A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “I am not surprised he never mentioned me,” Annabelle said matter-of-factly before pausing to choose her words. “Every family has a story, Mr. Locke. Mine is no different. Mr. Langsby is my mother’s brother. He and my father were at odds. After my mother died, the relationship ceased completely. I have not heard his name mentioned in our house for at least a decade.”

  “So you’ve not had contact with him?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “Not since my mother’s death. It is hardly proper to arrive unannounced, but surely my uncle will understand, given the—”

  When she realized what she was saying, she stopped short. She did not want Mr. Locke—or anyone else—knowing too much about her.

  He returned his attention to the landscape. The white morning light slid through the opening, highlighting the straightness of his nose. “Langsby is a reasonable man. Strict, disciplined, but sensible. He will be happy to see you. Have you ever been to Fellsworth?”

  She nodded. “Once, many years ago when I was a child.”

  Mr. Locke shifted on the bench. “I usually see Langsby a couple of times a week. My daughter attends Fellsworth School, and I visit her there often.”

  Annabelle did not know why it should surprise her to hear that Mr. Locke had a daughter. His demeanor seemed more suited to that of an outdoorsman than of a family man. It stood to reason that if he had a daughter, he had a wife. But she would not be so impolite as to inquire about such personal details. So Annabelle remained silent. She’d experienced more than enough impropriety for one day, and she had no wish to open herself up to more.

  “How is your cheek?”

  Annabelle lifted her head, and her hand flew to her face. “Oh dear, I have not seen it. Does it look bad?”

  He clicked his tongue and gave his head a sharp shake. “It looks like it hurts.”

  She slumped back against the seat. “I hoped it would not leave a mark. I can only imagine what my uncle will think.”

  Mr. Locke leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I don’t pretend to know what you have been through or how you have gotten that mark on your cheek. All I know is what I have seen with my own eyes. ’Tis not my place to say, but I think you made a brave—and wise—decision to leave. Your uncle will not turn you away. Nor will I. You just need ask and I will serve how I can.”

  He stared into her eyes for several moments, as if to convey his sincerity. His kindness sparked something in her—a sense of connectedness and safety—that she had not felt in a very long time. The sensation frightened her, but at the same time the tension in her shoulders eased. Her heart wanted to rest in the security of his confidence, but her mind cautioned her against misplacing her trust.

  She reached into her cloak pocket and wrapped her fingers around the dog carving. In her hasty packing, the trinket had found its way into her pocket instead of her valise. She clutched the tiny toy and pulled it free.

  Memories from her visit to her uncle’s came to her in snippets: A faded, autumnal garden behind the superintendent’s cottage. The overpowering floral aroma of her aunt’s rosewater. The mess of dusty books cluttered on the shelves in her uncle’s library.

  “What do you have there?” Mr. Locke’s words interrupted her thoughts. “May I?” He held out his hand.

  “Of course.” She placed the carving in his work-worn palm.

  He gave a little chuckle. “A spaniel.”

  “It was my mother’s when she was a girl. Uncle Edmund gave it to me when I was in Fellsworth. I suppose it is silly that I still have it.”

  “No, not silly.” He handed it back to her. “I purchased a dog very like that the other day.”

  “You did? I never really imagined anyone buying a dog before.”

  “Mr. Treadwell and I traveled to Cambridge to visit a renowned breeder. We buy at least one or two puppies a year to train as hunting dogs. The spaniel I referred to is just a puppy, of course, and she is as wild as the day is long. But with the right training, she will make a good bird dog one day.”

  “Where is the puppy now?”

  “She’s still in London, at the kennel in a local stable where we board the animals while Mr. Treadwell is a guest at Wilhurst House. We’ll transport the dogs home when Mr. Treadwell is ready to return to Bancroft Park.”

  “I’m afraid I know little about hunting dogs, or even animals in general. I have rarely traveled outside of London. My father and brother used to attend hunting parties, but that was long ago, and I never accompanied them.”

  “Yes, I have met your brother before.”

