But none came.
“Hannah!” Annabelle wiped the moisture from her face and stepped farther into the green. She ducked to avoid hitting her head on a low-hanging branch, and she lifted her heavy skirts to keep them free from the overgrown underbrush. “Hannah, where are you?”
She was not sure exactly how long she searched the forest, but a sound rose above that of the wind and rain—a sound she had not yet heard in the forest.
Sobbing.
Annabelle’s heart lurched, and she hurried her pace. “Hannah!” She cried out again, louder and stronger.
Finally, a response. Sobs choked the soft and weak words, but they were audible. “I’m here!”
“Keep talking so I can find you.” Annabelle followed the voice and ran in that direction.
She found the girl huddled in the damp underbrush. Her cap was missing and her blonde hair clung to her face in wet clumps. Muck and mud covered her black dress, and her red-rimmed eyes were glossy with tears. Sobs shook her tiny shoulders, and she was gripping her ankle with both hands.
“I-I stepped on this, and now my foot is stuck, and I—I—”
Annabelle gasped as Hannah moved her hands from her ankle. Bright-red blood soaked the white stocking. Upon closer inspection she saw it was . . . a metal trap clamped around her foot.
Fighting the urge to panic, Annabelle dropped to her knees to assess the trap. She had never seen one before. It was small—it would have been easy for anyone to overlook, especially in the forest’s thick undergrowth.
“Surely there is a way to get this off of you.” Annabelle pushed her wet hair from her eyes, blinked away the moisture, and gritted her teeth as she fumbled with the sharp trap until she found a small lever to unlock it. The trap clicked open far enough to remove it from the girl’s foot.
Hannah cried afresh as the trap fell free.
Annabelle sat back on her heels. Hannah would not be able to walk. It was out of the question. Annabelle was going to have to carry her. But to where?
“I have no idea where we are.” Annabelle assessed the location. “Do you?”
Hannah moaned. “My home is there, through those trees.”
“Here, let me help you.” Annabelle tried to put the girl’s arm around her shoulder, but the disparity in their heights was too great. Annabelle lifted the weeping girl and carried her as best she could.
Annabelle smelled wood smoke’s sharp scent before she saw any structures, but soon the cottage came into view. It was a tall building of stone and timber framing, with small windows and a thatched roof. Gray smoke puffed from the chimney and mingled with the cool, foggy rain. A dog yipped somewhere in the distance. Puddles formed in the courtyard, and two chickens wandered in the space.
Struggling under the child’s weight, Annabelle called across the yard, “Help, please!”
No response. Annabelle made it to the door and kicked it with the toe of her boot. Moments later, the wooden and iron door squeaked open.
She had been expecting Mr. Locke, but an old woman with long, silver hair in a single plait opened the door. Her face blanched. “Hannah! What’s this?”
Fearing that she might drop Hannah, Annabelle pushed past the woman, her breath coming in huffs. “She got her foot caught in a trap. She’s bleeding. Where should I put her?”
The older woman snapped into action. “Here, on the sofa.”
Annabelle rushed to the long sofa and lowered Hannah to the fur coverlet slung across the back, careful not to jostle her foot.
“Quick, we need to get this boot and stocking off,” instructed the woman, speaking loud to be heard over Hannah’s crying, which had begun afresh when they entered the house. “The bleedin’ must stop.”
Annabelle stepped back to allow the tiny woman room to work. “How can I help?”
“Quick.” The woman motioned to a rough table in the corner. “Fetch me the scissors there.”
Annabelle hurried to the table referenced in a corner of the kitchen. Jars and vials cluttered the otherwise tidy work space, and bunches of dried flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling. “I don’t see them.”
“In the jar there. Look again. And bring me the candle too.”
Frustrated, Annabelle searched the small space. She finally located the tool, grabbed it in one hand, took the candle in the other, and delivered them to the older woman.
It was dark in the cottage. The thick clouds outdoors prevented light from entering the small windows, and the fire in the grate had burned low. Despite the heat of exertion, the wetness of her gown and hair sent a shiver coursing through Annabelle. She stoked the fire for more light before she returned to Hannah’s side.
