Surrender the Dawn (7 page)

W
ake up, miss. Wake up.” The sweet voice bade entrance into Cassandra’s sleep.

She denied it permission.

It rose again. “Wake up, miss.” Followed by the shuffle of curtains, then the clack of shutters. A burst of light flooded Cassandra’s eyelids. Her ladies’ maid began singing a hymn—something about a fount of blessing and streams of mercy.

Cassandra could not relate. She rolled over. “I’m not feeling well, Margaret.”

“But Mr. Crane is here, miss.”

Struggling to sit, Cassandra squinted into the sunlight blaring through the window. “Oh bother.” She rubbed her eyes. “Mr. Crane?”

“Yes. Remember your mother invited him over for coffee and cakes this morning?”

Tossing her quilt aside, Cassandra swung her legs over the edge of her mattress as her stomach turned to lead. Yes, now she remembered. She had wanted to forget—which was probably why she had forgotten.

Swinging open the armoire, Margaret chose a saffron-colored muslin gown then pulled two petticoats from the chest of drawers in the corner, laying them gently on Cassandra’s bed. “Come now, miss, surely the man can’t be that distasteful?” She planted her fists atop her rounded waist
and smiled at Cassandra. Cheeks that were perpetually rosy adorned her plump, cheery face while strands of black hair escaped from beneath her bonnet.

With a groan, Cassandra hopped to the floor, raised her arms, and allowed Margaret to sweep her night rail over her head. “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Crane. I simply do not wish to marry him.”

“Well, miss.” Margaret folded her sleeping gown. “Perhaps you should give him a chance. He might improve with time.”

Grabbing a stool from the corner, Margaret placed it beside Cassandra and stepped onto it, holding up the first petticoat. Few women were shorter than Cassandra’s mere five feet. But dear Margaret, at only four foot eight, made up for her small stature with an enormous heart. Cassandra shrugged into her petticoat. “I doubt I’ll find anyone as agreeable as your Mr. Dayle.”

Margaret’s rosy cheeks turned crimson. “Aye, he’s a good man, to be sure. But I suspect the Lord has a kindly gentleman chosen just for you.”

Cassandra let out an unladylike snort. “God has better things to do than play matchmaker for me, Margaret. And even if I believed He was involved in my life—which I doubt He is—I would prefer He provide me with a privateer rather than a husband.”

“Who says He can’t do both, miss?”

Twenty minutes later, Cassandra burst into the breakfast room situated at the back of the house. Silverware and crystal decanters sitting atop the table glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the closed french doors. The aroma of butter, spicy meat, and aromatic coffee whirled about her.

Tossing down his serviette, Mr. Crane rose from his seat and smiled her way. Tall, thin, with neatly combed brown hair, the man was not without some appeal. His attire was fashionable and clean, save for the occasional ink smudge on his skin. In addition, his manners were impeccable and his pedigree spotless. As Cassandra’s mother loved to remind her at every turn. Speaking of, her mother, dressed to perfection in a cream-colored gown that was crowned at the neck and sleeves with golden ruffles, sat at the head of the table. Cassandra did not miss the scowl on her face. “Mr. Crane has some urgent business to attend to this morning and could wait no longer for you to join us.”

“I am glad you proceeded without me.” Cassandra circled the table and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the serving table, passing over
the odd-smelling battercakes and blackened sausage. Turning, she found Mr. Crane’s eyes latched on her. “Do have a seat and finish your meal, Mr. Crane.” She took a chair across from him. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I fear I had a rather hectic day yesterday.”

Children’s laughter accompanied by the bark of a dog echoed from the back garden.

Mr. Crane flipped out his coattails and sat. “Of course, Miss Channing. I understand women need their rest.”

Cassandra tapped her shoe on the floor and scoured him with a pointed gaze. “I was just telling your mother of the happenings down at the
Register
.” He chuckled and lifted a piece of battercake to his mouth. After a moment’s pause, his lips twisted into an odd shape as he continued chewing.

Cassandra smiled.

