A Flight of Fancy (36 page)

“I see you guessed,” Major Crawford said.

“I guessed.” Whittaker grabbed Cassandra’s arm and flung her aside. “Go!”

She landed on her right leg again and screamed, but she went—straight for the sheep. A pistol blasted. Honore shrieked and kept shrieking, and the sheep began to run right, left, straight, alongside Cassandra. Sobbing with the agony in her ankle, she grasped a woolly neck and held on to this unlikely guide as they charged through the sea of baaing, stinking mutton.

Another pistol blasted. Someone cried out. An inhuman wail. Not Honore. Not Whittaker.

“Please, God, not one of them. Pl—” She smacked into a fence.

Hooves thundered around her, behind her, in front of her. She clung to the fence, gasping, certain she had lost her reason.

“I say, Miss Bainbridge,” Roger Kent said, “what are you doing in this pasture?”

“Help them.” Cassandra waved behind her. “Irving . . . Crawford . . . Kill . . .” Her knees buckled.

Kent and Sorrells galloped off. Ne’er-do-wells though many might think them, neither was a slow-top. Country born and bred, both would be traveling with at least a horse pistol in their saddles. They would help.

If it was not too late.

Slowly, dragging her right leg to keep as much weight off it as possible, Cassandra made her way back to the sheep. After a
decade of cursing the need for spectacles, she longed for them now. She could see no faces from across the pasture, did not know friend from foe, and could not hear voices over the sheep’s vibrato calls. Neither could she remain where she was out of harm’s way.

Pushing woolly bodies aside, she made her way closer to the far end of the pasture. The splash of color from the balloon’s silk shone against the brown grass like a jewel. Beyond it, the motion had ceased, grown silent save for sobbing.

“Honore?” she called.

“Here I am.” She flung herself against Cassandra and clung, shaking but not sobbing.

Yet the weeping continued. Miss Irving crying softly yet harshly.

“Her uncle is dead,” Honore said. “Whittaker—I am going to be sick.” She stumbled away.

“Not on the balloon!” Mr. Kent cried. “Females.”

Ignoring the last remark, Cassandra left Honore to him and found Mr. Sorrells and Whittaker standing over two figures on the grass.

Whittaker wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her near. “My clever, clever lady. Who else would think of using sheep to take down a murderer?”

“Is he . . . dead?” Cassandra asked.

“Yes,” Whittaker responded. “We . . . struggled for his second pistol. It is a dueling pistol, not a cavalry pistol. Hair trigger . . .” He shuddered. “It should not have happened.”

“It could have been you,” Cassandra whispered.

“I’ll ride for the constable,” Mr. Sorrells offered. “And the coroner.”

“I have to stay here.” Whittaker tightened his hold on
Cassandra. “Kent can take you home. Tell Mama—Mama, how could I forget? Sorrells, will you go home with them and—and ensure she is all right? You have more sense than Kent.”

“Of course, but don’t you want to go?”

“I cannot.” Whittaker glanced at the major and shuddered. “The constable and coroner will want to question me.”

“And me,” Miss Irving said between gulps for air. “I will tell them how he was murdered.”

“And they will believe a peer of the realm before a—” Cassandra bit her tongue. “You.”

“The circumstances speak for themselves,” Whittaker said. “I will come home as soon as I can, but send for me immediately if Mama—if she needs help.” He pressed his cheek to hers for a moment. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” she asked, but he was already focused on Miss Irving, drawing her away from the major’s body.

“Come with me, Miss Bainbridge.” Mr. Sorrells held out his arm. “I think we can get you onto a horse without too much discomfort.”

“My discomfort does not matter. I wish to stay.”

But of course she could not. Someone needed to free Lady Whittaker. Honore was weeping now too, and Lady Whittaker needed to know what had happened. And if Cassandra stood on her right foot any longer, she feared she would faint.

“Just a sprain,” she said aloud. “It will heal in a few days.”

“I’ll carry you.” Before she could protest, Mr. Sorrells picked her up and carried her to one of the horses.

He was such a good man, a kind man, that she wished she could have loved him. But she felt nothing despite the intimacy of their contact. Surely that was not right between a husband and wife either. And what did they share beyond their aeronautic
interests? Nothing came to mind. Unlike her friendship with Whittaker, based on their love of learning, classical literature, engineering, the faith they had once made an integral part of their lives—until they let the passion between them rule.

