The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors)

by Sarah E. Ladd

Bley nodded. “I’ll consider it and get back with you.”

  Disappointment battled optimism. William had hoped that Bley would agree to purchase the foal or at least give a strong indication of his intention. He needed money. Quickly. But he knew Bley’s type. He would have to wait until the idea struck the man’s fancy.

  And wait he would.

  5

  William had never seen such green eyes.

  At least he was almost certain he recalled seeing green eyes.

  He thought about the unexpected Miss Creighton as he steered Angus down the worn path from Eastmore to Rosemere—just as he had during many of the waking moments that filled the two days since he saw her last. The snow had melted in the afternoon’s weak sunlight, and even at their slow pace, mud splashed on his boots and Angus’s legs.

  William tightened the reins as a hare hopped onto the path. Angus seemed unusually skittish, but William could hardly blame him. The events after the encounter with Rafertee’s men were a blur. He possessed only a vague recollection of how he managed to get into the Rosemere stable and what transpired after, but gradually snippets returned. Hushed voices. A damp cloth. A thick black braid. A kind smile.

  Patience Creighton.

  Had he known such a lovely creature lived at Rosemere, he would have taken more interest in his tenant.

  Eastmore Hall had many tenants, but the relationship between Eastmore Hall and Rosemere was longstanding and unique. Most of Eastmore’s tenants were farmers. His family traditionally provided the tenants with a cottage, and in turn they would share profits from the harvest. But the terms with Rosemere had always been different. A massive dwelling in its own right, Rosemere had been built by his great-great grandfather as a gift for William’s grandmother upon her wedding. But over time the gray building had fallen into disrepair and was no longer needed by the family, so his father oversaw the repairs and let it to Edmund Creighton as a school. William’s father, who cared deeply about the success of his tenants, had taken great interest in the school’s growth and even funded projects. But since his death, the relationship had grown cold. As it stood, his steward had been the one to manage the lease, visiting periodically and seeing to necessary repairs and any problems that would arise. The Creightons had been model tenants, which kept them out of his affairs.

  But the recent event had changed that.

  He pulled Angus to a stop in front of the ornate iron fence that marked the grounds of the school.

  Rosemere was an impressive structure, with a three-story stone façade, a parapet lining the roof, and several ornate chimneys disappearing into the low-hanging, shifting clouds. Large mullioned windows flanked the aged doors.

  A sharp wind screeched through the bare elms guarding the gate. William hesitated. He could turn around and pretend the humiliating situation had never happened. Even if the inhabitants of Rosemere told every citizen of Darbury of his misadventure, what harm could come of it?

  A reputation once lost was lost forever.

  Or so his father used to warn.

  William doubted many people in Darbury knew the extent of his ruin, of his self-imposed misfortune, and if his recent difficulty had not reached them yet, it likely would not. With his steward gone, he needed to foster this relationship. Personally. The rent paid by the school was the most substantial he collected. He could not afford to lose the school as a tenant. Besides, by all propriety, he should thank Miss Creighton for the kindness she showed and smooth any ill will or dampen any misconceptions. And the sooner he got it over with, the better.

  William dismounted and pushed open the ancient gate, its hinges squeaking in protest. Whether it was the thickening clouds or the lateness of the hour, evening seemed to descend early, blanketing the ground with frigid purple light. Leafless shrubbery lining the drive caught on the folds of his caped greatcoat, and the wind, equally as intent, whipped raw and vicious around his head. A sudden giggle caught his ears, and then a girl’s shout. He looked to see a group of girls beyond the stable dressed in dark coats, their faces hidden by matching bonnets. He stayed to the far side of the drive lest they take notice of him. He did not need to have a gaggle of girls staring at the wounds still marring his face.

  A young boy, probably nine or ten, did notice him and came trotting from around the west end of the building. “Take your horse, sir?”

  William pulled his tall hat tight and kept his eyes down, but not before recognizing that this was the boy who had attempted to hold Angus steady while he had mounted in his hasty departure. He tossed the child the reins. “Thank you.”

