Mr. William Sterling. What an unusual character he was proving to be. For years they’d lived in close proximity, more strangers than neighbors. In truth, until their meeting after his accident, he’d likely been oblivious to her existence. And her awareness of him was limited to the girlhood whispers she had shared with school-mates about his mysterious reputation and handsome presence.
But in recent years he had rarely crossed her mind, save for the fact that he had been absent from her father’s funeral. And now, not once but twice he had been in her home. And both times he had left behind thoughts of something she had assumed was long buried. What would it be like to have a suitor, especially one as handsome and strong as William Sterling? She could not deny that he was handsome. Despite his wounds, his blue eyes were sharp and alert. His jaw was strong and determined.
And why, after all this time, should a visit from him unnerve her so? Any childhood inclination to think him romantic and exciting should be squelched by a more mature assessment of his less-than-proper behavior, or at least the accompanying rumors.
This afternoon he’d presented himself as well-spoken and self-assured. Not at all gruff and harsh like the man they had found unconscious. And yet, she wondered, who was Isabelle? And why should he call her name while in such a state? Undoubtedly, she must be far from the type of women who dwelled in Darbury—someone much more fashionable. Elegant.
She made her way down the darkened corridor, her only distraction the quiet chatter of girls behind closed paneled doors and the muted patter of feet on wooden floors. When she opened the door to the youngest students’ room, she heard a circling of “hushes” and the delightful melody of little-girl giggles.
She relaxed. This is what she needed to focus on. This, and not on a silly romantic notion of a stranger.
Patience smiled at her little girls, all gathered by the fire, their stocking feet poking out from the hems of their plain, white muslin gowns. The scent of lavender water from recent baths hung sweetly in the air. Their cheeks, rosy and fresh, glowed with smiles, and their eyes held the glimmer of promised secrets and shared dreams.
Patience stood in the room and propped her hands on her hips. “And what are you girls giggling at, I wonder?”
Henny clasped a hand over her mouth and giggled, her brown eyes bright. “Emma said that Delilah ate one of Mr. George’s gloves.”
The girls covered their mouths and dissolved into laughter.
Emma drew her knees up to her chest. “She did! She did! And Mr. George was so cross with Delilah.” She clapped her hands over her face. “Poor Mr. George.”
Patience could not help but smile at the child’s account of the goat. She could not quite understand why the stubborn goat was such a source of amusement for the girls, for the animal was always raising havoc for George and Charlie. But the wilder the goat’s antics, the broader their amusement.
Patience took her seat in a straight-back wooden chair next to the fire, and the girls gathered around her. Emma. Georgiana. Charlotte. Louisa. Henny.
Once they were settled, Patience clasped her hands in her lap. “And what shall I read to you tonight?”
“The Mrs. Teachum book!” cried Louisa, leaning forward, her dark eyes wide with anticipation. The other girls agreed, so Patience sifted through a basket next to her chair of worn novels and pulled a copy of The Governess. She had read this book to the girls so many times she was certain they would tire of it, but instead, they clamored for it. But it was no surprise that the girls would love the story of the adventures of nine young girls at a school much like Rosemere.
Patience opened to the story “An Account of a Fray, Begun and Carried on for the Sake of an Apple: In Which Are Shown the Sad Effects of Rage and Anger.”
Patience read with animated voice and dramatic inflection, and the girls, as usual, reacted to the argument the students were having over apples and the ensuing altercation.
At the end, when the students in the story were reprimanded for their anger and maliciousness, her own students grew somber. Patience closed the book and placed it on her lap. “And what of these young ladies? What can you learn from their misfortune?”
“Do not argue,” piped Henny.
Charlotte said, “Be nice.”
Patience nodded. “You are so right. We must be kind to those around us, even when they do something to hurt or upset us.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You girls have a special bond with one another. There will be times when you will be frustrated with one another, like the girls in the story with the apple. But you must control your temper.” She turned to Louisa. “If you are upset with one of the other girls, what should you do?”
“Forgive them.”
“You are correct.” She looked at their faces, so sweet and innocent. “And what if it is hard to forgive someone? What should you do?”
“Pray to God for help.” Louisa’s timid answer warmed her.
They were learning the truths that were so important. Her father would have been proud.
“Oh, you girls are all kind, and I know I can trust you not to argue and fight like the girls in the book. Always remember, we all get angry. What is important is that you handle your anger appropriately. Now, to bed with you.”
The girls scurried up into their beds, and Patience stoked the fire before pulling extra quilts from the wardrobe. Before leaving, she pressed a kiss on each girl’s forehead, heard their prayers, and tucked an extra quilt around each one to guard against the cold February night.
The last child was Emma. The other four girls came from sound families and spent holidays in their own loving homes, but Emma was different.
Patience tucked the quilt around the girl’s tiny frame. Emma motioned for her to lean closer. “Do you think that man’s eye is better yet?” she whispered.
Patience sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning close so as not to disturb the other girls. “It will probably take a few more days to heal.”
