A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Miss Thorley may have had a life of privilege, but I can attest to the fact that her environment was anything but peaceful. I saw only a snippet, but what I did see was enough to convince me that she should no longer be in that situation.”

  The bell atop the chapel chimed, reminding Owen of the hour. “I am to meet Whitten for the night watch.” He stood and returned his hat to his head. “I will be by tomorrow. Send word if Winter shares any more details, will you?”

  Owen quit the study, exited the building, and stepped out into the cool night.

  The day’s heat had broken, and a calm breeze lifted the flaps of his coat and tousled his hair. He turned to look at the upper windows as he departed. Flickering candles danced in a handful of the paned windows, but for the most part, all was silent and still.

  As he turned back to the gate, he noticed two women watching him from behind a distant wall. He slowed his steps, and when they realized he noticed them, they retreated into the night’s shadows.

  Normally, such spying would have no effect on him. He was not one to concern himself with the opinions of others. The village and school could not resist a good story, and no doubt poaching was not enough fodder for gossip.

  To be truthful, he had grown used to the stares over the past several years. The whispers. The rumors.

  Diana’s murder had stunned their small village. Not only did it shake the very foundation of his life, but it had cast a long shadow on the village as well.

  He had loved Diana. But her betrayal had killed bits of his soul and forever altered his ability to trust. And what was worse, the sting of her unfaithfulness lanced afresh every time someone whispered the rumors about his daughter’s paternity.

  True, Hannah was a fair, tiny little thing who bore no resemblance to him, but he would never betray the child. He may not have been able to protect Diana from another man’s evil, but he would give his very life to protect Hannah from the cruelties of society and prejudice.

  In his heart he was ready to love again. Loneliness was a bitter foe, and it was becoming more and more difficult to see the forest’s solitude as a place of reprieve.

  As he walked toward the school’s main gate, movement near the stable shed caught his eye. He slowed his gait. No one, other than perhaps the groundskeeper, should be out on the property this far from the main buildings this time of night.

  Concerned for the school’s general well-being, he narrowed his gaze. It was dark, but he could determine that the figure was a woman with light hair.

  Could it be Miss Crosley?

  He would have noticed if another woman had such light hair. It was down around her shoulders, and even though he was not an expert on the requirements for the women at the school, he had never seen one of the teachers with her hair untethered in such a fashion.

  He noticed more movement, and a male figure joined her, tall and lanky, shrouded in the night’s shadows.

  Owen fixed his gaze on the gate ahead. It was not his business if a Fellsworth School staff member was involved in a romantic interlude. That was Langsby’s jurisdiction, not his. But as Owen cast a sideways glance at the couple, he was certain. It was Miss Crosley.

  Within moments, the couple disappeared into the shadows, and Owen fixed his attention back on the gate. Something was amiss at Fellsworth, but he could not concern himself with such details. He had his own battles to fight, and fight them he would.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Annabelle had never been so frightened in her life. She had heard gunshots. She had been struck by a man. She had even run away from her home in the middle of the night.

  But never had she faced so many little faces.

  About twenty young girls gathered in the room. Mrs. Brathay, the headmistress, had assigned Annabelle to assist Mrs. Tomlinson, the teacher who taught the youngest girls reading and grammar.

  Annabelle stood silently in the corner, observing the session.

  The girls sat at the two tables, quietly and primly, their eyes fixed firmly on their instructor. All of them wore the same black frock and white cap atop their heads.

  Annabelle did not know how old they were, and she was too embarrassed to ask—for what sort of teacher could not judge a child’s age? But she watched with interest as the girls took turns reading aloud from a book that was passed along the line.

  From where she stood she could glimpse the clock tower. Time crawled by.

  She probably should be paying more attention to what the children were reading, but instead, she was watching their faces. So many girls. So many different stories. Her uncle had said many of these children came from poor families and had been sent here for a chance to better themselves.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the clock struck the hour, and Mrs. Tomlinson dismissed the girls and approached Annabelle. “They are going out to their free hour in the girls’ garden, but I would like you to stay behind and help this young lady review today’s lesson.”

  Annabelle held her breath as she looked at the little blonde child still seated at the table. She was staring down at a closed book.

  Mrs. Tomlinson continued. “All you need to do is listen to her read and help her with any words that are giving her trouble.”

  Annabelle nodded.

  “I will be in the garden. Let me know if you need any assistance, but I think you can handle this.”

  Wishing she shared Mrs. Tomlinson’s confidence, Annabelle bobbed a curtsy. Bolstering her confidence, she crossed the room, the tapping of her boots painfully loud on the polished wood floor, and sat next to the child.

  The girl glanced at her and then returned her attention to her book.

  Annabelle wasn’t sure what to say first. “I am Miss Thorley.”

  “How do you do, Miss Thorley?” The girl’s voice was soft and sweet. “I am Hannah Locke.”

  Annabelle tilted her head. “Are you Mr. Owen Locke’s daughter?”

  A little smile curved the child’s lips at last. Whereas Mr. Locke’s hair was dark and curly, the child’s hair was so blonde that it appeared nearly white at her temples. A white cap covered her head, but long, straight strands escaped its confines. She was a lovely child, with a fair complexion, rosy cheeks, and round face.

