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

well as heavier weight chemises and drawers. Cassandra’s shoes were as fit for the weather as could be expected, as were her gloves and her cloak. She was beginning to feel she would be able to deal with the cold as long as it didn’t get too much worse.
    Paying the lady for her purchases, supplying her with the Hampshire address for their delivery and tipping her generously, Cassandra then hailed a hackney coach to take her the distance to the bank on Threadneedle Street. She carried only a small package containing her new undergarments. She would pay for the finished gowns when they were delivered to her.
    When the cab stopped in front of the bank, Cassandra stepped out gingerly onto the muddy street and picked her way to the entrance of the enormous columned building, the original Bank of England. A doorman opened the heavy wooden doors, and looked down at her, lips pursed. Inside the bank, the air was only slightly warmer than the outside; a fire burned impotently in a great stone fireplace. The ceilings were too high, the granite walls and marble floors too unforgiving to allow themselves to be warmed. Before she could decide whom to approach, the bank manager hurried up to her as fast as his girth would allow, a frown creasing his flushed brow.
    “Good morning, miss, is there something we can do for you?” he asked in a syrupy tone.
    “Yes, I am, um, looking for a Mr. Howard,” Cassandra said modestly. “I am Mrs. Cassandra Franklin.”
    “Oh, of course, Mrs. Franklin! Please forgive me. I am Mr. Howard.” He suddenly stood up taller and tugged at his lapels. After all, this woman’s legal representative had recently deposited several thousand pounds in his bank. “Right this way, madam. Please come into my office and we shall settle your business there.”
    “Thank you,” she replied, and followed him into a large room with windows set high, a grand wooden desk with claw feet and two well-worn leather chairs, one on each side of the desk, all warmed somewhat more efficiently by a coal stove.
    She withdrew two thousand pounds, more than enough to get her through the year. The full year’s rent on the house had been paid by Jake, which included the salaries of all the servants. It was odd handling money, Cassandra thought. In the twenty-second century, skin-cell scanning was how one was identified to every bank-linked computer in nearly every shop or restaurant. She took the bills and coins and put them in her bag, enjoying the new feel of the money in her hand. She thanked Mr. Howard; he bowed deeply and offered his personal carriage and a bodyguard to escort her back to the inn. She gratefully accepted, and, once she arrived at her room, locked the money in the false bottom of her suitcase.
    Jake had assured Cassandra that Sorrel Hall, as her new country home was called, had a fine piano, and he’d designated a music shop for her in London where she could buy sheet music. She’d brought none for fear of inadvertently exposing any composers who had not yet been published. So after a modest lunch alone in her room, she walked the few blocks to the shop, Jake’s directions clutched in her hand. From halfway down the street she saw the sign Stockard’s Music Shop . She entered the quiet store, dimly lit by half-burned candles and a small fire flickering in the corner hearth. The familiar smell of wood and old paper was tinged with pipe tobacco. Sheet music stores haven’t changed in three hundred years, she thought.
    The shopkeeper smiled at her. He was in his fifties, she guessed, with longish graying hair and warm brown eyes. His glance lingered on her for a moment; then he returned to closely examining a cello bow. She sighed with relief, knowing it was natural for a lady to be looking about in a music store.
    Cassandra soon located Bach. The store had an admirable selection, and she chose several pieces that she had never tried to master. She then leafed through Beethoven; some of her favorite