Emma frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the response. “Naughty horse.”
Patience smoothed the child’s hair from her face. “I sincerely doubt the horse intended to throw Mr. Sterling.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “Do you think it hurts him?”
“I am sure it is not pleasant, but he is on the mend. He told me as much himself.” She pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead, offered a smile, and took up her candlestick. “How thoughtful of you to be concerned for the welfare of others. Sweet dreams, my darlings.”
Patience pulled the door closed behind her. Once again, Rosemere was as silent as the grave.
And her mind was free to roam.
William slumped in his chair, a goblet of claret balanced in his hand.
Night had fallen. Darkness—and a bone-chilling cold—blanketed Eastmore Hall’s paneled library. The dying glow from the fire played on the goblet’s intricate cuts and angles. He nudged his booted foot closer to the fire and stared unblinking into the weak flame.
He touched his healing lip, then rubbed a hand across his sideburn and over his chin. He was distracted. Why could he think of little else besides Miss Creighton? Of the curve of her neck, the slope of her nose? His conversation with the blue-eyed little girl at the school kept coming back to him, and the memory of the hall’s warmth toyed with his mind.
He had not wanted to leave Rosemere.
The realization shocked him as much as it confused him. He would have been quite content to stay in Miss Creighton’s company for as long as the day and the evening would allow. But she had obvious responsibilities that were far more important than humoring a man that she no doubt regarded as little more than her landlord. His attempt to offer simple gratitude for a kind gesture had resulted in more questions he could not readily answer.
Eastmore Hall had once been welcoming and inviting, much like Rosemere. His mother had seen to that. But since her death, and then that of his father, the estate property had been on a sharp decline.
Wil
liam pulled his brother’s letter from his waistcoat, unfolded it, and strained to read it in the dim light. The letter was short but good-natured. Graham, a captain in His Majesty’s navy and away most of the time, asked William to watch over his wife and daughter. They lived but a short ride away, at Winterwood Manor, just on the other side of Sterling Wood. He would ride out to Winterwood soon to check on Amelia and little Lucy, for he owed his brother that much and more. Life had taken the brothers in opposite directions. Graham had enjoyed much success. But William, despite his privilege and opportunity, had floundered. It was Graham who had started William on the path to confronting his wrongs and failures instead of hiding them.
Not even a year ago, when William did manage to spend time in Eastmore Hall, the house was never still. Servants were busy at all hours. Guests at all times. The gatherings within Eastmore’s walls had been legendary. But as his funds dwindled, so did his comrades. And as the friends’ departures left empty spaces in his routines, condemning silence moved in. One by one his friends had left him, and now he was alone in a massive estate, with most of the rooms under dusty white sheets, a skeleton crew, and barely enough funds to keep fires going in a few rooms.
He could handle the loneliness during the day. When the weather was fine and he could escape out of doors, where isolation was by choice, he could imagine that everything was as it had been. Time flew past when he was working with his horses. With his steward dismissed, he found that he actually enjoyed calling on his tenants—especially when the tenant was Miss Creighton.
At night, all was different.
How desperately he wanted to be able to place blame on someone other than himself. To pretend that his poor decisions had been the result of an external force. But how could he deny his folly? He’d been a slave to the gaming tables and the pursuit of adventure.
If only she would have stayed.
He tossed the dark purplish wine against the back of his throat, ignoring the burning as it slid down.
Normally he would force his mind to think of anything else. Horses. Racing. Cards. But with the dull physical pain and his overwhelming loneliness, he would allow his mind to go there.
Just this once.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the tufted chair. So much of the last eight years had been lived in a foggy haze of drink. She was the one aspect he could recall with pinpoint precision, as if he had seen her the previous night instead of the eight years it had actually been. How vividly he recalled the brilliant luster of her mahogany hair. The sway of her hips when she walked. The tinkling of her carefree laugh. The brush of her breath as she would lean in dangerously close to whisper in his ear.
Isabelle.
He had loved her to the point of obsession. And she had led him to believe that her affection matched his. She had been as foolish as he, her interests as worldly, her vanity as broad. Her impulsive lust for life was intoxicating. She’d swept him along in her whirlwind, captivating him and entrancing him. He would have given her the world had she but asked. But Isabelle was of a wild, untamed nature, carefree and restless. He should have heeded the warning.
His memory lingered on the day he proposed. Isabelle accepted, and his future seemed bright and boundless. But a few days later he received a letter from her, communicating her regret and stating that her heart belonged to another. She departed Darbury before he could confront her. He had not seen nor heard from her since.
William had demanded answers from her former guardian, her uncle and the local vicar, Thomas Hammond, but the old man would give no information, only repeat her request for privacy.
William had searched for her for months. She had wanted to disappear, and she succeeded. William never knew what became of her, and that fact drove him to the point of madness. Time had dulled the searing ache, but the dawdling presence of her betrayal still stung. He had given her his heart, and she had taken it. And to this day, a hole marked the empty space where it should be. She was out there, living her life. Somewhere. And his inability to accept that fact, coupled with his tendency toward impulsive behavior, had spiraled him downward.