  Annabelle snapped her head up. “You have?”

  “On several occasions. He is a regular guest at Bancroft Park during the shooting season.”

  Annabelle drew a deliberate, slow breath. She would not ask Mr. Locke about his opinion of Thomas, but apprehension pulsed through her. If Mr. Locke knew of her brother, who else in Fellsworth did as well? She wanted to escape her brother’s influence, not land somewhere he frequented.

  Their conversation fell quiet for several minutes. After a while Annabelle thought he might have drifted off to sleep.

  “You knew her, didn’t you?”

  After their silence, his question startled her. She drew her eyebrows together in question.

  “The woman on the street.”

  Annabelle stared down at her hands. “I did. That is to say, I do.”

  Conversation with Mr. Locke was becoming easier, and she felt as if some sort of explanation was necessary. “Her name is Henrietta Stillworth. She was a friend of mine at one time. We lost contact years ago. I had heard that her family had encountered financial hardships, but I never would have suspected such an outcome.”

  “It was kind not to report her. Many would not have been so gracious.”

  Annabelle gave a little shrug. “I only wish I could do more for her. It is a sad reality for women, Mr. Locke. She was raised with every advantage, but it is shocking to see how quickly it can dissolve into nothing. I must be careful; otherwise I could very well find myself in the same predicament.”

  “Nonsense. You have family. Langsby will come through for you.”

  “I hope you are right, Mr. Locke.” She smiled at him.

  The carriage’s wheel hit a rut, and the entire conveyance shifted and leaned before setting right again. Annabelle pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself, and Crosley twisted in her seat, but not before muttering indecipherable words and giving an unladylike snore.

  Despite the pain in her face and the somberness of her situation, Annabelle could not help but laugh at the display. Mr. Locke also chuckled, and then he fixed his attention on her. “All will be well, Miss Thorley. You shall see.”

  Chapter Twelve

  We’ve arrived at last!” Crosley shielded her eyes from the afternoon’s brightness as she stepped down from the carriage. “Are you prepared to see your aunt and uncle?”

  Annabelle evaluated the modest cottage in front of her. “I don’t know how anyone can be prepared for something like this.”

  The structure appeared as Annabelle remembered it: a slate roof, weathered stone walls, and several latticed windows peering over the walled grounds.

  Annabelle adjusted her footing on the rocky path beneath her feet. She and her mother had walked, hand in hand, along this very walkway all those years ago.

  “Listen to me, Annabelle. Your surroundings will not be what you are accustomed to, so refrain from staring. Speak when spoken to, and stand up straight! You are a privileged young lady, and I expect you to behave as such.”

  What instruction would her mama give Annabelle now as she stood on the cusp of such a precarious situation?

  She slung her cloak over her arm and wiped her forehead. The heavy garment seemed unnecessary this time of year, but she could not leave it behind. She would need it in the winter months ahead. The stifling summer heat pressed in on her, and the canopy of ominous gray clouds trapped the heat against the earth. An unusual sce
nt met her, and she lifted her gaze to see a wall of climbing pink roses not far from where she stood.

  Transfixed by their simple beauty, she stared. Such flowers were rare in London, and even if they were present, the town’s pungent scents would mask their sweetness. She inhaled, taking a moment to appreciate the freshness of it. No smoke. No soot. Only the gentle aroma of earth and flower.

  Mr. Locke stepped behind her with her valise in one hand, her watercolor box in the other, and Crosley’s satchel hoisted over his shoulder. As he passed her, he offered a lopsided smile and motioned for her to follow him. “It’s now or never, Miss Thorley.”

  Annabelle returned his smile and straightened her shoulders. Mr. Locke was right. Now was not the time to dissolve into a puddle of uncertainty.

  She fell in step behind him as he blazed the stone path to the front entrance. She glanced down at her gown and gave an inward groan. She was still dressed in the thin attire she wore to the Baldwins’ the night before—a ridiculously ornate gown for travel and inappropriately cut for day wear. It was splattered with dried mud from running in the London streets and wrinkled from hours of sitting in the carriage. Her bare arms and neck felt sticky. Dirty. She would require a bath this night, and Crosley would need to wash her hair.

