The Headmistress of Rosemere (15 page)

Patience was almost offended at the request. But she had to
continue to try. For Emma. “Well then, if you cannot share this man’s identity, perhaps you can see to it that the father is notified.”

His words were resolute. “I am afraid I cannot do that, Miss Creighton.”

What was wrong with Mr. Hammond? Could he not see that she was trying to help a child? Patience pressed her lips together but in the end was unable to keep a sharp insult from flying forth. For after all, if she did not fight on Emma’s behalf, who would? “Well, if that is indeed the case, then I think it is a sorry state.” She jumped up and snatched her gloves from the table.

As if aware of her frustration, the vicar extended his hands, as one would to pacify an agitated animal. His words softened. “Perhaps Mrs. Hammond and I can help. Miss Emma is welcome to stay at the vicarage while she recovers, or perhaps I could go read to her.”

“No, no, that will not be necessary.” Patience tilted her chin in the air, not allowing her eyes to meet his. The idea that this man knew the name of the man who could potentially ease the pain and loneliness of a child, yet refused to reveal the identity . . . despite his offer of hospitality, she could think of no other explanation. He was selfish.

But then again, perhaps he was wise. Perhaps he knew something about this man that she—and Emma—would not want to know. “If you have a change of mind about contacting Emma’s father, please inform me and I will be happy to pen a missive.”

Mrs. Hammond placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “What are your plans, Miss Creighton? I would imagine things are in quite an uproar at the school.”

“On the contrary, the girls are handling the situation quite well.”

“Will your brother be returning to Darbury?”

Patience drew a sharp breath, finding that with each passing minute she was growing more tense. Why did
everyone
inquire
about Rawdon? Did they all really believe her to be incapable of handling the school’s affairs?

But instead of verbalizing the stinging retort that simmered, she kept her voice steady. “I wrote to him this morning to notify him of the fire.”

But Mr. Hammond would not allow the subject to pass. “I am sure his return will bring great comfort, not only to you, but to your dear mother.”

And with that, Patience took her leave.

12

W
illiam paused in his brushing of Angus. He rubbed his eyes, still raw from the smoke. The idea that Rafertee’s men might have been behind the blaze angered him. It was one thing to physically threaten him. It was another entirely if they extended their threats to his land. His tenants. To women and children.

William brushed the currycomb in circles, sending up a flurry of dust and hair. He was operating under the assumption that the hoofprints in the clearing by the river belonged to Rafertee’s men. He could be wrong. But who else would be in such a remote area, so off the path?

Urgency was setting in. His time to make things right was short. He needed to take some drastic measures. The obvious answer was to sell his land. But that was only as a last resort. And since he had yet to hear from Bley, perhaps the proposed arrangement with Riley was the best course.

He heard footsteps outside the stable door, and Lewis, who was cleaning the stall next to William, lifted his head.

“Ho, there!”

Using the pitchfork as a cane, Lewis stepped to the half door and peered out. “It’s George. Appears the last of the Creighton animals are here.”

William and Lewis walked out to the courtyard.

“Where would you like them?” George called. Charlie and George had already been by once to deliver a cow and a horse, and they were back again with more Rosemere animals.

Lewis chuckled and swept his arm in the direction of the open door. “As you can see, we have more than a few empty stalls. Take your pick.”

The old man slid from the horse’s back. “Miss Creighton wishes me to thank you for opening your stable.”

William waved his hand in dismissal. “Think nothing of it.”

Behind George, a boy was riding a plump pony.

Charlie and Violet.

William resisted the urge to pepper the boy with questions about the start of the fire—what he saw, what he might have heard. But there would be time for that, and the expression on the boy’s face suggested he was tired and overwhelmed. Frightened, even. Instead, William said, “It was good of you to ride out to tell us of the fire, young man.”

A grin spread across the boy’s freckled face, and with a jerk of his head he flipped his hair from his eyes. “Just doin’ what Mr. George tells me to do.”

George headed into the stable with the horse, then turned and waved a finger toward the pony. “Bring ’er over here, boy.”

Charlie nodded and led the compliant, pudgy pony into a stall.

William watched the boy stroke the pony’s back and pull a carrot stump from the pocket of his coarse linen coat. He stroked the pony’s muzzle, then closed the stall door and left the stable.

“Where’s he going?” William asked.

But before George could respond, the boy appeared, leading a goat.

“Ah, Delilah.” William snorted. “I forgot she would be joining us. Hey, Lewis, do you recall when last there was a goat at Eastmore?”

Lewis shook his head and leaned on the pitchfork, his lips twitching in amusement. “No, sir, can’t say I do.”

Once inside the stable, the goat planted her hooves on the dirt floor and refused to move. She bleated and jerked her head backward, nearly pulling the lead rope from Charlie’s hand.

The boy yanked back and eventually claimed victory. He led the animal to a smaller pen and closed the door.

Amused, William leaned back on the stall door.

“The little ones are fond of that goat,” George said, pointing his thumb in the animal’s direction. “Charlie here is no different.” He waited until Charlie untied the animal and walked out of the stall, carefully again closing the stall door. “You’ll probably have a handful of visitors coming by to visit the goat, if I know them students.”

William cocked an eyebrow. Children? At Eastmore? There hadn’t been children on the grounds since he had himself been a child. Even his own niece, Graham’s daughter, Lucy, had been to visit only once or twice.

George adjusted his hat. “’Course, it’ll be hard on Charlie to go back home and be away from the horses . . . Tends to ’em day ’n night, he does, ’specially since that groom of ours left.”

