Snowbound With The Baronet (18 page)

Was Imogene Calvert right? Had Brandon been able to forgive her because her refusal left him free to pursue a better match? If that were true, why had he never mentioned Miss Reynolds or his intention of proposing to her?

None of that mattered now, Cassandra reminded herself with considerable severity. She would be on her way to Bath before the day was out. There was a good chance she would not even see Brandon before she left. Now that she’d had told him the truth about her past actions and discovered it made no difference, perhaps she could finally put the whole matter behind her, where it belonged. She could begin to make a somewhat independent life for herself and do her best to assist her sisters and Letty.

Now that Miss Calvert had found her voice again, she insisted on extolling the merits of Miss Reynolds, who sounded like a perfect paragon. “She is vastly accomplished, you know. She sings divinely while accompanying herself on the pianoforte.”

“Indeed?” Cassandra’s cheeks ached from the effort to keep smiling.

“She paints perfectly splendid watercolors,” Miss Calvert gushed. “And she dances like an angel!”

When had Miss Calvert seen an angel dance to be able to draw that comparison? Cassandra struggled to suppress the question for it might suggest she had not been entirely truthful earlier.

“Miss Reynolds is very handsome as well.” Imogene Calvert continued with fiendish delight, as if she sensed every word of praise for Brandon’s future wife was like a sharp pin poked into Cassandra. “Her hair is the color of honey and her eyes are the very same shade of blue as Brandon’s.”

It took a great effort of will for Cassandra to unclench her teeth. “They should make a fine-looking couple.”

Privately she wondered how a lady with so many fine qualities and a large fortune had managed to remain single for more than a year after making her debut.

Before Miss Calvert could find more to praise about Isabella Reynolds, Cassandra forestalled her. “Now that your hair is done, you must excuse me. I believe Mrs. Martin can use my help to prepare for this evening.”

“Of course.” Imogene Calvert turned to regard Cassandra with an infuriating little smirk. “Though I’m sure Miss Reynolds would never think of stooping to do chores for a farmer’s wife.”

Cassandra refused to let the insult provoke her. “Then it is fortunate for Miss Reynolds that she was not snowbound with us. I do not consider it
beneath
me to assist others, no matter what their station in life.”

That sounded very virtuous, her conscience chided as she strode away. But what about
accepting
help from others? That was something her pride found harder to tolerate.

O
NCE
B
RANDON LOCATED
the Cherhill blacksmith and explained the problem with his disabled carriage, it required several hours work for the necessary repairs to be completed.

When Perkins brought the horses to haul the vehicle back to the Martin farm, Brandon surveyed the lengthening shadows. “Just as I expected. Even with ideal roads, I doubt we could have reached Bath before dark.”

The roads were far from ideal, if the stretch between here and Cherhill was any indication.

“I don’t mind staying another night, sir.” Edward stamped his feet to warm them. “I look forward to a tasty meal at Mrs. Martin’s table and plenty of good cheer.”

“So do I,” Brandon replied. “Let us not delay another moment getting back there.”

No doubt the festivities would prove very pleasant. But they would not be the same without Cassandra. Like an unexpected blow, Brandon suddenly realized he had not bid her farewell. Stung by her insistence that she no longer had any romantic interest in him, he’d been relieved to escape her presence. He had not wanted to risk his tone or manner betraying his bitter disappointment.

By now the stagecoach must have left for Bath, whisking her out of his life again. He hoped she would have a safe journey. Would she and Mrs. Davis reach their destination before dark? He did not like to think of her being stranded again without him.

But when they reached the Martins’ barnyard, he spied the unharnessed stagecoach parked there. Clearly the coachman must have had second thoughts about the wisdom of pressing on with their journey today. Or perhaps the prospect of celebrating Twelfth Night at the Martins’ farm had tempted him to linger. Whatever the reason, Brandon wanted to shake his hand.

Perhaps there was no hope for Cassandra and him to regain what they’d lost. But at least now he could say a proper farewell, wish her Godspeed and part as friends.