He rubbed his hand down his face, wincing not at the pain from his still-swollen lip and jaw, but from the twinge of emotion knotted in his chest. He deserved what he was getting. How could he deny it? He had a choice to make when she left, and instead of choosing to put his life back together and fight, he chose to bury himself in mindless, destructive pursuits. He had become a virtual prisoner in the halls that gave him the wealth to live the destructive life he had chosen.
Why his thoughts should turn to Miss Creighton, he did not know. Was it her mannerism that reminded him of another?
Or was it true admiration of a person who had embraced family responsibility?
Or was it purely loneliness?
He indulged in one long swig of claret, dampening the effects of painful memories and the bitter cold.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would once again pull himself right and focus on the task at hand—he’d keep his promise to his brother and visit his sister-in law. He’d find another broodmare for his stallion and take the necessary steps to set his life right. But tonight he would let the claret ease the pain, just as it had so many times before.
Tomorrow . . . he watched as the last tiny flame in the fireplace flickered and then went out, leaving only glowing embers.
He’d nearly fallen asleep, half frozen in his chair, when a rap sounded on a distant door.
William bolted out of his chair and looked to the pistol on a nearby table.
Rafertee.
But before he had time to react, footsteps echoed as they crossed the stone floor of the vestibule. He recognized the shuffle. It was Cecil, his butler. William relaxed when he heard the voice of his neighbor, Jonathan Riley.
Riley was the one friend who would still visit even though he knew the extent of William’s downfall. William quickly stoked the fire to breathe life back into it, sending sparks flying, but he wasn’t fast enough.
The door to the library opened and Cecil stepped inside. “Mr. Riley, sir.”
Before William could welcome him, Riley strode in as confidently and intently as if he were the master of Eastmore himself. “Egad, man, what are you doing in the dark?”
William knelt next to the fire and used its dying embers to light a candle, and then used that to light yet another.
William forced his voice to be as normal as possible. “Caught me sleeping, mate.”
William turned, but his effort to hide his face was in vain.
“Sleeping, my eye.” Riley whistled low. “They did a number on you, didn’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was in town at Griffin’s End.” Riley sought out and opened the decanter of claret and poured himself a goblet. “Talked to Miller, who said there was a rowdy bunch in the other night, bragging about drawing a man’s cork on the moors. Said they’d been in a couple nights prior, and he figured out they must be talking about you. So I had to come out and see for myself. Sure enough, here you are. What happened?”
William gave up stoking the fire and sank back in his chair. No need for pretense with a friend as old as Riley. “I was at Griffin’s End, trying to convince old Peter Symes to sell me his thoroughbred mare. I saw the men there. Should have gotten a room for the night, but like a fool I thought it would be a good idea to return to Eastmore Hall. They waylaid me.”
“I can see that.” Riley tilted his head and squinted, struggling to see in the dark. “How bad is it?”
“Split lip. Swollen eye. Gash on the forehead. Bruised ribs. Could have been worse.”
“I’ll say.” Riley pointed a finger at William. “They could have done permanent damage to that dandy profile of yours, and then where would you be?”
William huffed.
Riley’s energy filled the space. He whipped his head around. “Why is it so blasted cold in here? I know you’re dished, but this borde
rs on the ridiculous.” He tossed a log on the fire, and the glowing embers popped and hissed in protest. He added some kindling and was rewarded with a small flame that licked at the log’s edge. “There, that’s more like it.”
If there was one thing William knew about Riley, it was that the man hated silence as much as he did. Riley would fill hushed moments with chatter, whether the conversation proved worthwhile or not.
Riley adjusted the remaining wood in the pile. “I didn’t just come here to check on your wounds. I have a few matters I need to discuss with you.”
“Of course you do.”
“I am starting a new business venture.”
“You are, are you? Shocking.” William pinched the bridge of his nose. When wasn’t Riley investigating this or that, looking for a way to further line his pocketbook? “And what, pray tell, are you exploring this time?”
Riley rubbed his hands together as if enjoying the banter. “Textiles.”
William snorted. Textiles. With an abundance of sheep in the area, textiles and weaving had long been a way of life in Darbury and the surrounding villages. It was only a matter of time before Riley set his sights to finding a way to exploit it. “And what do you know of textiles?”
Riley shrugged, his ever-present crooked grin flashing in the shadows. “At present, very little, save for the fact that with all the wool available right here, it would be a lucrative venture. If done properly, that is to say.”
“Is that so?” William tapped his thumb on the arm of the chair. He had the distinct suspicion that Riley was leading him down a path of sorts, and William, with sore ribs and throbbing temples, was in no mood for games. “And how exactly would one go about doing it properly?”
“That is where my new colleague, Jeremiah Carlton, comes in.” Riley’s easy smile slid across his broad, square face.
The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors) Page 6
