The Whispers on the Moors Collection, page 42
Patience watched her brother the rest of the evening. She hoped to find time to speak with him alone, but no opportunity presented itself. She decided one thing: Cassandra would not leave because of Rawdon’s actions. She made it her mission to make sure Cassandra would stay at Rosemere, where she belonged.
William slowed Angus from a canter and trotted into a clearing at Ambledale Court, Jonathan Riley’s estate. A dusting of snow swirled around him.
He should have come earlier. Night fell early across the moors, especially this time of year. But then as quickly as the thought entered his head, he chided himself for feeling anxious. Never before had he allowed fear to rule his actions. Now was not the time for timidity or to second-guess a decision.
Riley’s butler had the door open before he even handed Angus’s reins to the stable boy. The observant servants scurried about their tasks with pinpoint precision—prime examples of how a house should function.
He thought of his own Eastmore Hall, a mere shell of its former glory, with most of the rooms closed and a skeleton crew of servants. He chose not to dwell on that fact and, instead, reminded himself that agreeing to the proposal from Riley could take a step toward regaining his life.
He needed to learn everything he could.
William followed Ambledale Court’s poker-straight butler to the billiard room, where he heard—and recognized—Riley’s voice. Another voice, which was much lower and possessed the slightest bit of a Scottish lilt, he could not place. Once he entered the smoke-filled room, Riley was immediately at William’s side, cue in one hand, goblet in the other. “Ah, finally! See, Carlton, I knew he would not let us down.”
William watched as the heavy-set, middle-aged man came toward him. He’d expected the man to be younger. More agile. His greasy hair was tied in a queue at the base of his neck. Unkempt sideburns did their best to hide pockmarks on his cheeks.
The man’s mouth seemed too large for his face, his spectacles, too small. “Sterling, I presume. Been waiting to meet you. Heard you have a bonny bit of land, ripe for commerce.”
William nodded, not ready yet to respond. He’d never been one to judge a character too quickly. Perhaps a characteristic he should reconsider.
The man said, “Your estate is near here, am I correct?”
William nodded. “You are, sir. Eastmore Hall. Due east.”
“Ah.”
Riley propped his foot on an ottoman and rested his elbow on his knee. “Got himself some pretty ponies on that estate, at that. Too bad you’re not a horseman.”
“Do you?” Carlton lowered himself back down into his chair. “Don’t mind if I sit a spell, do you, Sterling? Blasted gout.” Carlton rubbed his leg before settling back against the chair. “So, you are interested in joining us on this venture, so I hear?”
“Considering it.” William moved to the fire to warm himself after the ride. “Riley here tells me you have had quite a bit of success in the textile business.”
“Wool. That’s where the money is, lad. If I can only keep the bloody heathens and riots away from my looms. Rowdy lot.”
William glanced over at Riley, whose expression suggested he was eager to squelch any chatter that might lead to misgivings related to their venture.
Riley leaned in. “Well, you won’t have to worry about them here in Darbury. Quiet town, am I right?”
William shrugged.
Carlton’s raspy laugh filled the space. “That’s what I like to hear.”
The hours passed by and William’s tension eased, whether from the comfort of being introduced to new company or the effect of the port. After he decided to call it an evening, William showed himself to the room where he always stayed when a guest at Riley’s estate . . . the Blue Room.
With naught but a lighted tallow candle in a pewter holder, William settled in for the night. A fire had been lit in the room in anticipation of his arrival, and it had died down, the embers in the grate glowing orange and red. No moonlight filtered through the windows. The fire’s shadows danced on the walls that had been painted such a dark blue that they looked black in night’s darkness.
He sat on a chair next to the fire to remove his boots, but the smoldering embers distracted him. He could not help but be reminded of the blaze at Rosemere.
And, by association, the expression of strength on Miss Creighton’s face.
He removed his coat and, at the movement, felt the weight of the brooch still in the welt pocket of his waistcoat.
