The Whispers on the Moors Collection, page 31
Patience sighed. ’Twould be one of those days.
With determined steps, she went to the window and pulled back the brocade fabric in one sweep. Silver brightness reached to the corners of the chamber, reviving the space and soliciting protests from her mother.
“Patience! What are you doing? Close those coverings at once.”
“It’s time to rise. We’ve much to do today.”
“I am not well.” Her thin voice was muffled beneath the pile of quilts and coverlets. “Let me be.”
Patience ignored her mother’s tone, refusing to allow her to continue on in such a fashion. “Mother, you must.” With a quick scan of the room, she noted she was not the first to try to wake her. It had been Mary, no doubt, who had left a tray of tea on the writing desk, the steam still curling from the tiny pot. She poured her mother a cup and took it to her. “Drink this.”
With a tsk, her mother pushed her hand away. “Do you not hear me? I am unwell.”
Patience swallowed the resentment swelling within her—the response had become their daily ritual. “You must at least try to get up.”
“Why?” Her mother sat up in a huff, her graying hair hanging limply about her face from beneath her sleeping cap. “Why should I?”
Patience returned the rejected tea to the tray and moved to the wardrobe. She was so weary of the same conversation day after day. “I will give you twenty-nine sound reasons why you must get up, and they are all downstairs, waiting to learn.” Patience pulled a black muslin mourning dress and stays from the wardrobe and held them in front of her.
Her mother only huffed. “That was your father’s vision, not mine.”
“Well then, that leaves us with one option, does it not?” Patience slipped the dress over her arm and returned to the bed. “We should close the school. But seeing that you and I have nowhere else to go, and we rely on the school’s income to live on month after month, we would have no choice but to move to the poor house.”
“How can you be so unfeeling?” Tears filled her mother’s eyes, and Patience immediately regretted her bluntness. But how long could she continue to allow her mother to stay in bed, swathed in her misery, refusing to live her life?
Patience sat next to her mother on the bed, set the gown and stays aside, and took her mother’s hand in hers. “No words could describe how much I miss Father. But he would want us to move forward and continue the work he started. It would break his heart to see you in such despair. Please, you must try.”
Patience reached for a linen handkerchief on the small rosewood table next to the bed. “You need to get out of bed. Let’s go downstairs for breakfast today. Louisa has been struggling with her French. Perhaps you could spend time with her. It might brighten your spirits.”
“I do wish Rawdon would return. What could possibly be keeping him from us?”
Patience drew a sharp breath and demonstrated control over every muscle in her face to keep from showing her frustration. Rawdon. Always Rawdon.
Her mother’s refusal to accept that her brother had abandoned them offended Patience. How could her mother not see what he had done? And yet, day after day, she spoke of him as if his return were imminent.
Patience, too, had anticipated his return—initially. But it had become clear that he had no such plans. This meant the responsibilities of running the school fell to her. How she wanted to remind her mother of this detail. The memory of Rawdon’s departure was enough to ignite Patience’s own temper.
But Patience kept her opinion of Rawdon to herself—her mother would never hear it. “Rawdon has been gone for six months. We have heard from him only twice. I think you should prepare yourself for the fact that—”
“Don’t you dare!” Her mother’s voice shook with sudden intensity. The older woman’s pale eyes narrowed and filled with tears. “He will soon return and set all to right. You shall see.”
He will set all to right? Patience bit back a retort. No matter how hard she had worked these many months to keep the school running efficiently, her effort, ignored by her mother, seemed little more than a whisper on the wind.
Feeling exhausted even before the day was truly under way, Patience carefully closed her mother’s door and let the brass handle slip from her fingers. She sighed. She would give anything to have her mother back, the mother she remembered. The mother who was full of life, full of overflowing love. Margaret Creighton was but a shell of the woman who occupied so many of Patience’s fondest memories.
Lost in her own torrent of thoughts, Patience was startled when Cassandra Baden, fellow teacher and dear friend, turned the corner from the servants’ stairs.
