The Headmistress of Rosemere (14 page)

Patience winced, almost as if she had been struck. How her mother’s words pierced her and lingered like a bitter aftertaste. How hard Patience had worked in the months following her father’s death to keep the school afloat. How many nights had she stayed awake, tending to sick children, planning meals with the housekeeper, and planning lessons? Her mother noticed none of it. Instead, she seemed to place all of her hope, her security, in
Rawdon, who had been conveniently absent from any workings of the school since the day he departed for London after their father’s burial.

Patience turned away from her mother to hide the pain she was sure must show on her face. She sniffed. “I’ll send Mary up with some hot chocolate. I’m going to wake the girls. There is much work to be done.”

11

A
flurry of activity swirled in the recovering Rosemere. After leaving her mother’s bedchamber and another visit to sit with the sleeping Emma, Patience stole away to the quiet of her father’s study.

The somber room’s paneled walls and heavy mahogany furniture always seemed a fortress. As a child she had snuck beneath this desk, inhaling the scent of her father’s tobacco, listening to the sound of his quill scratching paper as he worked.

But now, this room was not a place of escape, but one of responsibility. Letters needed to be written. She reached for her father’s weathered teak writing box, pausing to wipe a smudge from the polished surface.

How she missed him. His determined strength. His self-assuredness that acted as a shield for them all.

In all her years she had never known him to seem rattled. Frightened. Dismayed. His demeanor was always strong and steady.

And she felt weak and small.

Before grief could get a fresh grip on her, she snatched a piece of paper and penned a quick, curt letter informing her brother of the fire and sealed it with little confidence it would actually reach his hand.

She pulled another sheet of paper from the box, and her thoughts turned to Emma. There was still another letter to write. Emma’s guardian, whoever that person might be, needed to be notified of the child’s injury.

As far as Patience was aware, Emma had no family. The details of the child’s past were shrouded in mystery. The local vicar, Thomas Hammond, brought the child to the school several years past, indicating that the guardian wished to remain anonymous.

The notion of an unidentified guardian was not uncommon—the tuition for two other pupils at Rosemere was also paid anonymously. But mystery lurked behind the child’s pale blue eyes and olive complexion. Her exotic appearance fed the fire for fantastic stories surrounding her history. Patience’s father had encouraged Patience and the other teachers to treat Emma as any other student, and the mystery of her past had faded in the sameness of routine and structure. The arrangement had been longstanding and unquestioned. But in light of the circumstances, Patience needed to learn more about the child.

She went to an old armoire that held information on students, past and present. Rarely had she felt the necessity to look inside, much less look through the contents for any student.

She swung open the ornately carved door and, with the motion, dust swirled in the air, the filtered sunlight illuminating each mote. Her nose, still burning and sore from the effects of smoke, twitched. With a careful eye she skimmed the names scrawled on the outside of a variety of boxes and small crates. Frances Ashbrooke. Dorothea Hey. Susannah Bright.

She found Emma’s name and pulled the oddly shaped hat box
from the armoire and brushed the dust from the top. She frowned at the box’s light weight, doubting that such a light carton could hold the answers she sought.

Patience lifted the lid. As the afternoon light fell on the contents, Patience sighed. She lifted out a prayer book and thumbed through it, a pair of gloves, a copy of Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
, and a small velvet pouch containing an amethyst brooch. Nothing of significance. But then her hope mounted as she noticed a letter at the bottom of the box. Eagerly, she grabbed it. Someone had already broken the seal, and she unfolded it. Money fell to the desk, and the words scrawled on the page indicated the money was intended to be given to Emma when she became of age. Patience clenched her jaw. Whoever was responsible for the care of the girl seemed intent on having nothing to do with her.

That simply would not do.

She spread the items before her on her father’s desk, studying each one as if it held the secret of Emma’s veiled past. She’d ask George and Mary to see what they could remember, but doubted they had any other information. She sighed, folded the letter, tucked the money inside, and leaned back in the chair. She would check the books yet again for any record of the paying party—after all, someone was responsible for her tuition—and if that did not satisfy her curiosity, she would have to pay a visit to the vicar. He was the one who brought Emma to them. Surely he would have the information.

Later that afternoon, when the sun was beginning to settle over the bleak, desolate moors, Patience grabbed her cape and bonnet and hurried from the kitchen door, determined to go unnoticed. The day had been chaotic, and with most of the girls in quiet study time and Emma resting, she’d take advantage of the rare solitary minutes.

The weather had shifted quickly, as it did often on the moors, and a light freezing rain had fallen earlier in the afternoon, further dampening the still-smoking debris. She lifted the hem of her gray cape and hurried to Rosemere’s front gate. Once on the main road, she sidestepped to avoid the deep ruts, which, for the most part, were shrouded with a layer of ice and snow. Fortunately, the road was passable. For the past several weeks, the excessive rain and snow often kept the roads dangerously soggy or icy. But today the road was a little firmer.

The wind carried a damp chill. Even as she distanced herself from Rosemere and the rubble of the stable, the phantom smoke seemed to follow her.

The walk to the vicarage was but a short one. Her will to fight for Emma had surged and energized her. She didn’t even stop to think about what she would say before she tapped her gloved knuckles against the door. As she waited, she jutted her chin out in confidence.

The door was opened by a young maid.

Patience forced a smile. “May I speak with Mrs. Hammond?”