  The boy led Angus around the back, and William walked up to the house, taking the lion-shaped iron knocker in his hand and letting it fall heavily against the wooden door. A servant answered—an older man with thick white hair and rheumy brown eyes. At the sight of his wounds, the old man’s eyes opened wide. “Mr. Sterling.”

  This man knows who I am.

  William entered the large entrance hall paneled with dark wood. At the far end of the room, a roaring fire bathed the foyer in warmth, and the large mullioned windows flanking the doors filled the room with the evening’s fading light. The scent of bread mingled with smoke from the fire teased him. The sound of a pianoforte met his ears. At the far opposite corners of the room, two symmetrical and intricately carved staircases disappeared to the upper floors.

  William placed his coat and hat in the servant’s outstretched hands. He followed the man down a narrow hall. Now that he was here, curiosity took hold. Vague recollections surfaced of being inside Rosemere as a boy with his father. William stepped into the study, almost relieved to see that Miss Creighton was real—and not at all imagined.

  She sat in a wingback chair, a young girl with long mahogany hair and startling blue eyes on her lap.

  Gentle light from the fire seemed to soften Miss Creighton’s expression. Her hair was no longer in a careless braid but was swept tidily away from her face and atop her head. Her eyes were not as brilliant by the light of day but larger than he had recalled.

  William cleared his throat. “I hope I am not intruding.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Sterling. It is a pleasure to see you.” She whispered in the child’s ear, and in a flash of muslin and ribbon, the little girl promptly hopped from her lap. Miss Creighton stood and placed a hand on the child’s shoulder and nudged her out from behind her. “Allow me to present Miss Emma Simmons.”

  The child made him nervous, for what was one to say to a child, let alone a girl? Not knowing what else to do, William bowed to the little person. “How do you do, Miss Simmons.”

  The girl curtsied, but when her gaze landed on William’s lip, she stood frozen for several seconds, mouth agape, eyes fastened on his lip.

  Miss Creighton gathered some papers from the table. “Emma, why don’t you take your word cards into the morning room? I believe Miss Baden is in there with the others.”

  The little girl seemed oblivious to her guardian’s direction. Her attention was fixed boldly on William’s face. “What happened to your eye?”

  Miss Creighton’s dismay at the innocent question far outweighed his own discomfort. She blurted out, “Emma! It is not polite to ask such things!”

  But the young Miss Simmons seemed too concerned about his eye to hear.

  “It’s fine, Miss Creighton, really.” William knelt down on one knee. “See, it isn’t that bad. It should be better soon. Doesn’t hurt a bit.” But her small face scrunched in disbelief. He scrambled for an answer appropriate to say to such a small person. “I fell from my horse.”

  Emma’s tiny eyebrows drew together. “Naughty horse.”

  Miss Simmons’s emphatic disapproval almost brought a laugh to his lips. “It was not the horse’s fault. I should have been more careful.”

  He could see that his answer did not satisfy her, so he stood up, ignoring the jabbing pain in his side that still plagued him. “Do you ride, Miss Simmons?”

  The little girl’s blue eyes grew
big, and she moved her head slowly from side to side. “No, sir.”

  “What!” he exclaimed, finding that once the initial shock of conversing with a child wore off, he was almost enjoying this discussion. “You do not ride at all? Not even that plump black pony I passed in the pasture on my ride here today?”

  She giggled and shook her head again. “That is Violet.”

  “Violet, the pony,” he repeated. “Well then, you must learn to ride before you can decide if an animal is naughty or not, for a good rider should always be in control.”

  Miss Creighton, face flushing in dismay, put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Off with you, Emma, to Miss Baden.”

  The little girl hesitated and then whispered to her headmistress.

  Miss Creighton leaned down to hear. “Yes, you may visit Delilah, but only after you have finished your cards. Mind you do not forget your cap and gloves.”

  The girl gathered the cards from Miss Creighton, casting inquisitive glances toward William during the process, then scurried from the room, her untethered tresses bouncing against her back with every step.