Which he must have taken as encouragement to continue his dissertation of the newspaper business.

Searching the table for sugar, Cassandra sighed when she remembered they’d been out for months. She sipped her bitter coffee, trying to drown out the man’s incessant babbling.

Thankfully, after a few minutes, Miss Thain, the cook, entered the room. Eyes downcast, she cleared the plates, bobbing and curtseying at every turn.

Mr. Crane stood. “Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Miss Channing?”

“It’s a bit cold, isn’t it?” Didn’t the man say he had an appointment?

“Don’t be silly, Cassandra,” her mother said. “I’ll have Margaret bring down your cloak.” She hurried off, returning in a moment with Cassandra’s wool cape.

After sweeping it around her shoulders, Cassandra followed Mr. Crane through the french doors into the back garden. Warm sunlight struck her face even as a chilled breeze sent a shiver through her. Though nearly spring, winter seemed unwilling to release its grip on the city. To her left, Mr. Dayle chipped through the hard dirt in preparation for a vegetable garden. Beside him a small stable housed their only horse. To the right, smoke rose from the smokehouse where Miss Thain made the bread and smoked the meat—or where Miss Thain
attempted
to make bread and smoke meat. A small stone path wound among various trees and shrubs whose green buds were just beginning to peek
from within gray branches.

Darlene darted across the path in front of them, Dexter on her heels, and leapt into one of the bushes. “I found you!”

With an ear-piercing scream, Hannah leapt out from among the branches, twigs and lace flying through the air. Darlene barreled into her, and the two girls toppled to the ground in a gush of giggles as Dexter stood over them and barked.

Mr. Crane’s face scrunched. “Shouldn’t the children be attending their studies?”

Cassandra smiled. What an excellent reason to rid herself of this man’s company. “Of course, Mr. Crane. I quite agree. Since we were forced to let the nanny go, I’m afraid many of her duties have fallen to me.” Ignoring the look of alarm on his face, she continued, “If you’ll excuse me, I should get the girls cleaned up and ready for their lessons with Mrs. Northrop.” She faced the gardener. “Mr. Dayle, would you please see Mr. Crane to the door?” Then with barely a glance in Mr. Crane’s direction, Cassandra started toward her sisters, who were still tumbling on the grass.

“Oh, no, no, no, my dear.” Her mother’s shrill voice halted her. The older woman dashed into the yard, gathered the children up like a hen escaping a storm, and ushered them inside the house, shouting, “I’ll attend to the girls. Carry on, carry on.” Dexter followed after them but a closed door barred his passage. The poor sheepdog slumped to the ground and laid his head onto his front paws.

With a huff and a smile so stiff she felt her face would crack, Cassandra turned back toward Mr. Crane.

He cleared his throat. “Very good. Shall we sit?” He gestured toward an iron bench beneath a maple tree.

Reluctantly, Cassandra sat. The cold bars leeched the warmth from her body. Or was it being so close to Mr. Crane—who took the seat beside her—that caused her to shiver? He wasn’t such an unpleasant fellow. In fact, he’d always been quite courteous to her. But something in his eyes, in his subtle gestures, pricked at her distrust.

Or maybe she didn’t trust anyone anymore.

“Miss Channing.” He rubbed at his fingers as if he’d just noticed the ink stains upon them. “Your mother … I mean to say, I have asked …” His face reddened and he chuckled. “Do forgive me, Miss Channing. I’m usually not this inarticulate.”

Oh, bother. He was going to ask if he could court her!
“Do not vex yourself, Mr. Crane. Perhaps we can talk some other time.” Cassandra stood, her gaze darting about the yard, seeking escape. He grabbed her wrist and stood. “Please, Miss Channing, don’t leave. What I am trying to say is, what I’m making a terrible mess of saying is, I have asked your mother’s permission to court you and she has said yes.”

