the other guests. In the morning, red-eyed, wild-haired, and exhausted, I hired a carriage and traveled to North Commons to throw myself on the mercy of my father.

There was no mercy from Sir Winslow, nor from my brother Frederick. They both ordered me to return immediately to my husband or the penalty would be exile not only from home, but from all good society. My mother, however, begged for leniency, and to my great surprise, Rosamund stood up to my father and told him forthrightly that it was unkind to expect me to live with a man I did not love. I can hear her words now, spoken in her light little voice, but with surprising strength: “If you throw off your daughter, Sir Winslow, and ignore our lord’s commandment of mercy, you shall live to regret it. ‘Ye shall reap what ye sow.’ ”

My sister Lila had moved into North Commons after the recent death of her husband, who had been much older than she. Over the two weeks I spent at North Commons, Lila lectured me on my “disgraceful immorality” with all the zeal of a preacher, but it was she who became determined to accompany me into exile. Sir Winslow had no control over her and could not stop her. In fact, I think he rather enjoyed the idea of the extra misery she would inflict on me. He barely allowed me to kiss my tearful mother goodbye before he hustled me into the coach for the first leg of my journey to the west.

I shook my head to dispel these painful memories, and my mind gradually returned to the present. I folded the letters and put them in my reticule. I did not want Lila reading about Bartholomew Loch. I told her only that Frederick had been ill and was now better. Before she could ask questions, I swung a light cloak over my shoulders and prepared to take my daily walk. How strange fate is! This walk, similar to every other, gave me another new friend—and began the process that would change my life.

There was a strong wind blowing off the sea that morning as I set out upon my walk. It made the cliff trail rather unpleasant, so I walked along the lane. The road curved away from the sea and meandered through a meadow and gradually upward. I was curious about a handsome mansion that lay two miles from Caemre Cottage and faced the same lane. I had never walked long enough to view it closely, but it stood on a rise and I had seen it from a distance many times.

I determined to walk far enough to view the house properly and perhaps learn the name of its inhabitants. I wrapped my cloak about me and settled in for a long walk, moving steadily but not hurrying. Despite the wind, it was a fair day, with puffy white clouds decorating the bright blue of the ether.

I was nearing the interesting mansion and was eagerly trying to catch details of its construction when the sound of a carriage startled me. It was coming from behind, and I moved off the lane to let it pass. To my surprise, a woman was driving. She pulled up next to me and told the restive mare to stand. The horse fretted and flicked her tail, wanting to get home to the stable, no doubt.

“Hello,” called the woman. “Are you the lady who lives in Caemre Cottage? I’ve been longing to meet you.”

I approached the carriage and stroked the horse to calm her. “Good morning,” I replied. “Yes, I live at Caemre. I am Mrs. Stanfield.”

The woman jumped down and took hold of the horse’s bridle. We faced each other, both of us smiling. She was young and had a fresh, open countenance. She wore a simple dress of sky blue and a gray bonnet. No jewels adorned her, but I liked her looks immediately. Perhaps it was her bright-eyed, friendly smile that drew me to her.

“I am Lady Lovell,” said the woman. “My house is just there.”

I curtsied. “A pleasure, Lady Lovell.”

“I say, why do you not jump on board and come for tea with me? You will no doubt disclaim that it is teatime, but it is my custom to…well, to have tea and biscuits whenever the mood strikes.”

“How kind! I would be delighted.”

We stepped into the gig, and Lady Lovell put her horse in motion. “You will find me amazingly impertinent,” she said gaily, “for I give you warning I will ask questions on all sorts of matters. I have wondered for these several months why a young, beautiful woman had buried herself at Caemre Cottage. Your husband is not with you, according to the town gossips, and so I must conclude you are a widow like myself.”

“I agree with you,” I replied saucily.

“Agree with me? What do you mean?”

“I find you amazingly impertinent.”

Lady Lovell laughed heartily. “You are quite right! I’ve no business asking such questions. My curiosity constantly overtakes my judgment.”

I sighed, unable to help myself. “My judgment has proven itself to be so poor, I cannot denigrate anyone else’s.”

“Every young person makes mistakes. You speak with the accent of the ton, and so I conclude you obeyed your father and then your husband. Or,” she added with a grin, “if you did not obey, you faced unpleasant consequences.”

I laughed. “You are astute! Perhaps all the obedience I endured contributed to the error of my ways.”

“No doubt! The only gift worth having in life is freedom. Your father provided you with material goods, did he not? and your husband no doubt showered you with gowns and jewels, but, alas—”

I turned away my head as tears filled my eyes. Lady Lovell glanced over, and I blushed at the stupidity of my reaction. Her words had struck me an unexpected blow. Freedom! I had never thought of that concept before—at least not in terms of myself—except for that one night when I left my husband’s house.

I took a breath, straightened my back, and became the sophisticated, high-born Cassandra Tenley Stanfield. “Lady Lovell, I doubt if your concept of freedom would include the freedom to make the mistake I made.”

We were in the stable yard by then, and Lady Lovell jumped from the gig. A boy of about fourteen ran out to take the horse. He smiled and tipped his hat. “G’morn, milady.”

“Good morning, Jacob. Mrs. Stanfield, this is Jacob Trenwith. He and his wonderful papa take care of my horses, and I assure you, never were horses more spoiled.”

The boy laughed as he disconnected the harness from the traces. “Aye, milady, Da and me spoil them near as much as ye do.”

Lady Lovell took my arm and guided me into her home. My eyes darted here and there as I gazed eagerly about. Everything charmed the senses—the rose gardens spilled blossoms over a low paling that bordered the walk, the circular gravel drive led under a broad portico, and best of all, each window opening to the ground floor sported shutters painted in gay colors.