“There you are.” Mr. Martin emerged from the barn as they led the horses toward it. “I was afraid you might need a team of oxen to pull your carriage out of the snow. As you can see, our party is not breaking up quite yet.”

While his servants stabled the horses, Brandon lingered in the barn, anxious for a private word with Tobias Martin.

“What are you still doing out here?” asked the farmer when Brandon stayed behind after his driver and footman had retired to the house. “I thought you’d want to be inside making up to Lady Cassandra, not out here in the cold with me and the livestock. I reckon she’d prefer it as well.”

Brandon knew he should not respond to the remark, but carry on with what he intended to say. But somehow he could not resist the opportunity to talk about Cassandra—even if it was only to deny anything between them. “I reckon she would be just as happy if I stayed out here all evening.”

He prepared to return to the matter he’d intended to discuss but Mr. Martin seemed to find his statement too provocative to ignore. “What makes you certain of that? Is it the way her face lights up when the two of you talk together? Or is it the way she watches you when you’re not looking? You may not have noticed, but I have.”

Brandon shook his head. Tempting as it was to believe the farmer, he had been tantalized by hope too often during the past forty-eight hours only to be disappointed. “You are mistaken, I fear.”

He sensed Mr. Martin would not stop his well-intentioned meddling until he understood why a match between his two guests was quite impossible. “Lady Cassandra and I have a prior acquaintance, you see.”

“So I’ve heard.” The farmer glanced toward the cottage. “I gather you once asked the lady to wed and she turned you down.”

“Where did you hear that?” Brandon demanded.

Tobias Martin shrugged. “From my wife, who had it from the lady herself. Now I daresay it was a bitter disappointment. A fine-looking gentleman like you with a comfortable fortune wouldn’t expect to be refused. But did no one ever teach you the importance of persistence?”

“I appreciate your concern,” Brandon could not suppress a sigh. “But I fear you do not understand my situation.”

“Don’t I, though?” Mr. Martin gave an indulgent chuckle. “Do you suppose my missus snapped me up the first time I asked? Her father was the village butcher with a good business and a bit put by. And Effie was the prettiest, liveliest lass in the parish. The cooper and the innkeeper’s son were both mad for her.”

It made Brandon smile to picture the hardy farmer as an ardent young swain and his motherly wife as the belle of rural Wiltshire. “But you prevailed against such competition. I congratulate you. How did you manage it?”

Mr. Martin’s broad chest puffed up larger still. “With constancy and tenacity. The others stopped asking after she refused them once. But I kept asking didn’t I? I showed her my feelings were more than a flash in the pan but would wear well over the years.”

If only his parents could have had that kind of marriage, Brandon reflected, how many lives might have been better for it?

“I commend you, sir, but I fear my situation is not the same. Lady Cassandra told me plainly that she no longer has any romantic feelings for me.”

Mr. Martin shook his head slowly. “That is not what she told my wife.”

Brandon ruthlessly quelled another rogue flicker of hope that leapt within him. Would he never learn? “Don’t you think it is possible Mrs. Martin misunderstood or heard what she wanted to?”

“That could be.” The farmer did not sound convinced. “But I reckon it’s just as likely the lady might be reluctant to confess her feelings for a gentleman she believed was lost to her, after she’d once refused him.”

Their host’s suggestion had a ring of truth that Brandon found very difficult to dismiss. After all, had he not been reluctant to confess that he still cared for a woman who had refused him once?

“Have you really got so much to lose by trying again?” the farmer asked. “Those other men thought they did after Effie turned them down, but I believed there was more to gain. I cannot tell you what to do, but I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said. Now we had better get inside before Effie sends a search party after us.”

Did he have so much to lose? Brandon wondered. More than Mr. Martin might realize. His pride, for a start, and perhaps the opportunity to make a safe, sensible union with Isabella Reynolds. But did those possible losses weigh anything compared to what he might gain?

How would Brandon react when he learned that the stagecoach party would be staying another night at the Martins’ farm?

As she stirred up the parlor fire, Cassandra kept her ears open for the baronet’s voice or footfall in the entryway.

Would he resent having to spend another evening in her company when he would rather be with the incomparable Miss Reynolds? Or would he welcome the opportunity to bring matters between them to a satisfactory conclusion?