“Patience!” exclaimed Cassandra, face flushed, brown eyes wide. “You must tell me quickly, and you must tell me every detail. What happened this morning? I heard a man’s voice, I heard Mary fussing, and I thought—”
Alarmed that someone else knew of their surprise visitor and petrified that her mother would hear, Patience grabbed Cassandra’s hand and pulled her to a cushioned bench in the sitting area at the corridor’s end. “Shh!”
“But what happened? I do not under—”
With a wave of her hand, Patience silenced Cassandra, and then, once certain they were alone, she leaned close. “Was he loud? Do you think the girls heard?”
Scrunching her face in thought, Cassandra shook her head. “I do not think so. Who was he?”
Patience chewed her lip. “It . . . it was Mr. Sterling.”
Cassandra frowned. “Mr. William Sterling? Here?”
Patience paused to consider her words—and how much she would reveal of her suspicion about what had really happened. “Apparently he was out riding and had an accident and took shelter in our stable. George found him while tending to his morning duties.”
“Was he injured?”
Patience unwillingly recalled the man’s blood-stained lips, swollen eye, and gashed forehead. And as much as she tried to deny it, she remembered the feel of strong muscle beneath his woven shirt when she tried to force him to be still. “He had cuts and bruises, was unconscious for a time, but as soon as he regained his senses, he left.”
Patience could interpret the expressions shadowing her friend’s face without her friend uttering a sound. Time had made them closer than sisters. “I know what you are thinking. It wasn’t the least bit romantic, Cassandra Baden.” Patience spoke the words to convince Cassandra as well as herself. “He was abrupt, almost rude. And he reeked of spirits.”
Cassandra’s smile vanished, as if she’d just gotten caught up with her childish romantic fantasies.
Patience sat up straighter. “You know how such men are. He will no doubt send his steward out to collect our rent at the end of the month as always, and we shall not hear from him again.”
“I suppose you are right,” Cassandra said, glancing at the door to Mrs. Creighton’s bedchamber. “I take it you did not tell your mother?”
Patience shook her head. “No, and I think we should not speak of it. Such stories will only lead to rumors and tall tales, neither of which we need. George, Mary, and Charlie are the only ones who saw him. At least I think they are the only ones.”
“And Mr. Rawdon Creighton? Will you inform him of the visit?”
Patience stiffened, hearing her brother’s name for the second time that morning. She knew of Cassandra’s relationship with her brother. In fact, Rawdon had confided in Patience his plans to propose marriage to her pretty friend. But days after he made that bold statement, their father died. And on the dreary August morning after the funeral, a somber Rawdon departed for London, declaring that he needed to settle business for their father.
He never returned.
Patience believed he had betrayed them both, and yet Cassandra continued to defend him, very much like his own mother.
Patience fixed her eyes on the floor’s broad wooden planks. Their father, whether she liked it or not, had named Rawdon, not her, as the one who was to care for the school. “I wrote to him and explained the situation this morning. George will post it today.”
“Surely after such news he will return to Darbury.” Wistful hopefulness haunted her friend’s tone, who then said, with forced gaiety, “But the next time there is such a happening, I expect you to come get me. I am starved for excitement.” She stood and reached to pull Patience to her feet. “Have you had breakfast?”
Patience looked at her mother’s door—again. In the past, the Creighton family ate breakfast in the privacy of their family dining room instead of the dining hall with the staff and students. It had been part of their effort to maintain life as a normal family unit—as normal a family life as could be had in a house shared with dozens of students and a full teaching staff. But with her father dead, her brother out of town, and her mother indisposed, it seemed silly to take breakfast alone. “No.”
“Then come and eat with the teachers in the dining hall.”
Patience didn’t protest as her friend nudged her along the narrow corridor and down the stairs. With each step toward the dining hall, the comforting sounds and scents of morning intensified. She took a deep breath, appreciating the scent of jams and rolls, coffee and tea.