He was so calm now, so passionless, talking to Miss Irving, the words too quiet for Cassandra to catch, the tone of gentle kindness pouring across the meadow like sunshine. Yet it touched Cassandra, warmed her from twenty feet away.

“Can you lift me up?” she asked Mr. Sorrells. “I doubt I can manage a sidesaddle.”

“You can ride pillion behind Miss Honore. It won’t be comfortable, but the ride isn’t long.”

It was not. In less than a quarter hour, they trotted the horses up the drive of Whittaker Hall. Cassandra slid to the ground the instant Honore reined in, remembering to land on her left foot. Without waiting for Mr. Kent’s arm to aid her, she limped toward the front door.

It burst open and Lady Whittaker flew out. For the first time since they had arrived at the Hall, her ladyship’s hair was unkempt, her gown torn, and her countenance less than serene. She wrapped her arms around Cassandra and squeezed. “Thank God you are all right. And my son. Please tell me Geoffrey is well.”

“As well as he can be.” Cassandra blinked back a sudden rush of tears. “The major is dead.”

“It was simply awful,” Honore wailed, then sprang up the steps and wrapped one arm around Cassandra and the other around Lady Whittaker.

For several moments, while the groom led away the horses and a handful of servants watched from the doorway, the three ladies clung to one another. Finally Lady Whittaker drew back, dashed her sleeve across her eyes, and tucked her arm through
Cassandra’s. “You look terrible, and I will not apologize for saying so. What have you done to yourself this time?”

“Wrecked my balloon, probably took a year’s growth of life off a flock of sheep, and consequently helped save several lives.”

“You are not amusing!” Honore cried. “I have made a fool of myself over a man.”

“We all have, my child.” Lady Whittaker reached out and drew Honore to her. “One learns better for the next time.”

“I do not seem to.” Honore began hiccupping with the force of her sobs and ran toward her room.

“I forgot about the incident last spring,” Lady Whittaker said. “Poor child. But what about you? You are favoring your right foot. It is not your wound again, is it?”

“No, a sprain, I think. Cold cloths to wrap it in and warm water for washing will set me to rights.”

“And hot tea.” Lady Whittaker glanced at the servants. “Hot water and tea for both ladies, cold cloths for Miss Bainbridge, and the lavender drops for Miss Honore.”

The maids curtsied and nodded and scampered for the rear of the house.

“Come to your room, child,” Lady Whittaker said and led the way.

“May I ask how you got free? I mean, if you do not wish to discuss it, I understand, but the major said—”

“He left me tied up and gagged? Yes, he did, the blackguard. And the language he used. My ears are still burning.” Though her tone was light, the hand she raised to her ear shook. “He wanted me to watch him kill my son. But my servants grew suspicious and came to see if I was all right when they heard nothing from me for more than two hours. He must have thought he would be back sooner.”

“He never doubted he would be back.” Cassandra covered her face with her hands. “And now poor Geoffrey has had to—to—” She gulped down her desire to wail and continued to her room. “Who was Miss Irving? Do you know? Is she not a cousin of Laurence and William’s?”

“Yes, she is their cousin through the marriage of her mother to their mother’s brother. A second marriage for Regina’s mother. Ralph Irving. Regina took his name. The Irvings, the Crawfords, the Gileses—we were all friends once.” Her voice grew quieter and quieter as she gave the explanation.

“I am sorry.” Cassandra stumbled into her bedchamber and over to the chaise. “You need not talk about this.”

“Yes, I must.” Lady Whittaker bowed her head and clasped her hands before her as though she were praying. “You all deserve an explanation considering how you suffered because of me.”

30

Whittaker reached home three hours later. The sun was beginning to set and the Hall was dark save for lights in either wing. Scarcely able to place one foot in front of the other, he climbed straight to his chamber and found Mama waiting for him. She said nothing but clasped his hands and stared at him as though needing to memorize his features.

“I am all right.” He freed himself. “If anyone can be after seeing a man die that way.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “And having a constable, a coroner, and a magistrate question me for hours.”