When the stagecoach driver had informed Cassandra that the roads were not yet fit for travelling, a surge of elation had risen in her heart. It was tempered with a qualm of guilt, as if she’d received an expensive gift she did not deserve. That gift was the opportunity to enjoy one last evening with Brandon and say a proper goodbye.

The front door opened and closed, followed by muted voices and the rustle of coats being removed. Cassandra’s heart began to race and her cheeks blazed with heat that did not come from the low fire.

A moment later, Sir Brandon’s coachman and footman entered the parlor. Their faces were nipped red from the cold.

“Where has my cousin got to?” demanded Imogene Calvert, who sat by the hearth, studiously ignoring Cassandra. “He is the one who insisted we must stay here another night.”

“The master should be along in a moment, Miss,” the footman replied. “He was having a word with Mr. Martin when we came in.”

Rising from the hearth Cassandra dusted off her hands as she turned toward the two men. “If you would care for a hot drink, Mrs. Martin has cider in the kitchen.”

Both men smiled at the prospect of hot cider.

“What about you, Miss?” the footman asked Imogene Calvert. “Shall I fetch you a cup?”

“That is kind of you to offer, Edward.” The young lady cast a sidelong glance at Cassandra, perhaps considering whether she wanted to remain in the same room with her. “A hot drink would be very pleasant. I believe I will join you and the others in the kitchen.”

Once they were gone, Cassandra took the opportunity to tidy the now-empty parlor. Just as she was finishing, she heard someone else enter through the front door. She peeked into the entry hall to find Brandon removing his greatcoat.

Before she could step away, he spotted her and broke into an unexpected smile. “Lady Cassandra. Just the person I wanted to see. I understand your party will be staying on tonight after all. A wise decision by your driver, in my opinion.”

He beckoned her toward him, an invitation Cassandra could not resist. It seemed he was prepared to be more than civil to her during this final evening they must spend together. Perhaps it was because of what he’d told his cousin—he realized the positive effect her rejection had on his life. Whatever the reason, she would be grateful if it made their last hours together reasonably congenial.

“Of course you believe it is a wise decision, since it happens to agree with yours.” She teased him, to show that she was willing to be cordial if he was. “Mrs. Martin seems pleased, bless her hospitable heart. Most people would be relieved to entertain half as many unexpected house guests.”

Brandon nodded. “That is what I wished to discuss with you... at least something related. I want to compensate these good people for the invaluable service they have done us. But when I offered Mr. Martin a sum of money just now, he got quite vexed with me, as if I had insulted him. I do not know what to make of it. I hoped you might be able to enlighten me. You always seemed to have a better grasp of human nature than I.”

His praise kindled a soft glow inside Cassandra, even though she knew he meant nothing by it. “I doubt that is true, but I believe I may understand why Mr. Martin took exception to your generous offer.”

Would Brandon suggest they go into the parlor and discuss the matter? Cassandra preferred to linger in the narrow entryway. There was something informal—even intimate—about it.

“Do not keep me in suspense,” Brandon’s blue eyes shimmered... with curiosity, no doubt.

“This may not be easy for a baronet to understand,” she began. “In spite of his humbler station—indeed because of it—I suspect Mr. Martin is a proud man at heart.”

“Proud?” Brandon’s lofty brow furrowed and his wide mouth settled into a doubtful frown.

“I do not mean in the sense of haughty or superior,” Cassandra explained. She was all too familiar with that sort of pride. “More self-respecting.”

Why did it matter so much to her that Brandon grasp her explanation? Could it be because she was describing her own character as much as their host’s?

Brandon could sympathize with the sort of pride Cassandra had described. He lifted silent thanks to whatever kind Providence had provided him with this excuse to reach out to her. He also welcomed the good fortune of finding her alone in the parlor. He must make the most of this unexpected opportunity.

“I believe I see what you are saying.” He relished the chance to converse with her on any subject. “But what does that have to do with Mr. Martin’s refusal to accept my money? The sum I offered is nothing to me, but the assistance we received in our hour of need was priceless.”