“It hurts!” wailed Hannah, her small chest rising and falling with each breath, her bright-blue eyes fixed on the wound.
The woman peeled back the stocking from the wound and shifted her position to get a better view. “Nasty gash, that is. I know your papa’s warned ye about the traps before. Ye shouldn’t ’ave been there. What were ye doin’ in the forest, anyway?”
Annabelle stiffened at the curtness in the woman’s tone.
Hannah sniffed. “I just wanted to come home, that’s all.”
Annabelle stole another look at the woman she had heard the other teachers talk about—Mrs. Pike—on the rare occasions Mr. Locke had come up in conversation. She was rumored to have a temper, but she was also famed for her ability to aid in healing. With her untidy hair and simple tan gown, she did not look like what Annabelle had imagined.
“Your ankle will be fine, but we must get some salve on it. Stay put, girl.”
Annabelle nestled on the sofa and cradled Hannah’s shoulders, whispering words of encouragement to the crying child.
Mrs. Pike gathered several different jars and bottles in her arms, a bowl, a piece of cloth, and other items, then spread them out on another table and mixed a few ingredients together in a wooden bowl. She reached for a flask and poured liquid into the mug. She balanced the mug and the bowl in one arm, shooed Annabelle out of the way, and sat next to Hannah.
“Drink this. It’ll dull the pain.” Mrs. Pike lifted the mug to Hannah’s mouth.
Hannah sputtered the drink and wiped her sleeve over her lips. “That’s terrible!”
“No more terrible than the pain.” Mrs. Pike ignored her protest and smoothed the earthy-smelling paste over the gash with her bony fingers and then bound it with a strip of linen. “Yarrow will help. We need to get ye out of these wet things or you’ll catch your death.”
By the time Hannah’s foot was bandaged and her clothing changed, she had fallen into a quiet slumber. Annabelle was not sure what the older woman had given the child to drink, but it had taken effect.
Mrs. Pike put her hands on her hips and looked down at the child. “There, she’ll sleep now. Best thing for ’er, what with a pain like that.” She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Annabelle. “Now, how about ye start by telling me who ye are and how ye came to be carryin’ Miss Locke in such a state?”
Annabelle bit her lip. She had meant to be helpful, but it seemed that this woman almost blamed her for Hannah’s injury.
“I am Annabelle Thorley, a teacher at Fellsworth School.”
Mrs. Pike sniffed. “I’ve never seen ye there before.”
“I’ve only been there a couple of months.”
“Oh yes, I heard o’ ye.” Mrs. Pike raised her eyebrow at the recollection. “You’re ol’ Langsby’s niece, if I’m not mistaken. Well, Miss Thorley, I repeat, how did the child come to be in such a state?”
Annabelle resisted the urge to shrink back against the wall. She would be lying if she said the woman’s direct stare and commanding manner were not intimidating. “Hannah went missing from the school, and I found her in the forest with her foot caught in a trap.”
“So you just ’appened to be in the forest and just ’appened to find her there?”
Annabelle shifted at the insinuation in the older woman’s voice. The room wa
s growing warm with the stoked fire, and she squirmed uncomfortably in the damp clothes. “No. Hannah told me about the shortcut to the cottage, and I thought I might find her there. I—I thought the school sent a rider out here to see if she was here.”
“If they did, I didn’t see ’im. Mr. Locke is in the north forest today, and I’ve been back in the shed tendin’ the hounds.” Mrs. Pike nodded toward Annabelle. “Ye should get out o’ those wet things too, lest ye fall ill yourself.”
“Oh, oh no. I’ll go back to the school. They will be wondering how Hannah is.”
“Ye can’t go now. Do ye not hear the storm?”
Annabelle’s heart sank. She rubbed her arms as she walked to the window. The rain fell in sheets now, even harder than when they arrived. The puddles in the yard had grown to cover most of the small courtyard.