  The rumor Crosley shared with her flamed in Annabelle’s mind. It was true. The child bore no resemblance to her father.

  “Are you ready to read?” Annabelle needed to tend to the task at hand. “I am eager to hear the story.”

  A frown darkened Hannah’s face as she lifted the book, and her light eyebrows drew together in stubborn resistance. Annabelle sensed she should correct the child’s attitude, but her confidence was lacking. She had never given a child instruction. Never.

  She decided on a different approach. “Tell me. What do you like to do when you are not reading?”

  The little girl shrugged and looked out the window. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe that. Surely there is something you like to do. Sing? Draw?”

  Hannah wiped a loose lock of hair from her face and stared at the table’s polished surface, her expression void of emotion. “I like to fish.”

  “Fish?” Annabelle frowned. She was not sure she heard the child correctly. Never had she heard a young lady say that she enjoyed fishing. “As in fishing in a pond?”

  Hannah’s shoulders seemed to relax. “Yes. My papa takes me fishing sometimes.”

  “Ah. I have met your papa, you know.”

  Hannah’s pale eyes brightened and she smiled, revealing a missing tooth. “You have?”

  “Yes.” Annabelle felt a little measure of success that she had gotten the child to smile. “He is the gamekeeper at Bancroft Park, is he not?”

  Hannah nodded.

  “He was very nice to me. You should be very proud to have such a kind father.”

  Hannah twisted in her seat to face Annabelle, her interest in the activity out the window abandoned. “He is the bestest papa.”

  Amused
by the girl’s sweet lapse in grammar, Annabelle leaned close. “You mean, he is the best papa.”

  “Yes.” Hannah scrunched her face. “That is what I said, isn’t it?”

  Annabelle hid a smile. “He does not live far from here, does he?”

  “No. Our cottage is on the other side of the trees, just past the pond. Sometimes when there are no leaves you can see the chimney smoke from the edge of the school garden. Papa made a path through there, and sometimes we hike home that way. But only sometimes.”

  “You are fortunate, then. I understand that most of the children do not get to see their families very often.”

  “My papa comes almost every day. The forest on the other side of the garden is part of Bancroft Park, so he is working in there a lot.” A fresh pout darkened her countenance. “I wish I could live there with him.”

  “I am sure he has a good reason for you to live here.”

  “Papa is gone a lot during the night, and he says it is safer for me if I live here. Plus he says I will learn more things here—things he can’t teach me.”

  “I am sure your father knows best what you need.” The bitter memory of her own father stole across Annabelle’s memory. They had lived under the same roof, yet he was rarely available. She could not help but wonder how life would have been different with a more loving father.

  “You are not like the other teachers.”

  A little surge of panic rushed through Annabelle. Her secret would be found out, surely. “Oh, how so?”

  The little girl shrugged. “You aren’t so mean.”

  Annabelle resisted the urge to smile. “I don’t think the other teachers are mean. Not really.”

  Hannah lowered her voice, as if taking Annabelle into great confidence. “They get mad at me when I don’t know the words.”

  “Maybe they are just trying to encourage you.”

  Hannah shook her head in emphatic disagreement. “My papa says that as long as I try my best I am doing good enough, but that is not what the teachers say.”

  “Well, I happen to think your papa is right.”

  Hannah cocked her golden head thoughtfully. “Did you have teachers when you were little?”

  “I had only one teacher, but I did not attend a school like this. I had a governess.”

  “Did you like her?”

  Annabelle relaxed. It was nice to think of happy memories, and she was enjoying the banter with Hannah—more than she thought she would. There was an honesty to the child, a lack of pretense, which, after such a difficult week, Annabelle found refreshing.

  “I liked her very much. Her name was Miss Bornhill. She is Welsh and at times had a very strong accent, but she would always have peppermint comfits in her reticule.”

  “I have never had a peppermint comfit before.”

  “You haven’t?” Annabelle found it odd the child had never tasted the confection. But then, Fellsworth was not the same as London. “We will have to find you some to try.”

  “Was she nice? As a teacher, I mean?”

  “She was, and she was very patient. But I am afraid I was not always the best student.”

  “Did you get in trouble when you were little?”

  She got in trouble not only when she was little, but as an adolescent. And even as an adult. “I did.”

  “What did you like to do when you were a girl? Did you like to go fishing, like I do?”

  “I have never been fishing,” confessed Annabelle.

  Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Not ever?”

  “No. There are not many ponds in London.” Annabelle failed to mention that she never would have been allowed to participate in such an unladylike pursuit. “But I had plenty to do to fill my time.”

  “Then what did you like to do?”

  “I liked to paint.”

  Rustling sounded at the door. Annabelle turned to see Mrs. Tomlinson in the threshold. She could feel the silent reprimand. She was supposed to be reading with the child, not reliving her own childhood memories.

  Annabelle swallowed. “You know, reading may be hard, but the more you try, the better you will become. Like fishing. I bet it took you quite a while to learn how to do it properly.”

  At the mention of reading, a scowl returned to Hannah’s face.