How he hoped that when he reached his fingers in the pocket the brooch would not be there—that the entire ordeal was but a strange misgiving. But his fingers grasped the object, still secure in the fabric pouch.
As he held the jewelry, he thought about the proposed business alliance with Riley and Carlton. What would his father have done? But throughout the evening, he could not help another thought: What would his mother have done? As much as his father had poured every ounce of energy into his land and his work, his mother had poured every ounce of her being into her faith. How she had tried to instill in him a faith. But his will had been too strong. How he wished he could recall the verses she used to recite to him as a boy. He had thought them meaningless at the time. As he struggled with his feelings of abandonment and the sting of his failures, he tried to remember—he wanted to remember.
His mother had prayed daily. He had thought it a ridiculous waste of time. But she had been at peace. Even when trials littered her path, she was never riled.
Maybe she had been on the right path after all, and he had been the ridiculous one.
The next morning Patience sat at the desk in the study, intent on clearing the mess away. The fact that her brother returned the day her office was in shambles embarrassed her. She moved several boxes to the armoire, pausing once again to sift through the contents of Emma’s box, hoping to stumble upon something she had missed.
After placing Emma’s things in the armoire, she stood at the window and watched the men working on the stable, just as Mr. Sterling had promised. One man raked up debris. Another man in a dusty coat and floppy hat guided a mule pulling a cart, and yet another stacked lumber off to the side. The new stable clearing looked larger. Mr. Sterling seemed to have not held back on the expense. She wondered at the necessity of it, seeing as they only had one carriage, two horses, a pony, a cow, a goat, and a smattering of fowl. But he had been insistent on the details.
Now Patience wondered about him. Were the stories she had heard about him true? Was he as reckless as they had said? And why had he left Darbury all those years ago? And now he was back. She had heard rumors of financial troubles, of servants being dismissed. If the rumors were true, what would account for the fine stable he was having built at Rosemere?
“I hope I am not interrupting.”
Patience turned to see Lydia peeking around the door. Surprised that her sister-in-law was even up at this early hour, Patience motioned for her to enter. Lydia’s blond hair was perfectly curled and swept away from her face, and even though her jonquil silk gown was a bit ornate this early in the day, Patience could not help but compare its fine detail to her own drab frock. “I trust you slept well.”
“Oh, I did.” Lydia smiled and blew out a shaky breath. “Traveling always exhausts me. I feel I could sleep for days!”
Patience returned the smile but could hardly relate. She’d had little opportunity to travel outside of Darbury, except for the summer when her father took her to Manchester to pick up a student.
Lydia opened a book on the corner of the desk and turned a few pages before looking at Patience. “I want to assist.”
“Assist?”
“Yes. With the school. Both my father and Rawdon have told me of the work you do here, and I am eager to be a part of it.”
Patience drew a sharp breath, feeling almost sorry for the girl. Lydia was but a child, hardly a woman. Could she be any older than the oldest pupils, still preparing to make their way in the world? “Here, sit here. What is it you would like to help with?”
“Teaching.”
Patience swallowed, unsure how to handle the feeling that the new Mrs. Creighton was treading too far into her world. “Do you like children, Mrs. Creigh—I mean, Lydia?”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh yes. Quite. I even helped teach my young cousins to read.”
Not knowing what else to say, Patience muttered, “You must miss your family.”
Lydia nodded and looked at the floor. “Indeed. But God is good, is He not? He has given me a husband and a new sister in you. I miss my family, but I shall see them again.”
The words of God spoken so freely took Patience aback. “Well then, what is it that you would like to teach? Have you a special area of interest?”
“I play the pianoforte. And I sing. Rawdon says that both of those are taught here.”
“Indeed, they are.” Patience felt a twinge of guilt for not being more welcoming to this young woman who was far from home. She offered a smile. “I will speak to the other teachers. I am sure they will be grateful for the assistance.”