The girl ushered her in, took her outside things, and showed her to a sitting room. Patience sat nervously, noting that this was the first time since her father passed that she was visiting these family friends. At one point, she and her mother would visit Mrs. Hammond at least once a week. But those days were gone.

In a flurry of periwinkle sarcenet, Mrs. Hammond rounded the corner, arms outstretched, her eyebrows drawn together in apparent concern. “Miss Creighton! Oh, how are you, my dear? I have been so worried about you and all the young ladies.”

Patience stood, accepted her outstretched hands, and allowed herself to be folded into a brief hug. She was grateful it was Mrs. Hammond, and Mrs. Hammond alone, who greeted her. Even now
that she was quite grown, the austere presence of Mr. Thomas Hammond intimidated her. Frightened her, even. “We are managing quite well, thank you.”

With a wave of her outstretched hand, Mrs. Hammond directed her back to the sofa and then sat next to her. “I was shocked, absolutely shocked, when I heard the news of the fire. I can smell the smoke from here! And poor Miss Simmons. How is she faring? I wanted to come see her straightaway as soon as I heard of it, but Mr. Hammond insisted she needed her rest.”

Patience folded her hands, feeling the warmth that comes with the concern of an old friend. “Emma’s breathing is steadily improving. I am hopeful that a day or two in bed should be all that she needs.”

“I was so afraid. It could have been worse. I am fond of the girl.”

Patience nodded, for it was true. On more than one occasion the Hammonds had opened their home to Emma while the other girls were away on holiday. “Actually, Emma is the reason I am here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I wish to notify her guardian—or family, if she has any—of her injury, but I have searched my father’s records and have not been able to discover her guardian’s name. I even checked the payment records, and while everything is paid regularly, there is no name accompanying them. I am certain you will agree with me that in the instance of such an injury, the family must, of course, be notified. I am hoping that you or Mr. Hammond might be able to offer guidance.”

Mrs. Hammond frowned and tapped a finger to her lips in thoughtful contemplation. “Let me think. I do recall the day that Mr. Hammond brought Miss Simmons to Darbury. Indeed, I recall it in great detail. But you know Mr. Hammond. In light of his position, he often keeps details of such things private. But I am sure he would hear your questions. I will fetch him.”

Patience tried to hide her disappointment that Mrs. Hammond did not possess the information she sought. “I’ve no wish to trouble him.”

“No trouble at all. I will return shortly.”

The time seemed to stretch to eternity. The odd events of the past several days had affected her perception of time. Nothing seemed real. Everything seemed independent of reason or sense. The maid reappeared with tea, and Patience poured herself a cup. She sipped it, allowing the steaming liquid to serve as a balm. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, as if by doing so she could open them again and everything would be different from what it was when she closed them. But when she did open her eyes, she beheld the same glowing embers flickering in the confines of the stone hearth, the same long afternoon shadows playing on the faded, floral-papered walls and low, beamed ceiling.

A nervous quiver danced in her stomach as hushed whispers and heavier footsteps sounded from within the house. She recalled as a child fearfully watching Mr. Hammond in the pulpit as he spoke of hell’s fire and God’s wrath. She’d known him all her life, yet she regarded him with timid reserve. Childish qualms would not suit her. She no longer had that luxury. Emma depended on her.

The vicar entered the room, dressed in a severely cut black tailcoat and gray breeches, followed by his wife. Patience stood and forced her eyes to meet his.

“What a pleasure it is to see you in our home, Miss Creighton.” His voice was as rich and deep as it was each Sunday.

“I hope my visit does not take you away from your work, sir.”

“Indeed, no. It has been far too long since you have been a guest at the vicarage. Please, be seated.”

Patience sat primly on her chair. “I will not keep you long. I am here on behalf of Emma Simmons.”

Mr. Hammond pushed his spectacles farther up on his nose
before casting a glance at his wife. “Precious child. We heard about what happened. I hope she is recovering.”

“She is. She is strong. I am hoping, however, that you can help shed light on something for me. I would like to notify Emma’s guardian of her situation, but I cannot find any information in my father’s office. She came to Rosemere through you, and I was hoping you could assist me. Do you recall the name of her guardian, her mother or father perhaps?”

Mr. Hammond tented his fingers and licked his thin lips. His manner was hesitant. Reserved. “I do recall, Miss Creighton. But I am sad to say that the child’s mother is no longer living.”

Disappointment surged through her. She had suspected as much but still had hoped for happier news. “That I am saddened to hear. Her father, then?”

Mr. Hammond pushed himself up from the chair, and with hands clasped behind his back, he moved to the window and looked out over the white lawn. The gray light fell on his head and shoulders, making his hair appear much grayer than she recalled. “I admire what you are doing, Miss Creighton. Indeed, I do. But I gave my word, many years ago. I must ask you to respect the necessity to keep the child’s family’s identity private.”

Patience scooted to the edge of her seat. “But certainly you cannot agree with that. You must understand my dilemma. What father, regardless of how estranged, would not want to be informed of his child’s injuries? A child needs her family at a time such as this.”

Awkward silence hovered between them. Then, with his voice low and controlled, the old vicar turned and said, “I agree with you, Miss Creighton, but you must accept that my position often makes me privy to information that I cannot reveal. I must insist that you refrain from asking further questions on this matter.”