A Flight of Fancy Read Online Free PDF Page A

asked Honore.
    “His mother told me.” Honore picked up a silver-backed brush and began to draw it through her shimmering hair. “She said he charged into the house a week after the fire, told amanservant to pack his things, then departed in the traveling coach. It returned several days later, but he did not.”
    Cassandra’s heart stopped. “Are you saying they do not know where he is?”
    “They know he is well.” Honore leaned forward to brush the underside of her hair. It fell to the carpet in a waterfall of golden silk. “They receive messages from him, but he says nothing of his whereabouts.”
    “Hiding, the coward.”
    Anger mixed with envy clutched at Cassandra’s belly. He, as a man of independent means, even though those means were limited due to his father’s and brother’s excesses, could hide from the scandal they had caused. She, however, had to go stay at Whittaker Hall, where his mother seemed prepared to pretend all was well, that all Cassandra needed to do was recover fully and the wedding would take place. Perhaps she should walk—hobble—into the Hall and pull up her skirt to show them her legs. No one would want her for his wife then, after he fainted, as Mama had the first time she saw Cassandra’s burns. Even Lydia, strong and competent, had been sick after seeing the blisters. She too easily could have looked like that—or, worse, both Lydia and Honore—after the fire they had barely escaped in June.
    But Honore was a spoiled child taken in by a wrong yet charming man. Cassandra should have known better. Cassandra did know better. She had lectured Lydia about faith in God. Now she knew what happened to hypocrites.
    “I cannot face them, Hon.” Cassandra started to grab her cane and rise, but a knock sounded on the door, and she flopped back into the corner of the chaise.
    Honore bounded to her dainty feet and scampered acrossthe room with a fluid grace that sent her flounced skirt floating around her ankles and her hair swirling around her shoulders. She was so lovely no one at Whittaker Hall would notice Cassandra. She could take to wearing her spectacles all the time, those octagons of magnifying glass that distorted her eyes into something grotesque. Lady Whittaker would be writing to her son to find a bride who was not quite so flawed.
    At the door, Honore spoke to someone, then returned with a tray. Fragrant steam wafted from the silver coffeepot and milk pitcher. Cups and a bowl of freshly grated sugar nestled around a plate of coconut macaroons. Cook, a stolid Englishwoman who had arrived after two French chefs had left their post without notice, tried to fatten Cassandra up at every opportunity. Food cured everything from broken hearts to broken bones, according to her.
    “She sent five macaroons,” Honore announced. “I believe I am to have two.”
    “We will not be having any if you do not keep your hair out of them. Why did you take it down?”
    “It was giving me a headache pinned up and we are staying in tonight, so I see no reason for suffering. Cream and sugar? I shall do the honors.” She giggled. “Mama says I need practice. I dropped a lump of sugar in some duchess’s lap the other day.”
    “Better than spilling the tea in it.” Cassandra grasped the cane propped against the arm of the chaise and hoisted herself to her feet. With care, noting from the corner of her eye how Honore avoided looking at her, Cassandra crossed the room to her desk, dragging her right leg behind her. Putting her full weight on it still caused her to grit her teeth to stop herself from crying out.
    “Will you bring my coffee to me here?” She lowered herself onto the chair. And stared at the blank parquetry surface beforeher. She should have designs spread out there, not a coffee cup and plate of biscuits. But her balloon design had disappeared. She had dropped her reticule the night of the fire and lost her plans. Now she must re-create them.
    “I cannot work at Whittaker