Patience was about to say more, but the study door flew open, as it did nearly every day, and there, in the doorway, stood Cassandra.
Cassandra’s flushed expression changed when she beheld Lydia.
Patience jumped to her feet, fearing that Cassandra would disappear as quickly as she had come or, worse yet, would say something she might regret.
Patience rushed to Cassandra and took her by the arm. Her friend was trembling. Clearly, Cassandra had figured out Lydia’s identity. Patience wanted to soothe the pain that she knew must ache, but at some point, the women needed to meet. As long as Cassandra was at Rosemere, it was inevitable.
“Lydia, allow me to introduce Cassandra Baden, a teacher here and a great friend.”
Lydia stood and smiled, seemingly oblivious to any discomfort, and clasped her hands before her. “How lovely to meet you, Miss Baden.”
Patience winced at Lydia’s unchecked enthusiasm. Her pretty brightness. She cast a quick glance, taking note of the subtle gathering of moisture in Cassandra’s brown eyes and the slight reddening of her nose. The words felt dry in her mouth, yet Patience continued, “And Miss Baden, my sister-in-law, Lydia Creighton.”
She marveled how Cassandra managed a smile, a proper greeting, and a nod, all before politely dismissing herself.
Lydia gave a little giggle as Cassandra closed the door behind her. “I think I shall be happy at Rosemere, Miss Creighton.”
Patience eyed the empty space where her friend had been standing. Time was changing. Everyone around her was changing, moving in their own rhythms. Could it be that she was changing too?
A few hours later Patience sat across from Lydia in the drawing room while they worked on their embroidery. Her mother had even joined them, and little Louisa, who was feeling poorly, slept on a sofa just across from Patience, her head on Lydia’s lap. As she stole another glance at Lydia, Patience was reminded of the Shakespearean tragedy she had read with the girls so many times—Brutus betraying Julius Caesar.
Cassandra was in an upstairs room, weak from crying and sorrow, and here she sat with the woman who was at the source of her dearest friend’s heartache. Patience had managed, after the awkward interchange between Lydia and Cassandra in the study, to convince Cassandra to remain at Rosemere until she at least found another position. In the light of this new day, Cassandra seemed more rational, but even with this small victory, Patience feared losing her friend forever.
Patience shifted uncomfortably and looked at her mother, enveloped in a wingback chair. She was clad in modest black bombazine with a widow’s cap atop her graying head. For the first time in months, the older woman’s pudgy fingers worked an embroidery needle. The lines on her face seemed softer today, and her color was decidedly improved. Patience looked down at her own embroidery. Red roses intertwined with ivy with a most intricate backstitch. She had embroidered a verse her father had often quoted:
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
The words, which she had worked with such love, seemed vacant, hollow.
At any other time Patience would have been pleased that her mother was resuming one of the tasks she had enjoyed. But instead, the step forward was bittersweet. Patience remembered how for months she had been unable to rouse her mother from despair. With Rawdon’s return, her mother had joined them for dinner last night and seemed to enjoy Lydia’s company. Patience should be grateful, but her heart would not allow it.
As Patience pulled out an incorrect stitch, she stole several glances at her new sister-in-law. Earlier that morning Lydia had looked pale, fragile. By early afternoon, she seemed much improved. Pinkness colored her cheeks a becoming hue, and her eyes, bright blue, were fixed firmly on her needlework.
“Your work is quite lovely,” Patience said.
Lydia looked up and smiled. “Why, thank you. I fear my governess spent many hours trying to teach me the art. You would think for all of her teaching my skill would be greater than it is.”
Patience lowered her work. “You were educated by a governess?”
“Indeed.” Lydia looked wistfully to the ceiling before turning back to Patience. “Miss Wimple. She first taught my older sisters. She has been with my family for as long as I can remember.”
Lydia appeared barely old enough to be out of her governess’s care. Even with her hair swept high above her head, her fair skin and fresh expression made her seem so young. “Forgive me for asking, Lydia, but what is your age?”