  But Crosley was not her lady’s maid.

  She flicked dried mud from her arm. She would have to make do on her own.

  She waited as Mr. Locke knocked on the door.

  A maid, whose dull expression was far too somber for her youthful age, appeared, dressed in a gown of drab gray covered by a crisp white linen apron. She stepped aside to allow the travelers to enter, led them to her uncle’s study, and announced Mr. Locke.

  The sights within the cottage, even the scent of it, breathed fresh life into the memories that time had faded. It was the smell that Annabelle recognized first when she stepped near the study. The aroma of dusty books mingled with the overpowering perfume of freshly cut roses and flowers. The chamber appeared exactly the same, although the room, which had felt so large when she was a child, was cramped. Books still haphazardly lined the shelves. Framed paintings still cluttered the plaster walls.

  Mr. Locke entered the study first, but Annabelle glimpsed the older man over the gamekeeper’s shoulder. He was the same man who had scolded her for eavesdropping all those years ago, but his white hair was thinner, and his lanky frame was even leaner.

  “Locke.” Uncle Edmund stood and extended his hand. “Thought you were traveling north. We didn’t expect you back for quite some time.”

  “I just arrived from London.” Mr. Locke shook her uncle’s hand. “I’ve a delivery for you.”

  Uncle Edmund frowned, his gaze lifting over Mr. Locke’s shoulder and landing on Annabelle and Crosley. His bushy eyebrows drew together. He stepped past Mr. Locke and fixed his pale eyes on Annabelle. “As I live and breathe,” he muttered. “Annabelle? Is that you?”

  She sighed in relief when he recognized her. A smile crept over her face. “Hello, Uncle.”

  But he did not return her smile. Instead, his weathered face wrinkled, and he stepped toward her and put his finger under her chin to angle her eye toward the window’s light. “Child, what has happened to you? Have you been injured?”

  “Do not be alarmed, Uncle.” She allowed him to take her by the elbow and lead her farther into the crowded space. “It looks worse than it is, I fear.”

  “Of course I am alarmed. My sister’s only daughter appears on my doorstep, bruised and battered, and I am not to be alarmed?” He snapped his attention to Crosley, as if suddenly aware of her presence. “And who is this?”

  “Uncle, allow me to present Miss Margaret Crosley. Miss Crosley is my . . . companion.”

  “Miss Crosley, you are welcome here.” He looked back over his shoulder to the maid. “Summon Mrs. Langsby at once, and then bring tea.”

  Uncle Edmund turned his attention toward Mr. Locke. “You come in too, Locke. If you’ve just traveled from London, you need sustenance, and I suspect you have a story to tell me on how you came to encounter these two ladies.”

  Her uncle offered Annabelle a chair, and she sat in the very high-backed, worn chair her mother had occupied when Annabelle had been caught eavesdropping. A sudden pang of melancholy struck her. How different life would have been for her and her mother had they heeded her uncle’s warnings all those years ago.

  They were about to get settled when Aunt Lydia bustled into the room, and Annabelle rose.

  The woman, who was more portly than Annabelle recalled, brought vivacious energy to the chamber. Her faded copper hair bounced around her flushed face with each step. She pulled off her gloves and straw bonnet and discarded them haphazardly on the settee next to the door.

  “Where is she? Where is she?” Aunt Lydia whirled around. As her focus landed on Annabelle, dismay reddened her already-ruddy face. “Oh, my dear!” She rushed toward Annabelle and folded her in an embrace.

  Annabelle stiffened in its tightness. Not even her own mother had shown her such open physical affection. Aunt Lydia released her, then narrowed her blue eyes on Annabelle’s bruise.

  Annabelle shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

  “This is unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. I am thrilled to have you in my home, dearest. Of course I am! But I do wish this cloud of mistreatment were not hanging over us.” She pivoted to face Mr. Locke, wringing her hands in front of her. “I do hope you have an explanation of some kind, Mr. Locke, as to why you are delivering our niece to us in such a state.”