  “I will make you a promise.” Annabelle picked up the book and extended it to Hannah. “You study these words really hard, and tomorrow I will bring you some drawing supplies and I will teach you how to draw something. How about that?”

  The little girl smiled and nodded emphatically. “Really?”

  “But you must promise me that you will try hard. Oh, and you probably shouldn’t tell the other girls because I’m not sure what the other teachers will think. It will be our secret.”

  A genuine giggle bubbled from Hannah, and she took the book in her hands.

  Annabelle smiled. It was nice to think she had made at least one little friend at the school.

  Later that afternoon, Annabelle hurried down the path to Fellsworth School’s main gate. She had exactly one hour before she was due back to her duties.

  She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one witnessed her escape. When she was certain she was not being observed, she hurried through the gate and made her way down the lane to the Fellsworth town square.

  A little thrill surged through her. She tightened her clutch on her reticule that contained a strand of pearls—a strand that she hoped to sell today at one of the shops. A month prior she never would have dreamed of doing such a thing, but she had little choice. At the moment she was settled and comfortable at the school, but she had little money.

  She could not help but remember how Miss Stillworth tried to steal her reticule that day. Even after all these weeks it still troubled her to think that one day she could end up in a very similar situation to her unfortunate friend. Nothing was certain, and it scared her to think that nothing may ever be certain again.

  She’d had so many new experiences as of late, and her emotions swung wildly from one sensation to another. Fear of her brother. Disgust about Mr. Bartrell. Relief that her uncle allowed her to stay at Fellsworth. Uncertainty over her new environment. Feelings of inadequacy in her new role.

  But there were positive ones as well. Her aunt and uncle made her feel like a part of a family. She warmed under the memory of the conversations she had with Mr. Locke. In the midst of her weakness, a glimmer of strength and self-sufficiency broke through.

  Finding the village’s town square was not difficult. A cluster of shops and carts were positioned neatly around a cheery fountain. Wooden signs hanging outside of the shops indicated what they were: butcher, grocer, apothecary, milliner, tailor. She did not see a jeweler sign. She paused when she saw a sign labeled “Dressmaker.”

  Uncertainty pulsed through her as she pushed open the door. A small bell atop the door chimed as she entered. The shop was much simpler than the elegant modiste shops she frequented in London. Normally when she would come into a shop, Crosley accompanied her, and usually a footman or two came along to carry her purchases. This shop was very different. Only two simply cut gowns were on display. Several bolts of fabric lined the walls, and ribbons hung from the low, dark ceiling. The scent of firewood overwhelmed the stuffy space, and smoke from a nearby fire teased her nose.

  A woman stood behind the counter, engrossed in a ledger, but as Annabelle approached her, a floorboard squeaked under her weight and the shopkeeper looked up. She eyed Annabelle suspiciously. “May I help you, miss?”

  “Yes. That is, I hope so.” Annabelle forced a smile.

  The dressmaker’s demeanor remained firm. “I take it you are from the school.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve not seen you before.” The dressmaker stepped from behind the counter and tilted her head to the side. “Are you new?”

  Annabelle nodded, cautious not to reveal too much about herself. The less said regarding her situation, the better. “I have a necklace I would like to se
ll.”

  The woman shook her head in immediate dismissal. “We do not buy jewelry, miss.”

  “I understand, but I was hoping you would take a look anyway.”

  The woman put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth to protest, but Annabelle retrieved the pearls and extended them before the shopkeeper could respond.

  The woman accepted the necklace and lifted it toward the light from the window. Her expression changed as she examined the piece. “This is beautiful.”

  “It has been in my family for generations,” Annabelle quickly informed her.

  The dressmaker eyed her, and Annabelle pressed her lips shut. If she didn’t want to answer more questions, she should be silent.

  “It is very pretty, but I cannot buy it.” The dressmaker gave her head a sharp shake and extended the necklace back toward Annabelle.

  Frustration mounted. Annabelle had assumed the shopkeeper would be so enamored with the necklace’s beauty that she would offer a tidy sum to have it in her shop. Her instinct was to try to persuade the woman, but movement outside the window distracted her.

  Mr. Bryant stood just on the other side of the window, his light eyes fixed on her.

  A sliver of panic raced through her. She was not supposed to leave the school grounds—not without permission. She had been caught.

  But what was Mr. Bryant doing outside the dressmaker’s shop?

  She turned her attention back to the counter, trying to pretend she had not seen him looking at her. But she flicked her gaze back to the window. Mr. Bryant was definitely staring at her. The sly, knowing gleam in his eyes unnerved her to her very core. Had he followed her?

  It was almost as if he wanted her to see him.

  The same anger that pulsed through her that last night in London raced through her. She would not allow herself to be frightened. The only course of action was to approach him directly and ask his intention.

  The task at hand almost forgotten, she bid the shopkeeper a hasty farewell and tucked the trinket back into her reticule. She scurried out from the modest shop and into the bright afternoon sunshine, prepared to confront the pretentious Mr. Bryant. But as she turned to her right to face the spot where he had been standing, Mr. Bryant was not there.