  Once she was gone, William said, “I know who Violet is, but who is Delilah?”

  Miss Creighton did not remove her gaze from the door until the sound of footsteps could no longer be heard from the hall. “The girls have a pet goat.”

  “A goat?”

  Miss Creighton walked over to the desk and adjusted a stack of paper. “A troublesome, cantankerous creature, really, who causes more mischief than not. But the girls are quite fond of her. Delilah has been a permanent fixture here for at least the last ten years, probably more.”

  With an extended hand, Patience offered him a seat next to the fire. Its warmth begged him to draw near. As he sat on a tufted chair cushion, the heat wrapping around him like a blanket, he felt his tension relax. He looked back at Miss Creighton and noticed the softness in her expression, the kindness in her eyes. She was as he remembered. Not an angel. Not an illusion. But an exquisite sight to behold. He’d hardly be a man if he did not notice how the early-evening light filtering through the west window caught on the contour of her cheek.

  “Would you care for tea?”

  William shook his head, reminding himself of his purpose here. “Thank you, but I must forgo your offer. My visit will be brief.”

  “As you wish.” She crossed back across the room, sat in a chair opposite him, and folded her slender hands atop the thick fabric of her gray skirt. She assessed him with expectant eyes.

  He cleared his throat and touched two fingertips, still cold from the ride, to his lip. “I apologize for my appearance.”

  “Not at all. On the contrary, Mr. Sterling, it relieves my mind to see you. I was quite worried about you after you departed.”

  He felt an unexpected warmth. How long had it been since anyone had shown any concern for him? “I appreciate your concern, Miss Creighton, but as you can see, I am on the mend.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  The honeyed timbre of her voice, combined with the awkwardness of their circumstances, made his mind go blank. He stood and turned toward the window. “I wanted to thank you for your assistance. It must have been quite a shock to receive a visitor in such a state.”

  Her answer was as diplomatic as any her father would have given. “You are always welcome at Rosemere, Mr. Sterling, regardless of your condition.”

  Before he could open his mouth to speak, the door swung open, and a young woman with nut-brown hair and dressed in a blue pinafore came in.

  “Patience, I—” The intruder snapped her mouth shut when she spied him. Her hand flew to her throat, and her face reddened to the color of the coral trim on her gown. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’ll come back la—”

  “Nonsense.” Miss Creighton stood and waved her in. “Mr. Sterling, allow me to present Miss Baden, one of our teachers here at Rosemere.”

  William offered a stiff bow. “Miss Baden. My pleasure.”

  She stared at him, her light brown eyes unblinking, before returning the greeting with a quick curtsy. She then turned back to Miss Creighton. “It is Louisa. She is having trouble with her French again, and you said that you have a book you wanted her to read.”

  “Ah, yes.” Miss Creighton turned to the bookcase and pulled a worn brown book from a shelf. She flipped through the pages before handing it to Miss Baden. “Have her start here. She should have no problem with it at all. Tell her I will hear her this evening before bed.”

  Miss Baden took the book, tucked it under her arm, dropped a curtsy, and hurried from the room. Miss Creighton returned to her seat, and William struggled to remember what they had been discussing.

  Miss Creighton’s expression was calm, as if she were accustomed to such interruptions. “As you were saying, Mr. Sterling?”

  He resettled himself and attempted to recall exactly what he had said. So many thoughts went through his head. So many thoughts to convey. But her closeness and the nearly constant activity were distractions. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I will take a cup of tea, Miss Creighton.”

  She smiled as if pleased and stood to pull the cord behind the desk.

  He used the time to gather his thoughts. “I did also want to let you know of a few changes. Normally I would have had such a conversation with your father or your brother, but do I remember correctly? Did you not say your brother is away?”

  A twitch jumped in her cheek. “Rawdon is in London.” The inflection of her voice lowered. She looked at the floor.

  His desire to refrain from overstepping his boundaries overruled his curiosity. “Well then, am I to assume you are the proper person with whom I should discuss business matters?”

