The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) Read Online Free Page A

bitter. She ate more than she thought possible.
    Breakfast finished, she looked over her planned schedule for the day. She had much to accomplish within eight hours. First she would post a note to the housekeeper in Hampshire, who was awaiting her arrival at her new home. She had brought a small writing set, the kind commonly used by a lady of her position, and, schooled in the flowery script that was nineteenth century handwriting, penned a quick note saying that she was in the country and expected to be down the next day. She could afford to pay anything it cost to get the message there in one day, and its destination was indeed an entire day’s ride by horseback.
    Her next task was clothes shopping. Jake had found a first-rate dressmaker nearby. She and Jake had walked there and back to the White Hart several times in the simulations they were able to create after he had returned from his advance journey. He had noted the names and addresses of the shops and businesses she would need, and the VR library had done a spectacular job of recreating those few blocks of old London with the information Jake had given them.
    She was gathering up her cloak and gloves to go out, when she began to feel the need for the water closet. She had used the chamber pot in her room the night before and again that morning for urinating, but this urge, she had learned from her research, ought to, if at all possible, be deposited in the water closet down the hall. She stepped nervously into the hallway and peered around. All clear. She tiptoed down the hall and rapped on the door. No answer. She took a deep breath and opened the door. She was in luck, it flushed! It was rudimentary to be sure, but a crank on the side actually flushed it with water, though it didn’t fill afterwards. Thank God, she thought, all right, here goes. She went in and latched the door - —she could only hold her breath so long. She was forced to inhale at last. It wasn’t so bad.
    That done, she went back to her room, washed her hands in the basin, and put on her cloak, hood, and gloves. On the way out, she handed her letter to the desk clerk with the money for the post and a generous tip, and was assured it would go out that morning. She was carrying about ten British pounds in coins, divided between hidden pockets and her purse, to hold her over until she could get to the bank.
    She stepped out the door of the inn into the street, and the stench hit her, a cross of human and animal excrement, rotting food, and shallow cemeteries. The simulations couldn’t prepare her for this, and the night before, in her hurry, with the freezing temperatures, and the streets being so empty, she didn’t notice it. But now the sun was warming the streets full of horses and carriages. She remembered that London, at this point, had a sewer system, but it essentially emptied into the Thames.
    She set off for the dressmaker’s, clutching a kerchief to her nose, but generally not attracting undue attention due to her hood and cloak, though it was odd for a woman of her obvious upper class to be out on the streets with no escort. It was unbelievably cold, but she knew the way there and arrived quickly. Brown and Clark’s it was called. She entered, lowered her hood, and was met with stares.
    “Good morning,” Cassandra smiled.
    “Good morning, miss, how may I help you?” asked the proprietress.
    “Yes, I…I am recently arrived from America and need some gowns and underthings. I am afraid I am ill prepared for the British climate. I hope you can help me.”
    “Oh, yes, of course,” said the woman relaxing her gaze. Her face was pock-marked and she wore spectacles. Together they rifled through the bolts of fabric and reviewed dress patterns. Cassandra submitted to a fitting, and the shop owner essentially abandoned her other customers, though they didn’t seem to mind, so fascinated were they with the striking American. The woman then found her some good woolen stockings, as