Free A Flight of Fancy by Laurie Alice Eakes Page A

far behind to see her and perhaps fall down the steps as she had that one night in the theater.
    Whittaker hadn’t been offended by her looks in the spectacles that made her eyes appear like something from the ocean that fishermen would toss back for sheer ugliness. He’d kissed her in the library to prove it. And kissed her, and . . .

    A hand clamped on her arm. “Stop,” Honore hissed between her teeth.
    She stood on the near side of a doorway Cassandra had been about to pass. Now that she had stopped and light streamed through the open doorway, Cassandra noted a short flight of steps down to another door. The faint aroma of oranges and lemons wafted through the air.
    “Is that the orangery?” Honore asked a little too loudly, as though that were her intent in stopping Cassandra.
    “Yes.” Lady Whittaker came back to the doorway. “We have oranges and lemons in there, so it is kept quite warm, a pleasant place in the winter, rather hot in the summer.”
    And a convenient exit without traversing the entire house.
    “The gardens are beyond.” Lady Whittaker sighed. “Not what they once were, I am sure, but still lovely in the spring. Everything is dying now.” Her face grew wistful. “One day we’ll repair the other glass house and I’ll have strawberries all year round too. Now I settle for them in June and bottle as many as we can. But you can see all that tomorrow. We keep country hours here, so I am afraid you missed dinner, but I’ll send in some refreshment and you can rest until supper. Miss Honore, your room is right next door here. You see, it was no trouble to turn these into a lovely little suite of rooms, as we still prefer to use the old part of the house for entertaining. Larger rooms. My father-in-law built these for warmth, not large gatherings, so the family uses them in the winter, though they are a bit far from the kitchens and—”
    She broke off and laughed. “Now listen to my tongue running on wheels. I’ve been so looking forward to your visit, though the circumstances . . .” Again that melancholy droop to her lips, the lower one full yet firm like her son’s, though she had to beat least Mama’s age, as Whittaker’s brother had been several years his senior. “I’ll send in Betsy to serve you right away.” With a swish of her skirts, she spun on her heel and hastened down yet one more corridor.
    “I am going to get lost,” Cassandra said.
    “Just sniff for the oranges, though you might want to wear your spectacles.”
    “You may be right in that.” Cassandra entered her chamber. Soft carpet deadened her cane and footfalls. The scent of lavender hinted at sachets set around to keep the moths from velvet curtains and bed hangings. Everything was blue or green or a blend of both—Cassandra could not tell in the fading evening light. She would ask the maid for candles to be lit. No, she would simply lie down.
    “I am so weary.” She stumbled toward the bed.
    Honore sighed. “But then you will not sleep tonight. And a maid is bringing refreshment.”
    “I am not hungry.”
    “Cassandra, you know what the physician said. You must eat well and get plenty of exercise as much as you can . . .”
    Her sister’s lecture, sounding more like managing Lydia than frivolous Honore, faded to a buzzing in Cassandra’s ears, a higher-pitched echo of the blood suddenly roaring through her skull.
    She reached for the edge of the quilted counterpane to turn it back and felt something crackle beneath her fingers. Embroidered satin coverlets did not crackle. But paper did.
    Someone had left a letter inside Cassandra’s bedclothes.

7
    Darkness crept across the room where the last rays of dusk grew too weak to penetrate the grimy windows and the proprietor proved too cautious to light candles. Nonetheless, Whittaker knew the faces of the men around the table sticky with spilled ale. As he knew they had with him, he had made certain to see them each in enough light to identify