sought out her company, suggested to Mrs. Cathcart that her niece might attend a ball or a supper party, or an outing of pleasure or a picnic, or a walk among ruins, or along shady paths or up hills to gaze out at the surrounding countryside. All good schemes for dalliance, only, where Mr. Wexford went, there, too, went his good friend Mr. Eyre. Mr. Wexford was uncommonly proud of James Eyre, openly envious of his naval career, looking up to him as a much cleverer man than he was, and admiring his ready wit and savoir faire.
Mrs. Quail uttered words of warning; she heard from Miss Quail how often Cassandra and Eyre wandered off, while Mr. Wexford happily stayed with the rest of the party, talking about his everlasting battles and campaigns. So much so that Miss Quail was moved to protest: Why did he not become a soldier himself? Then he could fight battles and skirmishes and engagements on his own account, and spare them the details of all that long-ago warfare.
This rebellious outburst astonished her mother, who said reprovingly that she was picking up Miss Darcy’s outspoken ways, and she wanted to hear no more such comments about Mr. Wexford, who was as civil, agreeable a man as ever lived. But if what her daughter said was true, that Mr. Eyre was intent on cutting out his friend with Cassandra, then Mrs. Cathcart must be told.
“I would not do so,” said Miss Quail, smarting under her mother’s reproof. “Mrs. Cathcart will see what she wants to see, and Mr. Wexford is monstrous taken with Miss Darcy, although I cannot see what there is about her to make the gentlemen admire her. She flirts with Mr. Eyre, but she will marry Mr. Wexford.”
Her words gave her mama pause for thought, and she held her tongue, watched Cassandra with a hawkish eye, and, thanks to Cassandra’s well-bred manners and natural reserve, concluded that it was no more than flirtation. Not that she would care to see any daughter of hers carrying on in such a way.
She would have been shaken if she had seen Mr. Eyre and Miss Darcy slip away while on an outing to the Sydney Gardens, on a summer evening when scent of the flowers hung heavy in the air, and fireworks distracted everyone’s attention; only Miss Quail noticed the brightness of Cassandra’s eyes as she looked about her and then removed herself unobtrusively from their company.
How almost delirious with happiness Cassandra had been, when she found herself in James’s arms, to meet his lips with hers, to lose herself in a passionate embrace and give herself up to those sensations which were so wholly new to her. And the happiness lasted when they parted, and she arrived back to join the others, a little breathless, her eyes aglow, her heart pounding. That night she hardly slept, as the intense joy of knowing that she loved and was loved was beyond anything she had ever known.
And two nights later, Mrs. Cathcart had found her locked in a passionate embrace in the best parlour. Wrapped up in one another, whispering words of love and ardour when their lips reluctantly parted, they had not heard the approaching footsteps, the door handle turning. By the time they sprang apart, it was too late, a furious Mrs. Cathcart was in the room, a torrent of abuse pouring out of her; Cassandra was no better than a whore, fit to be whipped at the cart’s end, a drab, fie on her for bringing her sluttish ways into a respectable household, while James, horrified, sidled to the door and escaped.
Mrs. Cathcart’s remedy for such wickedness was simple. She locked Cassandra in her room, forbade all the servants to speak to her, and took her a tray of bread and water morning and evening. She had written to her brother Partington, how angry he and Mrs. Partington would be to hear of this further disgrace, Cassandra was beyond redemption, if she were her stepfather, she would whip her and then have her shut up in an asylum, for she must be mad to behave in such a way.
Cassandra, hungry, defiant, and contemptuous of Mrs. Cathcart’s melodramatic outbursts, dropped a note out of the window into Petifer’s hands. Mrs. Cathcart had plans to send her off the next day by coach to Rosings, she wrote. James’s reply, bringing the offer of his hand and a dash to Gretna Green, was slipped under her door after her hostess had retired to bed.
Marriage! Did she want to be married? To be in love was intoxicating, but could it last a lifetime? a voice of caution in her head asked her. How right Emily had been, when she’d predicted that Cassandra would one day meet a man who would mean more to her than her art or anything else in her life; surely that man was James?
Now here she was in London, alone, with little money and no friends or acquaintances to ask for help. She must stop dwelling on what was past, even though her heart still ached from her betrayal by James Eyre, from the knowledge that her lover’s affection for her was not equal to hers for him, that prudence had ruled his emotions as it had not hers.
It was time to take stock of her situation and start planning her future. Life must go on. First, she decided, she should return to her lodgings, and collect her few belongings before moving elsewhere. That in itself seemed an insuperable problem, she had not the least idea how to go about finding respectable new lodgings.
She looked at the window on the other side of the doorway into the shop. There were prints and two paintings on display; looking at a water-colour of a collection of flowers, she told herself that she could do very much better than that, and if such paintings might be sold, then why not hers?
Cheered up by this, she opened the shop door and went inside, a bell proclaiming her arrival to the wrinkle-faced man who came bustling into the shop from an inner room. The air smelt of linseed oil and varnish, and gave Cassandra comfort. This was a familiar world, and one where she might find a truer base for happiness—if not survival.
She bid the shopkeeper good day, in her pleasant, well-bred voice. He glanced behind her, expecting, Cassandra knew, to see an accompanying maid or a companion of some kind.
She would begin with a purchase.
Mr. Rudge had the new blocks of water-colour, and she had to restrain her impulse to buy a boxful; she must take care of her money now. Then a chance mention of Herr Winter brought a smile and a gleam to the faded blue eyes of the shopkeeper. Herr Winter had long been a customer, a friend, he would venture to say, such a shame that he had had to leave London.
Of course, for any acquaintance of his, a pupil, did she say…? Indeed, then it was a privilege to help, and Cassandra found that the prices were suddenly less than had originally been quoted.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asked, as he made a neat brown paper parcel of her small purchases.
She hesitated. “Perhaps. I am to make a little stay in London, and my friends, with whom I was to stay, are longer out of town than they had planned,” she said, improvising rapidly. Did he know of some respectable woman who let out rooms?
He pursed his lips, and shook his head from side to side. “Not that would be suitable for a lady of quality,” he said regretfully.
It was an impasse, for she could hardly claim not to be what she so obviously was.
The bell tinkled, and a middle-aged woman, of smart appearance, dressed in bombazine, came into the shop. Cassandra stood to one side, hoping to have a further word with the proprietor when he had finished with this new arrival, who seemed to be an honoured customer. The design for a screen was ready, she would wish to see it and approve before any more work was done on the panels. He hurried into the back, and reappeared with several sheets of paper intricately worked with a pattern of peacocks and urns.
An unbalanced design, Cassandra said to herself, but she said nothing.
Mrs. Nettleton—for that was how Mr. Rudge addressed her—studied and questioned and approved. Then she turned and smiled at Cassandra.
“I am sorry to have interrupted your business here; I had thought you were finished.”
Her voice was ladylike, and her smile was pleasant but not over-familiar.
“No, pray do not worry. I have made my purchases, I was lingering to ask Mr. Rudge about another matter.”
“A