“Besides, ’tis not likely ye will find your way back to the school on your own. I’ve lived here for years and still get turned around in the forest on a fine day, let alone a day like this.” The woman left the room, and after several minutes she returned with a bundle. “Here. Ye can put this on while your things are drying. Ye can change in there. If ye need help, let me know.”
Annabelle eyed the clothes, surprised that the woman presented a garment of such elegant brown silk. She was hesitant to take the items, but Mrs. Pike was right. She had no idea how long she would be here, and she did not wish to remain in a wet gown much longer. She accepted the bundle, held the items away from her to prevent them from getting wet, and went into the adjoining room. She closed the door behind her and turned to assess the chamber.
It was a simple room. A bed covered in a faded, patched quilt was pushed against the far plaster wall, and a single window covered with a dark-blue curtain permitted a sliver of light. Beside the bed stood a chest of drawers, and a trunk faced it on the opposite wall.
She crossed the room and placed the items on the bed. For the most part she had mastered the art of dressing and undressing without Crosley’s help, but she barely managed to shed the wet garment and petticoat. Before long she donned the simple, if not old-fashioned, gown with long sleeves and a high neck. She let down her hair, shook her locks to dry them, used her fingers to release a few tangles, and left it long down her back.
She returned to the sitting room with her wet things.
“Just put those next to the fire to dry,” Mrs. Pike called over her shoulder as she scurried about the room.
Annabelle did as she was bid, and when she turned, Mrs. Pike had a cup of tea waiting for her.
“Drink this,” she encouraged, moving it even closer.
Annabelle took the warm cup in her hands. The liquid had a strong scent. “I’ve not smelled tea like this before, I don’t think. What is it?”
“It’s me own blend. One that will keep ye from falling ill from spendin’ so long in the rain.”
Annabelle could not deny the allure of the steaming liquid, but still she was hesitant. The stories of Mrs. Pike and her fondness for herbs and remedies rang loudly in her mind, and she had borne witness to the effect the drink had on Hannah. She lifted it to her lips with both hands.
“Sit ’ere, by the fire.”
Annabelle obeyed the instruction and sat in a chair opposite Hannah, who still slumbered on the sofa. She took another sip of tea in an attempt to relax her tightening nerves and looked around the room, trying to imagine Mr. Locke here.
It was a dark room, yes, but she found it to be quaint. Two sofas—one on which Hannah was sleeping—were perpendicular to the fire, and two overstuffed wing-backed chairs flanked the mantel. A heavy fur blanket was over the back of the empty sofa, a shelf of books lined the wall next to the fireplace, and several firearms and powder horns hung near the door. On the mantel above the hearth ticked a small clock, and next to it sat a pipe, a small wooden box, and a carved statue of a deer. A large, bright rug covered the rough planked floor, and off to the side was the table where she had found the scissors for Mrs. Pike. Three large, dark beams ran the length of the low ceiling, and several candles winked from around the room.
And then she saw it.
On the wall opposite hung a silhouette.
She did not see how she could have missed it. The black outline was stark against the white background, but Mrs. Locke’s regard was evident in the care she took with the portrait. She had captured his curly hair, his straight nose, his strong chin. It was a handsome piece.
Being in Mr. Locke’s house with his daughter, his housekeeper, and the very real memory of his wife made Annabelle’s chest tighten. She had invited him to step into her world on a number of occasions, but with the exception of their meeting in the forest, she had not stepped into his. Until now. Now that she was here, Annabelle worried what his reaction would be.
With a heavy sigh Mrs. Pike sat in the chair like the one Annabelle was in. She picked up a linen shirt that undoubtedly belonged to Mr. Locke, lifted the seam, and took her needle to the rough fabric.
“How long have you lived in Fellsworth, Mrs. Pike?”
Mrs. Pike paused. “I came several years ago when Mrs. Locke married Mr. Locke. I had been her servant for years, so she asked me to stay on with ’er. I can tell ye this place was quite a change from what we were used to.”