  Annabelle shook her head. “Mr. Locke has been nothing but kind to my companion and myself, Aunt. In fact, he has performed us a great service.”

  “Then how is it you are here, and with an injury?”

  “I have found myself in a difficult situation. When I was here last, I overheard Uncle Edmund tell my mother that your home would always be open to her or her children should we have need, and I was hoping the offer was still an option.”

  Annabelle could see the questions written in her aunt’s expression. “There is no question you are welcome here, is there, Mr. Langsby? I imagine there is more to this story, but it can wait for another time. First things first, let’s get both of you out of those dirty things, poor dears. Time will sort all out, will it not? In the meantime, clean clothes, a good freshening up, and tea will make all the difference.”

  Annabelle expelled a sigh. At least they were accepting her and Crosley, for now.

  She glanced back at Mr. Locke, who now held his hat in his hand. It was the first time she had seen him without it, and his hair was thicker and curlier than she had thought. “Will you be here when we return, Mr. Locke?”

  He shook his head. “I am not sure.”

  He had been such a vital part of her journey to Fellsworth that she felt oddly uncomfortable at the thought of him departing. Perhaps it was that he was her last tie to London. Whatever the reason, she found herself sorry to leave. “I appreciate all that you have done for Miss Crosley and me. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  Mr. Locke bowed and Annabelle curtsied. With unexpected reluctance she turned to follow her aunt from the room.

  Owen’s gaze did not leave Miss Thorley until her form vanished through the threshold.

  Even with her mud-caked gown and disheveled hair, her beauty and strength of spirit captured his attention.

  Langsby pushed the door closed behind them once their footsteps faded. “Those ladies look weary.”

  Owen squared his shoulders toward Langsby. “I can’t blame them. I doubt they slept last night, and the ride from London was grueling. The roads were rutted and twice a horse threw a shoe.”

  “Sit down, Locke.” Langsby waved a bony hand toward the chair. “Tell me how you came to deliver my niece from London—a niece, I might add, whom I haven’t had any contact with in more than a decade.”

  Owen sat, then leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. He knew an explanation was necessary,
but he was not sure where to begin.

  He cleared his throat. “On our way back to Bancroft Park, Mr. Treadwell decided to travel through London at the invitation of Mr. Thomas Thorley.”

  Langsby lowered himself into the chair opposite Owen. “I know my nephew by name only. I have never met the lad.”

  “Mr. Thorley and Treadwell attended Cambridge together, and their paths cross every now and again.” Owen stretched out his booted foot. “Last night, Mr. Treadwell and the Thorleys attended a ball or something of the sort. I was present when the carriage returned, and I witnessed Miss Thorley being treated poorly.”

  Langsby’s narrow face sobered. “What do you mean?”

  “The gentlemen in the party overindulged. One man, I don’t know his name, jerked Miss Thorley by her arm. And I saw Mr. Thorley himself grab her roughly when she tried to enter the residence.”

  “That is abominable.” Langsby rose to his feet. “And what do you know of the bruise on her face?”

  “I’m not sure how that happened, but something was not right in that house.” Owen hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. After all, most of what he had heard was speculation. “During the early morning hours, after the party returned, a gunshot woke the staff.”

  “My word, a gunshot?”

  Owen nodded. “I don’t think anyone was injured, but it was enough to unsettle the house.”

  Langsby returned to his chair. “How is it that you are the person traveling with her?”

  “Upon learning that I was from Fellsworth, Miss Thorley told me she was your niece. She later asked me to hire her a carriage. After what I saw, I could not in good conscience refuse her, nor could I risk the possibility of her trusting someone whose intentions may not be honorable. Had I not genuinely believed her to be in danger, I never would have intervened.”

  Langsby adjusted his spectacles. “I suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

  “Not at all. I was surprised to learn you have family. I’ve never heard you mention them.”