The dining hall was in the oldest part of Rosemere. Exposed beams ran the width of the airy room. A fire blazed in the wide stone fireplace, its cheery crackle helping to combat the cool chill seeping in the broad paned windows. The stone floor felt cold to Patience through the thin soles of her kidskin boots. She looked out the windows at the bleak moors, stretched out broad and desolate, and found herself grateful for the welcoming warmth of the wood fire.
She always liked the sound of the children’s chatter. Many institutions similar to Rosemere forbade talking during meals. But her father had hardly been one to follow convention. He’d believed camaraderie among the students was important for a well-rounded education, and he always allowed—nay—encouraged the interaction.
Six long wooden tables flanked with equally long benches filled the large room. At the farthest table sat the teachers. The girls were seated at the other tables according to their age, each one dressed in the school gown of blue muslin with gray trim, white stockings, and half boots made of black kid leather. At the closest table were the youngest girls—ages six to eight. Patience put a hand on the shoulder of young Miss Charlotte Allenham and leaned in close. “Has that tooth come loose yet?”
The plump girl turned her flaxen head and flashed a broad, toothless smile.
“Well!” exclaimed Patience. “Very becoming.”
She patted Miss Georgiana Mussy’s shoulder and smoothed the thick mahogany braid of Miss Emma Simmons. These girls were more than her students. Yes, she took great pride in overseeing their education, but she’d also found strength—and distraction—in the busy happenings of their everyday lives.
For today at least, she resolved to put her troubles aside and enjoy her day.
A voice, familiar yet distant, pulled William from slumber.
“What in blazes happened to you?”
William jerked his head around to look at Lewis and moved to rub his hand over his face, but when he touched his mouth, searing pain catapulted him upright, bringing back the memory of the previous night. He groaned, more from the recollection than the pain.
Lewis, in heavy boots, thumped across the bedchamber’s wooden floor and stopped at the foot of the bed. Even with his eyes pressed shut, William could picture Lewis McOwen, Eastmore Hall’s groom, standing, arms folded across his chest in customary fashion, an incredulous expression on his long face.
Most men of William’s situation would never allow their head groom in their bedchamber. But ever since his financial situation crumbled, William had been forced to dismiss the majority of his house staff. His most trusted servant, Lewis, not only filled the role of groom but also that of footman, valet, coachman, and even, on one very desperate situation, maid.
William’s body ached and his head throbbed. “Go away.”
“I will not go away. Or have you forgotten?” William could hear boots stomp around the bed and move to the window. “Mr. Bley will be here within the hour to assess the horses.”
“Blast!” William sank deeper against his pillow.
“Judging by the looks of you, you have had other things on your mind.” Lewis opened the curtains, and the light may as well have been fashioned from daggers, so sharp was the glow. “You’d best be about things.” Lewis retrieved William’s discarded boots and waistcoat from the floor. “Remember, Mr. Bley said he must be back in Darbury to meet the noon coach. You’ll not have much time.”
William drew a deep breath, the simple action sending a blade through his side. Of course Lewis was right. Lewis was always right.
William slowly opened his good eye. “Had a rough night.”
“Humph. Looks like.”
“No, not that sort of rough night,” William sputtered, annoyed at the inference. “It was Rafertee’s men.”
“Ah.” Lewis’s expression sobered, and he settled in a chair opposite the bed. He just looked at William, waiting for the story.
William preferred a reprimand to silence. But this was Lewis’s way. And Lewis had borne witness to many, if not most, of his mistakes. Always patient, Lewis remained silent.
William frowned. Anything but silence.
Although Lewis was but a hired man at Eastmore Hall, William’s relationship with him had been longstanding, so much so that the boundaries that would normally separate servant and master had blurred. Both men came of age on Eastmore’s moors, William, the master’s son, and Lewis, the head groom’s son. Despite William’s father’s annoyance, the boys spent much time together, bound by their passion for horses. The friendship, such as it was, survived the deaths of both their fathers and had even lasted through William’s wild and turbulent years. With his money nearly gone—along with his comrades—Lewis was one of the few who had remained loyal. Which made verbalizing the details of the ambush that much more difficult.