Annabelle recalled the murder rumor she had heard. It was not her place to ask questions, but being in Mrs. Locke’s home made her curiosity too much to bear. She started with a question to which she already knew the answer. “Where did you and Mrs. Locke live before coming here?”
“London mostly, but we traveled a great deal.” Mrs. Pike took a sip of tea. “They were happy years, Miss Thorley, but oh, so long ago.”
Annabelle was surprised by the older woman’s wistfulness. She had clearly been attached to her mistress. “I am impressed that you decided to stay on here after her death.”
Mrs. Pike nodded. “It’s not an elegant space, to be sure, what with the dogs ’n’ ferrets in the kennels out back. But Mr. Locke was in such a state after Mrs. Locke died. I stayed on to help with the babe, even though I never cared for a wee one in all my days, and it gradually changed into how we are today.”
Mrs. Pike lowered her sewing. “She was a beautiful person. Hannah here is the spitting image of ’er. Acts just like ’er too. Feisty. Headstrong. I’d like to think that the girl would have enough common sense to stay out o’ the forest in the rain, but ye see how things turned out.”
Annabelle looked over to the sleeping child with fondness.
They fell into a comfortable silence—partly because Mrs. Pike was so focused on her task and partly because Annabelle was growing drowsy. The excitement and physical exertion had taken a toll on her, and the steady rhythm of falling rain mingled with the crackling of the warm fire was a mystical sort of lullaby.
She leaned her head against the back of the chair and let her eyes fall closed . . . for just a minute.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Evening’s long shadows were falling as Owen strode down the narrow path through Linton Forest to the gamekeeper’s cottage, just as he had thousands of times before. The stone home was so familiar, it should have been a place of solace. But every time he approached, he could never—and would never—be able to shake the memory of what happened there.
The memory of that day was burned into the plaster walls and etched into every surrounding tree. A part of him would always grieve for Diana. But another part of him never wanted to see this place again.
His resolve was never stronger: he would find the men responsible for the rise in poaching. He had no choice if he ever wanted to start fresh in the Kirtley Meadow cottage.
The scents of the damp forest were alive around him, causing him to pause and fill his lungs with their cool, natural goodness. Autumn was falling, and even in the failing light he noticed the first glimpse of orange-tipped leaves overhead. His boots splashed through the rainy puddles along the path, and he adjusted the hares he had caught over his shoulder. As
soon as the rain ceased, he would take them to the cook for the week’s meals.
As they drew closer, Drake ran ahead of him, splashing mud with each pounding paw. Owen kicked the dirt from his boots and sat on a bench outside of the lodge to remove them. He slid his coat from his shoulders and draped it over his arm before opening the door.
Mrs. Pike appeared as soon as he entered. “At last. Thought ye’d never get ’ere.” “Why?”
“There’s been an accident,” she said low. “Don’t worry, Hannah will be fine, but—”
“Hannah?” he blurted, alarm coursing through him. “What’s wrong with Hannah?”
“She stepped on a trap. She—”
“A trap?” Why would Hannah be anywhere near a trap? His gaze searched the dark room. “Where is she?”
“There.”
Within seconds he crossed the small room. His chest squeezed as he beheld his tiny daughter lying on the sofa, a blanket pulled to her chin, her light hair splayed over the pillow. Her mouth was open as she slept, and her chest rose and fell with each breath. She looked so still.
“Is she all right?” he demanded.
“Yes. She will be. She has a nasty gash on ’er ankle though, and it likely bruised the bone. I gave ’er something for the pain, and so she will be asleep for a while.”
Mrs. Pike’s words eased him a little. Her skill at healing was phenomenal. She had bound his own various wounds a time or two.
His sweet, precious daughter, marred by the very traps he’d placed. His mind leapt to the worst. He had seen what traps could do to animals, but he never imagined one would affect his own daughter.
How many times had he warned her? If she was at the cottage, the reminders were constant. He had thought her safe from the danger when she was at school—it was one of the reasons he insisted that she attend.
He flipped up the cover and assessed the wound as gently as he could. A bright spot of red had seeped through the bandaging. “How did this happen?”
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 22
