Lakehurst had to agree.
CHAPTERNINE
Baydon Castle
Apprehension wound insidious thin ghostly fingers around Cassie as the carriage began the climb that would take them up to Baydon Castle. They’d stopped briefly in Baydonton, the village in the valley below the castle, to change horses. The road up to the castle was steep, rutted, and rock-strewn. Not a road for tired horseflesh.
Late afternoon shadows lay deep across their way, gifts from the steep cliff faces that bordered the road. The road clearly suffered from the eighteen months of neglect. Twice the coachman stopped the carriage to allow outriders to remove limestone boulders from their path that had tumbled down from the cliffs.
Inside the carriage, she, Gwinnie, and their maids sat quietly, each now lost in their own thoughts whilst for much of the journey, they’d talked easily amongst each other, servants and mistresses. And she delighted in being addressed as Cassie by Gwinnie and Lakehurst. She found comfort in her childhood name, and a genuine sense of friendship she hadn’t realized she craved.
Her late husband had not liked her nickname, insisting on addressing her as Cassandra, and so she had been for over six years. She found she liked being Cassie again.
The only sound from inside the carriage came from the endless click-clicking of Rose’s knitting needles knitting mufflers and shawls for the occupants of Mrs. Southerlands’ Charity House.
Cassie had talked the most, telling them about Baydon Castle. None of the others had ever been there as Agnes, her maid, had only come into her service in the past year.
Cassie did not want to be in the carriage. Could she now, so close, tap on the carriage roof and request the coachman to stop and let her out? The closer they got, the heavier the emotional weight of the past became. It was Cassandra who’d lived at Baydon Castle, not Cassie, who she relished being again.
She had not wanted to return to Baydon Castle. She’d be happiest if she never saw it again, yet here she was.
The coach rocked into and out of a deep rut. She grabbed the leather strap by her head and swayed with the motion. She and Gwinnie slid into each other, then apart again, each murmuring apologies.
No, no going back. No stopping this journey with its attendant nightmarish memories.
Up the next small rise and a small turn to the right, one would be able to see Baydon. She clenched her gloved hands into fists.
There.
A rambling castle of gray limestone, almost black against a gray afternoon sky. She shivered. The wind swept across the nearly bare plateau; trees leaned before the steady wind. The horses whinnied, and the carriage rocked. She smelled the wildflower grasses on the wind. She’d forgotten how she’d loved them.
Only half a mile more.
Gwinnie reached out to lay her hand on her arm. Cassie turned her head and weakly smiled at her in thanks for her comforting touch. Gwinnie sensed what emotions roiled within her; Cassie was certain of that. Gwinnie, for all her careless manners, possessed a kind, empathetic heart.
When the carriage rolled to a stop before the castle's great oak and iron door, Cassie felt she was an actor in a theater production for which the curtain rose. She laughed at herself for that strange and unusual feeling.
As she descended from the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher came out of the castle to greet them like they owned the place. She’d never felt entirely comfortable with the couple; however, at least they were familiar faces. Though well into their fourth decade, they did not bear the careworn appearance typically seen among staff of their age. Mrs. Gallagher was a tall, spare woman with a handsome, long, angular face. Her luxurious bounty of dark brown hair only showed streaks of gray at her temples in a striking manner. Mr. Gallagher’s hair had gone grayer in the eighteen months since she’d last seen him. He wore it a trifle longer and swept back off his face. He now wore a neat beard and mustache, both nearly white. They radiated a manner of superiority quite above their positions.
When Richard had been alive, they always second-guessed her requests to them by going to him for verification before they did as she asked. That habit irritated Cassie, even if she somewhat understood it, as it was an old habit to take direction from the marquess.
Worse, when Richard had been killed, they were certain she had somehow been responsible, even if they could not conceive how that might be. As a result, they’d been slow to follow any direction she gave.
It appeared nothing had changed in eighteen months. They stood on the doorstep, frowning at her.
“The castle’s not ready fer guests. We had no word yous were coming. What do ya expect us to do?”
The housekeeper’s rough country speech was at odds with the gentry image she displayed. Cassie had forgotten that dichotomy.
“Did you not receive my note this morning?” Cassie asked.
“Well, aye. ’Afore noon, but what did ya expect us to do with that news?” she demanded, arms akimbo.
“Ready the castle for our arrival?”
“Ain’t no staff. Mr. Tidemark said as to turn ’em off. Just the two of us for this big property.”
“Isn’t Carlyle still here?” Cassie persisted.