Lewis hooked his arms over the stall wall. “Yes, we heard Temdon left a few months back. Heard he took a post over at Ambledale Court, if I’m not mistaken.”

George shook his gray head. “Yes, sir. Left like a thief in the middle of the night, he did.” He clicked his tongue and ruffled Charlie’s hair. “But we manage all right, don’t we, lad? This one here’s got the makin’s of a fine horseman.”

The boy grinned at the compliment.

William leaned with his elbow on a fence and nodded toward the stable. “You might be interested in the fact that we have three in foal, one of them due in a couple of weeks.”

Interest flashed in the boy’s eyes, but it was George who kept them on task. “Just so we are clear, we’ll be earning these horses’ keep. Charlie’ll be by to tend to our animals. No need for Mr. Lewis to do it. Charlie’s fast too. If you have any tasks for him, I am sure he would oblige.”

Lewis pushed himself away from the stall wall. “He needn’t come back and forth every day, ’specially with no place to board a mount at Rosemere. There are quarters in the back of the stable. I sleep in one, Charlie is welcome to the other.”

The boy looked up at George, as if looking for permission. George simply nodded.

“It’s settled, then,” William said. “Welcome to Eastmore Hall, Charlie.”

It was snowing again.

That was fine with Patience, for the sullen gray sky and nipping wind suited her mood.

Oh, how her soul longed for warm, carefree days with azure skies and puffy clouds, with purple heather dotting the moors and the lure of the nightingale’s song whispering through the tall grasses.

But those days seemed so long ago . . . so far away.

Her half boot sank in the mud. She muttered under her breath and held out her hand for balance. This winter had been one of the darkest, coldest, snowiest winters she could recall. And the thickening clouds confirmed that they were not done with it yet, even though spring should be appearing any day.

But at least here on the broad expanse of the moors, despite the falling snow, the air felt fresh. She could breathe without effort. It was the evening snow that obscured her vision, not a threatening curtain of smoke.

She quickened her pace, determined to visit Charlie at Eastmore by nightfall. As a child she had always been a little frightened of Eastmore Hall, with its stone embattlements, formidable gates, and the fortress of trees reaching their black limbs toward the heavens. She rarely had cause to visit, but occasionally her father would take her to call on old Mr. Sterling. And when Mrs. Sterling had been alive, she had permitted Rosemere’s students to visit her garden to study the flowers and vegetation.

But that had been many years ago. After she crested Wainslow Peak and headed down toward the gothic house, she found the structure slightly intimidating, but not frightening. If anything, the unkempt ivy clinging to the facade gave it a dejected appearance, and the overgrown shrubbery made it look lost. Forgotten. Forlorn.

Patience walked past the main house toward the massive stable. The half door was open, and yellow light spilled out on the snow marred with boot and hoofprints. Welcome warmth radiated from the structure’s confines, and the earthy smell of hay mixed with the undeniable scent of horses seemed to beckon her to draw nearer. Winking lanterns hung from iron hooks down a long, wide corridor, illuminating two rows of wooden stalls. Horses’ ears pricked at her arrival, and she heard voices. She stepped inside, let her cloak’s hood fall to her shoulders, and tapped her gloved knuckles against a wooden beam. “Is anyone here?”

A heavy wooden door creaked open, and as her eyes adjusted to the light behind him, she recognized the man as the one who had accompanied Mr. Sterling to the fire. He wiped his hands on his pants and smoothed his wool coat. “Can I help you, Miss Creighton?”

“Yes, thank you. I am looking for—”

She did not need to finish her sentence, for young Charlie came rushing from the room with the enthusiasm of youth. “Miss Creighton!”

After the days of injury and soot, disappointment and cold, Charlie’s freckled cheeks warmed her heart, and his happy smile made the cold walk worthwhile. She hurried to him and pulled him close, pressing a kiss atop his sandy head. “Charlie! How I have missed your smiling face. How are you finding things at Eastmore Hall?”

Boundless energy radiated from the boy. “Just fine, Miss Creighton. And look! I will show you. I have taken good care of the horses, like Mr. George told me to do.”

He tucked his hand in hers and led her to a section of stalls where the two Creighton horses stood. King and Queen. Patience smiled and rubbed her hand across the elderly mare’s velvet muzzle.

“And see, I’ve taken care of Delilah too.”

Patience turned and peeked over the stone stable wall down into a straw-padded stall. In the middle of it stood Delilah, who raised her head at the commotion and bleated.

Patience regarded the animal with reserved familiarity. “There you are, you cheeky animal.” The goat bleated. “You caused quite a commotion.”

The goat bleated again.

Charlie motioned for Patience to come closer. “Is Emma all right?”

Patience could not help but smile at his concern. “She will be. You are kind to ask.”

He shifted nervously, his eyes darting from the goat to the horses. “Will you tell her that I will take good care of Delilah for her? Do you promise?”

“Of course I will.” Patience hesitated, trying to decode the
emotion playing on the boy’s stoic expression. She remembered the basket on her arm and held it out to him. “Look, I brought you something.”

Brightness returned to Charlie’s eyes, and he peered meekly at the basket.

Patience bit her lip and leaned forward as if to whisper a secret. “Do you want to see what it is?” She led him to a stool and sat down, balancing the long basket on her lap. She pulled back the cloth and revealed jam tarts and rolls and a jar of honey. “Mary and the girls packed it for you. They were worried that you would go hungry.”