“How charming are these shutters, Lady Lovell! Was it your plan to have them painted so brightly?”

“I am glad you approve. Yes, it was my plan, and as it happens, I painted them myself.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. Did you not know I am an artist? I thought the village gossips would have whispered all my eccentricities to you by now.”

“I rarely go to the village. My sister purchases goods and takes care of our banking and other business matters. We have a girl who fetches our post every morning.”

We passed through a hall and entered a drawing room. Pale walls displayed the numerous paintings affixed to them. Landscapes, portraits, and still lifes greeted me, aglow with brilliant colors. The paintings seemed to reflect light.

Forgetting my manners, I wandered about the room gazing at the art. Most of the pieces—the ones I admired greatly—bore the signature “George Lovell.”

“Lady Lovell, did your husband create these remarkable paintings?”

“No, I did.”

“Did you really? How amazing! But surely your Christian name is not George.”

She laughed. “Yes and no. My name is Georgina. Perhaps you are not aware, Mrs. Stanfield—artists who are women cannot sell their paintings. If a buyer learns that the artist is a woman, he, or even she, will think less of the painting and probably will not purchase it. Therefore, like lady authors, I use a pseudonym.”

My eyes opened wide. “Do you mean to say you actually sell paintings? I never heard of a woman doing so.”

She laughed. “Of course you have not. Other female artists use a pseudonym, as I do.”

I seated myself in the settee indicated by my host and took up the cup of tea which she had poured for me. “I am intrigued, Lady Lovell. I had no idea of the situation you describe. Pray, where do you sell your work? Surely not in the village of Caemre!”

“No, there is very little call for art in the village. John Carter has a few of my paintings.”

“You know Dr. Carter? Well, of course you would, living in such a remote area. He seems a good man. I met him only a short time ago.”

“So he told me. I saw him in the village this morning.”

I sipped my tea but then remembered my original question. “Then where do you sell your work? London, perhaps?”

“No, Bath. I have a small house, and I spend the month of October there. I meet with the proprietors of the two galleries that sell my pictures. I give them my new crop of paintings, and they pay me for the previous.”

“I see. And of course you are the toast of Bath society. The month of October must be a whirlwind of invitations. I am surprised you do not spend the entire winter there.”

Lady Lovell smiled. “My dear Mrs. Stanfield, I am sorry to be the one to give you this information, but not every woman born to wealth and affluence wants to spend her days sitting about in a parlor gossiping.”

I blushed. “I did not mean…”

Lady Lovell held up a hand. “I have distressed you, and I am sorry. I think you have led a sheltered existence, and that is certainly not your fault. But have you heard the French expression demimonde?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The demimonde is my world, dear Mrs. Stanfield. The world of artists, playwrights, novelists, poets, philosophers…We follow few of society’s rules. We support each other’s creative work. We love where and when we choose to love.”

My heartbeat quickened, and I stared at my new friend. If the women of the demimonde loved where and when they chose, why must I suffer expulsion for leaving my husband because of the overwhelming love I had once felt for Bartholomew Loch? Lady Lovell’s words came back to me: The only gift worth having is freedom. I had made a mistake, certainly. I had hurt and humiliated my family, but…

Gasping, I realized I had spoken the last words aloud. “I beg your pardon!” I cried. “I was lost in a reverie!”

Lady Lovell moved from her chair to my settee and took my hand. “My dear—I do not want to call you Mrs. Stanfield—what is your given name?”

“Cassandra.”

“My dear Cassandra, I do not know your history, but I am certain of one thing—someone or some others have judged you harshly, and even worse, you perhaps judge yourself so. If you made an error, you must forgive yourself.”

“How can I?” I cried, twisting the skirt of my gown with my free hand. “I transgressed a woman’s primary duty! I abandoned my husband because I could not quell the love I felt for another man!”

“A woman’s duty!” exclaimed Lady Lovell. “Your duty is to yourself! This notion of a woman’s duty is a trick to enslave women! It benefits no woman, but only the man who wishes to control her.”

I was immobile on the pretty settee, my tea growing cold. I was like Lot’s wife, frozen, a pillar not of salt, but ice.

In a few moments, Lady Lovell moved back to her own chair. She poured herself more tea and ate a biscuit while I attempted to recover myself. Finally, she spoke. “Cassandra, I want you to go to Bath with me in October.”

“To Bath! I cannot! What if I should meet…”

“Someone from your past? A society woman, perhaps?”

“Yes! I could not bear it!”

“Yes, you could bear it. You would hold your head high and when the snooty matron asks what you are doing in Bath, you will say, ‘I am a guest of Lady Lovell. And pray excuse me, I must run. We are overcome with invitations; it is quite exhausting.’ ”

I smiled in spite of my discomfort. “I do not know if I could countenance such a meeting.”

“You could! Do not underestimate your own strength! I insist on your company—as a favor to me! I despise that long journey alone.”

“I am very grateful, Lady Lovell. I will ask my sister.”

“For heaven’s sake, Cassandra, call me Georgina. And you will not ask your sister. You will inform her that you are going.”

“I…”

“And now I must drive you home, for I have much work to do before the best light disappears.”

I refused her offer of driving and ambled back to Caemre Cottage. My head was full of such bizarre notions, I needed the walk to make myself fit for home.

When I arrived at Caemre, I heard talk and laughter. I passed through the parlor to the kitchen and beheld Lila and Dr. Carter giggling together at the stove.

“We are baking a torte,” declared Lila, turning toward me, dripping spoon in hand and locks of hair escaping her knot.

I greeted them with smiles. Sitting at the kitchen table and listening to their chat, I could not but wonder at the great changes that had occurred in my life.