  “Yes, sir, that is correct. I am the headmistress now.”

  William pushed his fingers through his hair. This sort of business had normally been handled by another. And never, in his wildest imagination, would he have anticipated discussing such matters with a woman. But Miss Creighton’s quiet confidence boosted his resolve to continue.

  “I trust, then, you are accustomed to dealing with Mr. Livingstone.”

  “Your steward. Of course. He was last here about a month ago.”

  William nodded. “He has been relieved of his duties. For the time being, I will be handling all affairs with Rosemere. Personally.”

  A hint of a frown crossed her face.

  Did she disapprove of his decision? Or perhaps doubt his ability? His confidence already shaken, he did not want to appear weak in front of a tenant, especially one who was such a beautiful woman, so he hastened to add, “Until arrangements for a new steward can be made.”

  Her frown dissipated. “Well then, I shall look forward to working with you on—”

  The door flew open again. This time an older woman with a white smock over her black dress stepped in. She didn’t bother to look in his direction. “Dinner’s going to be late, Miss Creighton. George has gone to Fletcher’s to fetch the—”

  “Mary, please.” Miss Creighton jumped to her feet, a flush coloring her cheeks at the sudden intrusion. “We have a guest.”

  The woman turned, looked down a hawk nose, her expression pinched, and made no effort to hide an obvious repulsion to the marks on his face.

  He adjusted his position uncomfortably under the woman’s scrutiny. Was this woman a servant? A teacher?

  The woman drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll come back.”

  After she left, William, more amused than offended, said, “Well, Miss Creighton, ’tis a wonder indeed that you are ever able to complete a thought! This appears to be a busy room.”

  She smiled. “Well, with twenty-nine students, five teachers, four servants, and my mother, there is rarely a dull moment.”

  He tapped his fingers on his knee before jumping to his feet. “I can see you are busy, Miss Creighton. I’ll not keep you from your duties.”

  “But your tea, Mr. Sterling. Surely you will want to warm yourself before going out again
into the cold.”

  He shook his head. He did want to stay in her company, but he did not wish to be a nuisance. “Perhaps another time. I’ve no wish to detain you, and I have another tenant to visit before darkness falls completely. I’ve only come by to thank you for your kindness and to inform you of Livingstone’s absence.”

  Even without the benefit of the tea, William departed from Rosemere with a strange feeling of warmth and a persistent suspicion that there was more to Miss Creighton than what he might have assumed. He reminded himself of the necessity of maintaining focus and keeping his goal steadfastly in front of him, for the last time he allowed his heart and mind to be occupied by a woman, his ruination followed. But even with that sharp reminder, he felt certain that the interesting Miss Creighton would not be far from his thoughts.

  6

  Later that evening, with a candlestick in hand, Patience climbed the staircase to the east wing, as she did every night before the clock struck eight. The candle’s glow cast long, bending shadows on the worn stairs.

  Visiting the youngest students at Rosemere was a habit she had started four years ago when young Emma Simmons came to live at the school.

  Emma was not yet four years old and would cry lonely, heart-wrenching tears nightly. She was the youngest student ever to live at Rosemere, and during those first difficult weeks, Patience had been the only one who could console her. Over time, visits to the bedchamber of the youngest students had become a nightly ritual. Patience would read a story or verse to the girls and tuck them each into bed with a kiss and a prayer. It was normally a relaxing time, when the day would slow and evening would slip into night. It signaled her last task of the day, and afterward Mary would always have a cup of tea waiting for her.

  But tonight, as she drew closer to the sleeping chamber shared by the five girls, her heart felt odd. Restless. Her days flew by at such a blinding pace that she rarely had time to pause and reflect. She barely had time to sort her thoughts.

  This day, on the surface, had passed in all normalcy. Lessons were taught, meals were planned, letters had been written. She’d completed her tasks with regular efficiency. Even though those tasks could be difficult, they brought her meaning and purpose. But then, toward the end of the day, she had received their most unusual visitor again, and ever since, her mind seemed slow, her thoughts sluggish.