“Surely they do not think you—Honore and Cassandra have told me . . . what happened.” She looked away. “I gave them no explanations. I will now that you are home. You and Cassandra. Honore was so distraught I gave her a small dose of laudanum, and she is sleeping now. But Cassandra—”

“She is well? She was limping badly.”

“A sprain, nothing more. It will heal in days, but I am concerned about her soul and her heart. They are badly bruised.”

“I cannot heal either for her. I have tried to protect her and failed.”

“You have not failed, my son. She is home safely, is she not?”

“Yes, thank the Lord for that.” He managed a smile that quickly faded. He rested his hand on Mama’s shoulder. “And you? You are safe? He did not hurt you overmuch?”

“No, bruises, that is all.”

Whittaker studied her for a moment, his lovely, gentle mother, who had brought him up to love and trust in God and showed it in her deeds and speech every day. Other than a mark on one cheek that would heal without a trace and redness around her wrists, she looked the same as ever—each hair in place, her gown without a wrinkle, her countenance serene. Despite what he had known for weeks, he still could not believe the truth of it.

“Where is Regina Irving?” Mama asked.

“Regina Crawford Irving—that is her true name, is it not? She is in the village gaol. There will be an inquest on the major tomorrow.”

“No trouble for you, I trust?”

“No, except—” He sighed. “They want to know why a respected military officer and beautiful heiress would hate us so. I am afraid . . . in part, he is going to win even in his death and your reputation will be destroyed. I have been trying to protect it for six weeks and failed at that too.”

Mama paled. “You know?”

“It is how Crawford blackmailed me into getting myself involved with the rebels again. He threatened to expose your . . . indiscretion. It was how he could hopefully manage my death and have it not attached to him at all.”

“Why did you not tell me? Oh, Geoffrey.” Mama covered her face with her hands. “I knew something was wrong with your comings and goings and your hair all shaggy and you refusing to cut it. But I never guessed . . .” Her shoulders shook. “You should have told me. I would have stood in the pulpit at church
and confessed to the world rather than have you endanger your life. You are far more important to me than a past that has long since been forgiven.”

“I was protecting your reputation, your standing in the county. The government is desperate to bring these rioters down, and—”

Mama grasped his shoulders and shook him. “My dear boy, you cannot protect the world from itself. Everyone chooses his own path and whether or not he allows the Lord to direct him.”

“I realize that now.” He felt like he was in the plummeting balloon. “I tried to stop Cassandra from flying today and nearly got her killed. I tried to stop Crawford, and he was killed. Cassandra and I tried to protect ourselves from—” He looked away.

Mama released him. “Would you like some time to rest? You look worn to a thread.”

“I would like to change my clothes and talk to you some more. And Cassandra, if she will.”

“I will have hot water sent up to you at once. Come down to Cassandra’s room when you are ready. I will have some food for you there. We will talk then.”

“I am not hungry.”

But the thought of seeing Cassandra left him hollow with the need to see for himself that she was not permanently harmed, that she did not wish to pack her bags and be rid of the Giles family forever.

“You will eat,” Mama said, then left him.

As he washed and changed into clothes not splattered in mud and Major Crawford’s blood, Whittaker thought of a hundred things he could say to Cassandra. None seemed appropriate.

What would the Lord have?

Mama had said that everyone chose whether or not to let God direct his path. Whittaker had done so, then rebelled when God
took him on a journey he did not like. Yet eventually, a small part of the world would be better off for him owning the mills, now that he had been inside the gang of the few Luddites remaining and understood how they thought and what they needed. For all he mourned the waste of his brother’s life and the passing of the earldom to himself, the younger son, the tenant farmers had suffered under John’s management. Or mismanagement, to be more accurate. And Cassandra?

He paused with his hand on the door latch and bowed his head. “Lord, I cannot change her heart or heal her from what she has suffered. I can’t change the past, but I can let You direct my future.”

Knowing he could very well end up with a future without the lady he loved, he descended to the great hall and crossed to Cassandra’s wing.

She and Mama sat in the Bainbridge daughters’ sitting room with a fire blazing and enough candles burning to light the great hall. Cassandra’s feet rested on another chair, and she clutched a cup of tea as though it kept her anchored.