Cassandra tried not to count the hours as they passed, yet the relentless old German clock upon their mantel kept the time. It ticked on as usual, as if this were any lazy afternoon and not the most important day of the sisters’ lives.
Today was the day they visited Caswell Hall, and everything they’d ever known would be different.
One did not visit a viscount’s manor and return to one’s sleepy village unchanged. Cassandra would see things she’d dreamed of—a magnificent house filled with servants, luxurious furnishings and decorations, delicious foods that no Longstone girl had ever tasted, and elegant guests dressed in their finery.
What girl wouldn’t want to experience a fairyland they’d only ever heard about in bedtime stories?
While Cassandra sat, trying not to crease her sprigged muslin, Honoria spied through the sitting room window out onto the lane beyond. One gloved finger held the curtain back. A sliver of warm sunlight illuminated her face, and Cassandra couldn’t help but realize how much Honoria resembled their mother.
Her young sister’s vibrant spirit would brighten Lord Althorne’s gathering. Honoria would surely make the acquaintance of many gentlemen and become friends with some of the ladies. The youngest Staunton would shine today.
Cassandra hoped to stay out of the limelight, if such a thing were possible. Her pretty face was often the center of attention, the chief topic of conversation. It stole the show, so to speak, and lefther—the woman behind it—in a supporting role.
“Honoria…” she said, pulling her sister’s attention from the bustling lane, “please do not tell anyone about my illness today.”
Her sister’s brow furrowed over a pair of familiar blue eyes. “Why would I do that in the first place?”
“It always seems to come up in conversation somehow. We’ll be meeting new people today, and I want them to see me for who I am, not what is wrong with me.”
The story of her life had been the same since she was fifteen years old. Her affliction had been difficult to ignore, and everyone in Longstone heard of Cassandra Staunton’s ‘woman’s troubles’. Since then, she’d been whispered about as ‘the pretty, sickly girl’.
She did not want to be the sick one, or the beautiful one. She wanted to be the brave sister, the clever sister, the kind sister. But, no, she was only ever ‘beautiful’ and ‘sickly’.
A rattle of carriage wheels on the lane drew their attention to the window. Honoria peered through her sliver of curtain, inspecting the pavements, the village green, and the White Lion inn beyond.
Cassandra rose and went to see for herself. An elegant, black lacquered carriage clipped through the busy street. Pedestrians stepped from its way, carts yielded as it passed. Neighbors paused mid-stride—Mr. Harris at the White Lion even emerged from his doorway in anticipation of a wealthy guest—but the conveyance slowed to a stop in front of the Staunton cottage.
“That’s for us,” Honoria whispered.
“Yes, it would appear so.”
A smart coach was out of reach for almost every family in the dales except two—Lord Althorne, master of Caswell Hall, and Mrs. Raines, who rented Stone House every summer.
Today, it had come to collect Cassandra and Honoria.
After a moment, a knock sounded upon the door. Cassandra answered and directed the coachman to collect their luggage. They required a change of clothes for dinner and had packed their best frocks in two old carpetbags.
The fellow did not blink at the shabby baggage. He merely hefted the lot into the open door of the carriage and slid them aside to make room for passengers.
He offered his hand to assist the sisters.
With a deep breath, Cassandra gathered her muslin skirts in one hand, placed her fingers into the steady care of the coachman, and climbed aboard. The carriage rocked on its springs as she settled on the squabs. She hardly stole a moment to glance around before Honoria bounded onto the seat beside her.
“Thank you, my good man!” the youngest sister said, laughing.
They caught a glimmer of amusement in the driver’s eyes as he closed the door. Again, the carriage lurched and swayed as he climbed onto the box, gathered his ribbons, and urged the horses to action.
The noise of the street was muffled by plush upholstery. Tasseled shades covered the windows, which Cassandra was happy to keep in place—she wouldn’t put it past her neighbors to peep inside to catch a glimpse of the ladies riding in His Lordship’s coach.
Honoria gave the shades an eager tug, rolling them up, and flooding the darkened conveyance with bright afternoon light. The youngest sister put her hand up and waved at their fellow villagers as if she were the queen come to call.
“Look, there’s George on his rounds!” Honoria waggled her fingers at the handsome postman.
Cassandra pressed back into the squabs. She closed her eyes, imagining herself invisible. They were supposed to have a fun and frivolous day, not turn the jaunt into a spectacle.
“What’s the matter?” her sister asked. “Are you sick?”
“I amnotsick.”