“So what happened?”
With great effort—and pain—William rolled over and sat up, grimacing and protectively supporting his ribs, and relayed the story of his late-night visit to the inn and his ride across the moors. “When I came to, I could barely see, so I decided to wait out the snowstorm in the Rosemere stable. I apparently lost consciousness and woke up in a bed inside Rosemere.”
Lewis raised his eyebrows. “The girls’ school?”
“Yes.”
Lewis chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “Well, I’ll be.”
William brushed his disheveled hair from his forehead. “Were you aware that Mr. Creighton died and Rawdon Creighton is in London?’
“Yes.”
“And that Creighton’s daughter is running the school?
“Uh-huh.”
William stopped short of asking for more details about Miss Patience Creighton, although of all the aforementioned, the memory of her burned most vividly in his mind. But the details of the visit were so hazy, he almost doubted his recollection. Had he simply imagined her? Perhaps she was nothing more than a lovely illusion, a vaporous angel, brought into being by several blows to the head.
Lewis pushed himself up from the padded chair. “Best get yourself cleaned up. Can’t meet Bley looking like that.” The tone of his voice held the familiar lilt. “He might get the wrong impression.” On his way out the door, he called back over his shoulder, “I’ll send Martha up with water and coffee. Strong coffee. Oh, and I almost forgot.” He pulled a letter from inside his coat and tossed it on the bed. “Arrived yesterday.”
William eyed the letter. Even at a distance he could make out his brother’s unmistakable handwriting. He would read Graham’s letter later, after the conversation with Bley.
William stood from his bed with slow, deliberate movements. His eye throbbed, his lip stung, and with every breath a sharp pain pierced his side. Everything within him screamed to crawl back to the comfort of the wide bed and remain still until the pain subsided. But he’d anticipated Mr. Bley’s visit for a week. If he was to restore Eastmore Hall to what it had been, this was the first step. He had to persuade Bley to purchase a foal sired by Slaten. He needed the money—now more than ever.
William shuffled to the wardrobe and opened the door. He may no longer have the funds of a country gentleman, but at least he could appear as if he did. After Martha brought hot water and coffee, he gingerly washed his face and decided to forgo shaving. He dressed in buckskin breeches fashioned by Weston’s in London and top boots polished with the most reflective gleam. He took great pains with his cravat, carefully folding and tying the billowing white linen, an art he had been forced to master after he dismissed his valet. He fastened the buttons on his tan single-breasted waistcoat and then pulled on his dark green kerseymere tailcoat. Once dressed, he stood back and assessed his reflection in the looking glass.
He never did care for pretentious clothing—his interest had always been more in sport—but when his funds had flowed freely, he’d spared no expense to look every bit the part. All the money he had spent on such luxuries now seemed a frivolous waste, especially when he hadn’t a sixpence to scratch with. From the neck down, he was immaculate. From the neck up, he looked like a bloke who’d been bested in a bout of boxing.
He combed his fingers through his hair, gingerly removing tangles and debris, noting the need for a haircut. But then he reminded himself that Bley was not coming to see him. He was coming to see Slaten.
Slaten. If it were possible to blame anyone besides himself for his current situation, it might be the horse . . . although it could hardly be the animal’s fault, for his downfall began years before. When Isabelle broke their engagement, gambling on horses became William’s profession, taking him to the heights of glory and the depths of ruin. But luck had always returned . . . a faithful, if fickle, companion.
He’d taken Slaten, an accomplished racer, for payment of a debt. At the time he had considered it an even—if not advantageous—exchange. The animal was well-known for his wild, competitive nature, which translated to success on a course. But William’s efforts to pad his pocketbook were dashed well over a year ago. William had used the last of his money to enter the horse in a prestigious race. But when the horse stumbled mid-race over another horse that had taken a spill, Slaten permanently damaged a tendon in his leg, bringing his racing days to an end. It was at that moment when all was lost.