The sharp smell of ink bit her nose. Cassandra tugged from his grasp and took a step back. Expectation and vulnerability filled his eyes—so different from the confidence and hint of sorrow burning in Mr. Heaton’s eyes the night before. “Mr. Crane. I am deeply flattered. But my mother has misspoken. I am in no position to entertain suitors at this time. With my father dead and my brothers missing, surely you can see that I have more pressing matters to contend with.”

He wrung his hands once again. “If that is all that concerns you, Miss Channing, I have your solution. I’d be honored if you’d allow me to assist you with your pressing matters. It is too much for a lady to handle alone.”

Cassandra stiffened her jaw. “A lady can handle whatever a man can as long as she is given equal opportunity, sir.”

He started to chuckle, but when his eyes locked with hers, his laughter withered on his lips.

Mrs. Northrop’s head popped out from around the corner then disappeared. Mr. Dayle, still working in the garden, cleared his throat.

Cassandra studied Mr. Crane. For one fleeting moment she considered asking him to invest her money in a privateer. But that idea dissipated when she realized she’d be forced to not only trust him, but she’d be forever bound to him if he agreed. “I am grateful for your concern, sir, but I cannot allow such kindness when I have nothing to offer in return.”

“Oh, but you do, my dear.” Tugging on his lacy cravat, he lifted pleading brown eyes to hers.

Cassandra nearly shriveled at the look of desire and desperation within them.

He frowned. “At least give me a reason to continue casting my hope in your direction.”

“I can give you no such reason, sir. I can only say that my future is yet unknown.”

He lowered his chin. “That alone gives me hope.”

Truly?
Cassandra sighed. Would nothing put the man off?

“I shall bid you
adieu,
then.” Taking her hand in his, he placed a gentle kiss upon it, bowed, then headed toward the house. Mr. Dayle leapt to escort him to the door, giving her a sympathetic look in passing.

Shielding her eyes, Cassandra gazed up at the sun halfway to its zenith. A dark cloud that seemed to come out of nowhere drifted over it, swallowing its bright light and sending a shadow over her face and a shiver down her back. An evil foreboding? For once upon a time, Cassandra’s future had appeared bright and glorious, but now it seemed nothing but dark and dismal.

It was this war. This horrendous war. And the bedeviled British who had stolen her father, her brothers, her future, and who now wanted her country. But she could not let them. She must invest in a privateer. It was the only way to ensure her family’s future and aid in defeating the tyrants who were intent on stealing her freedom.

Making her way to the solarium at the north side of the house, she opened the door to a burst of warm, humid air, perfumed with gardenias. Her precious gardenias. Oh, how she loved gardening—a hobby that she’d often neglected this past year. Though even without daily care, the plants seemed to thrive. Inhaling their sweet fragrance, she fingered the delicate white petals as she made her rounds, examining each bush, before sitting on the wooden chair at the far end. Reaching underneath a workbench, she pulled out a small chest. Inside was a pipe.

Her father’s pipe.

Holding it to her nose, she drew in a deep breath of the sweet, smoky scent that always reminded her of Papa. She closed her eyes and pictured him sitting in his leather chair in the library, smoking his pipe while he read one of his two favorite books—John Moore’s
The Practical Navigator
or the Bible.

“Oh Papa, I need you.”

She could see him glance up from his book and smile at her as he took the pipe from his mouth. “Ah, my little Cassie cherub. Come see your papa.” Dashing to him, she would leap into his outstretched arms and crawl into his lap. During those precious moments snuggled within his warm, strong arms, she had felt safe and loved.

Like nothing could ever go wrong.

“Papa.” Tears slid down her face, trickling onto the handle of the pipe. “Why did you leave me? I don’t know what to do.”

No answer came. Just the chirp of birds outside the solarium and the
distant sound of her sisters’ laughing. Ah, to be young again—too young to be burdened with cares, too young to be forced into a marriage she didn’t want. Cassandra dropped her head in her hands. She could not put her mother or Mr. Crane off for long.

The lingering memory of her father disappeared, leaving Cassandra all alone.

Another man’s face filled her vision. A man with hair as dark as the night and beguiling blue eyes.

And she knew she had no other choice.

  CHAPTER 6