“Eighteen.” A playful smile curved her lips. “And I can guess what you are thinking.”
Patience bit her tongue. There is no way Lydia could possibly guess what was in her mind.
“I am young to marry, to be sure, but my father was pleased. Rawdon is an impressive young man, and my father has long admired him and found the match most agreeable.”
“And why would he not?” Patience’s mother beamed proudly. “Rawdon is the kindest man. So like his father.”
Patience saw—and seized—the opportunity to learn more. “How did you become acquainted with Rawdon?”
“It was just under six months ago at a ball my parents were hosting, and my father introduced me to him. The first time I danced with him, I knew my heart had been captured.”
Patience drew a steadying breath. Her brother at a ball? So soon after their father’s death? She swallowed her misgivings and looked down at her needlework. “Your courtship was quick, indeed.”
“Yes.” Lydia sighed, and a flush rushed to her cheeks. “However, I fear I am quite a romantic. Some things are meant to be.”
The talk continued until the late-afternoon sun created long shadows across the drawing room’s modest rug. Despite her reservations when she sat down, Patience was surprised to find herself actually becoming fond of her new sister-in-law. The young woman possessed an easiness, an openness. And it was nice to finally hear her mother laugh.
Eventually a comfortable silence settled over the room. Patience allowed herself to enjoy this free time, the diversion of her needlework. But it wasn’t long before a carriage sounded on the drive. She heard a man shout.
Patience looked up. They’d been expecting a new student—a young girl from Manchester.
“That must be the new Sutter girl, although I wasn’t expecting her for another day or two.” Concerned, Patience put down her needlework and went to the window.
On the drive, the carriage rocked to a stop, and a tall, thin man with a tall beaver hat and caped greatcoat stepped down. Patience frowned and squinted, trying to get a better view, but the man’s hat brim blocked his face.
No child exited the carriage. Something about the man’s gait seemed familiar and gave Patience reason to pause. His arms swung in a recognizable manner when he walked.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Patience hurried down to the entrance in time to be present when George opened the front door.
“Can I help you, s—” Her words dissolved into silence as she beheld the man. He was far from a stranger. In fact, no man could be less of one. For before her stood none other than Ewan O’Connell. She could not have been more surprised if the Prince Regent himself stood outside her doorway.
“Ewan,” she stammered, barely able to hear her own words over the violent beating of her heart. Then, realizing she had addressed him by his Christian name, she quickly corrected herself. “I mean, Mr. O’Connell.”
She could not think of an appropriate welcome. Her disciplined etiquette fled. Her wit slowed.
He returned her stare, his light brown eyes fixed on her, as if he were as shocked to see her as she was to see him. He snatched his hat from his head clumsily and held it in midair. Then an easy smile crept over his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Patience Creighton. I trust you are well.”
Patience remembered to breathe. Such formality from the person who had shared her schoolroom. Shared her family’s table. Even proposed marriage to her!
Memories of the day she refused him flashed before her. His red-rimmed eyes. The hurt. Today, quite another man stood before her. A much more confident man who now did not seem the least bit affected by seeing her again.
“Indeed, I am.” She suddenly felt dizzy, as if she had seen a ghost.
But Mr. O’Connell was no ghost.
Patience grew uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze, and she finally managed to find her voice. “What brings you to Rosemere, Mr. O’Connell?”
He stepped closer, his smile never leaving. He seemed to tower over her. Indeed, he was much taller than she remembered. “Your brother asked for my assistance.”
Rawdon? Rawdon knew about this? If Rawdon knew Ewan was coming, why did he not say as much?
The grin on Ewan’s face faded. “I see Rawdon did not mention I was coming.”
“I am sorry, he did not.” Patience forced a pleasant expression to her face. She had navigated through difficult situations several times this month alone, and she would manage through this one. “But you are always welcome at Rosemere, Mr. O’Connell.”
