The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors)

by Sarah E. Ladd

  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.

  William lifted the coffee to his wounded lip, but the housekeeper’s steaming beverage did little to soothe William’s wounds or his spirit. Lewis was right. Bley would not be in Darbury long. He would have this one opportunity to get Bley to speak for Slaten’s unborn offspring. So today he would push through anything, any pain.

  He had to.

  Before leaving the house, William instructed Martha to light fires and open the main visiting rooms. Heating the rooms was expensive, but in the event Mr. Bley should enter Eastmore Hall, William needed to at least give the impression he was a man of sizable means.

  William walked the path from Eastmore Hall to the L-shaped stable, a relatively new structure fashioned of stone and timber. He avoided looking back at Eastmore. Even as recently as a year ago, the stately home boasted the most incredibly manicured landscape in the county.

  That, too, was gone. Shameful.

  William pulled back the door to the stable. The tension in his back eased. Surrounded by the things that made him comfortable, he finally drew a deep breath. Familiar scents of straw and hay were balanced in the air. In the stall straight ahead, Angus, looking no worse after their early-morning ride, whinnied at William’s entrance, tossing his chestnut mane.

  “There you are.” William stepped closer, propped his hands on his hips, and stared at the animal.

  The gelding puffed air and nudged at William’s pocket.

  The horse knew his master too well.

  “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

  Angus nudged again, and William reached his gloved fingers into his pocket and extended a carrot.

  Lewis stood at the far end of the stable’s wide center aisle, brushing Slaten’s glossy raven coat. Although a fine specimen of horseflesh, Slaten was far too feisty for his own good. For the safety of the other horses, they kept the stallion separate as much as possible. His lean muscles twitched as he adjusted his footing and swung his striking black head around as William approached.

  “Making him beautiful, are you, Lewis?”

  Lewis stopped the grooming and let the brush hang at his side. “Not hard to do, and this cheeky sweetgoer knows it.”

  William knelt and ran his hand over the career-ending bulge on the horse’s leg—the result of significant scar tissue from the tendon injury. He tried—for the millionth time—to push the memory of that horrific day from his mind. At least the animal survived the tumble, and he could still find hope in the fact that the horse might help him recover from his losses. Yet this would not be a quick fix—or a sure one.

  William stood and patted the horse’s sleek neck, then walked over to the farthest stall to check on the mother. With any luck, Mr. Bley would decide to buy the foal based only on the impressive racing qualifications of its parents. “Is the mare ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “The glow of motherhood suits her,” he joked.

  Lewis did not look up from his task. “Bley should arrive at any time. The letter said he’d leave Bradwell in the morning. Should put them here about ten, weather permitting.”

  William flicked his pocket watch. “Quarter of.” He snapped it closed and heard the sound of hooves on the gravel path outside. William’s heart thudded. The arriving carriage had to be that of Mr. Bley. This was his chance to begin to set things to right. He pulled his hat low over his forehead in an attempt to conceal the marks on his face and straightened his coat. He bent over to brush the dust off his boots.

  As confidently and nonchalantly as he could, William strolled out of the stable and saw a carriage pulled by four magnificent chestnuts rolling to a stop. A door swung open.

  William sucked in a deep breath, reminding himself that he had the advantage. He was not acquainted with Mr. Bley personally, but he knew how men like Mr. Bley—wealthy, carefree, and bored—thought.

  Mr. Bley jumped down, looking every bit as William had expected. He appeared to be about William’s age with a tall, athletic build. He was well-dressed in a caped overcoat of charcoal wool and shiny Hessian boots. A wide red band circled his beaver hat, and a gloved hand gripped an ornately carved cane.

  Mr. Bley would, no doubt, expect to be greeted by a butler—or a footman, at the very least. William had to act as if he happened to be nearby as the carriage rumbled up. No doubt Bley knew William was purse-pinched—everyone did—but William needed to keep the rumors low. This was a game of pretenses, a battle of charades that he intended to win.

  “Ho, there!” he called as Mr. Bley turned to assess Eastmore Hall. “Adrian Bley?”

  The man turned. “Indeed!” He headed toward William. He seemed startled as he drew close enough to see William’s face, and then his eyes crinkled in amusement. He gave a burst of good-natured laughter. “By jove, good man, what happened to you? A mill gone poorly?”

  William forced a chuckle. “Afraid so.”

  Mr. Bley stepped closer, propped his hands on his hips, and studied William’s face. “Well, I’d hate to see the sorry bloke what tangled with you, to be sure. Heard you were a bit of a bruiser, Sterling. And see, here are the marks to prove it.”

  William tried to apply as light a tone to his voice as possible, although with every grin his lip throbbed and with every laugh his ribs ached. It was easy enough to blame his appearance on a sparring match not gone in his favor. “’Tis the price a bloke pays for a bit of fun, am I right?”

  Bley laughed, rich and deep.

  William pretended not to notice how the man assessed his coat. His boots. At least in that he could be confident.

  As if on cue, Lewis led Slaten from the stable. From the corner of his eye, William saw Bley’s expression transform from skepticism to greedy approval in mere seconds. William walked to the horse, took him by the bridle, and circled him around for a better view.

  Bley knelt down to take a close look at the bulging disfigurement on the animal’s lower leg. “So this is the injury that felled the mighty Slaten. Happened at Newmarket, did it not?”

  William smoothed Slaten’s glossy mane. “He was a length behind another horse going into a turn. That horse took a spill, and Slaten here took a tumble over him.” William rubbed the horse’s corded neck. “He’ll not race again, but I daresay his offspring will.”

  Bley circled the animal, pausing to lift a foreleg and look at the teeth. “And how did you come to own him?”

  “Won in a wager.”

  Bley chortled. “You don’t say.”

  “Indeed. When he came to my stable, he had already won at Weatherby’s and Staxton. But for all of his success, he was still young. I am of the belief that he was raced too early and with too little training.”

  Bley stepped back and crossed his arms across his chest.
“I saw him race at Staxton.”

  William raised an eyebrow. “Did you, now?”

  “Bloody fast. Never seen anything quite like him. Tried to buy him myself at the time, but the owners would not part with him. Was shocked to hear about his tumble.”

  “I had never seen him race when I won him—had only his reputation to go on. Then the first race I entered him in, the accident happened.” William stopped short of revealing that he had every last farthing he owned invested in that race, and when his horse did not even finish, he had nothing left.

  The man looked around the grounds. “Where’s the mare?”

  William signaled Lewis, who led out the bay mare from another section of the stable, her stomach swollen, her gait slow.

  “How much longer until she foals?”

  Slaten tossed his black mane and sniffed the air, and William paused to steady him before responding. “No longer than a month.” He watched for any indication in the man’s expression as to whether he had any interest in speaking for the unborn horse. The sooner William could get a buyer and a down payment, the better—and safer—he would feel. “I’d say no more than two weeks.”

  “And your price?”

  William named the figure.

  Bley whistled low and nodded. “I’d want the foal weaned from the mother as soon as possible. I want the trainer of my choosing to get ahold of it early on.”

  William stepped back to give Bley room to circle the mare. Bley’s reputation as a horseman was legendary. William stood by silently as the man ran his hands down the legs, studied the face, the mouth, and did all manner of other assessments. He then returned to the stallion.

  After what felt like a span of time much longer than necessary, the man finally walked toward William. “You say this will be his first offspring?”

  William nodded. “Yes. He’s not been sired outside of Eastmore Hall. I have two other mares with foal.”