The Headmistress of Rosemere (28 page)

Patience tried to think of something to say. The weather. Or the morning’s sermon. But the sight of him in such close proximity transported her to another time.

“I hope I do not overstep my welcome with what I am about to say, but I wanted to find a moment to speak with you. Privately.”

She swallowed. “Privately?” She didn’t like the idea. For the last time they had spoken privately, he had grabbed her about the waist and held her in an uncomfortable embrace. But the O’Connell who sat before her was no longer the awkward youth, but a man.

“Yes, in light of our . . . uh . . . past, I wanted to make sure you were comfortable with my presence at Rosemere.”

The natural tone of her voice impressed even her. “Of course.”

He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against the chair, as calm and as relaxed as if they were discussing the previous night’s dinner. “It was childish of me to leave in the manner I did, all those years ago. I never thought I would return to Rosemere, but after returning and seeing you, I feel like I must apologize for my behavior.”

“If you feel the need to apologize, then I must add mine. I was young. And thoughtless.”

“Good. Then we can put the past behind us?”

“Indeed.” Perhaps it was the quiet of the moment or the desire to be free from bothersome worries, but she found a sudden bit of courage and decided to seize the moment. “I must ask you, Mr. O’Connell, why did you return to Rosemere?”

He studied the cuff of his coat, hesitating. “After all this time, it does feel strange to hear you call me Mr. O’Connell instead of Ewan.”

“We are no longer children,” Patience reminded him. “And times have changed. We have changed.”

“True enough. And to answer your question, I am here because Rawdon contacted me and said he needed help. The Creightons have been nothing but kind to me, and I have long regretted how I abandoned your father. He may be gone, but at least in this manner perhaps I can repay his kindness.”

He stood up and stepped toward her, his gaze unwavering. “And I hope to atone for past wrongs.”

24

W
illiam stood at the gate to the vicarage. Thomas Hammond was just beyond this point. He wiped his damp palms on his breeches and tugged at his cravat. Angus whinnied and pawed at the frozen earth, as if pushing him forward.

Even six weeks ago he would have avoided this interaction. But present circumstances demanded it. The brooch he’d been carrying around was driving him to distraction, and knowing that Miss Creighton may somehow be involved in the puzzle was making him question all he thought to be true. He’d not found a private moment to speak with her at the dinner a few days prior, and, truth be told, finding another moment alone with her was unlikely, especially now that her brother had returned and O’Connell seemed intent on being her constant shadow. He turned his attention back to the vicarage. He knew full well that this conversation could only uncover old wounds, hardly heal them. But this was part of the man he was trying to be. Responsible. Make up for past wrongs. He needed to
know
about the past.

William secured Angus and stepped through the gate. The frosty grass crunched beneath his boots. A biting wind swept down from the gable, carrying with it a gust of the freshly fallen snow. He wiped it from his eyes.

When the servant answered his knock, William walked in and handed her his things. Immediately, the vicar was present.

“Ah, so you decided to call after all. I was hoping you might after running into you at Rosemere.”

William nodded. “Might we talk?”

A smile creased the vicar’s face. “Of course. Let us go to my study. We will not be disturbed.”

William followed Hammond through the modest parlor and down a narrow hall, where he had to duck to miss the exposed beams. With every step William considered turning and running out on this conversation. For as much as his curiosity wanted to know what secrets the vicar could unearth, his pride begged otherwise.

So lost in his thoughts, he nearly jumped backward when a door to his left opened. The hall was dark—no windows lined its length—but he clearly saw Mrs. Hammond’s sharp expression of disapproval. She scurried to her husband, took him by the arm, and whispered in his ear. Caught between wanting to give them their privacy and wanting to hear what she had to say, William stopped, keeping a respectable distance. He looked down at the bare wood floor, but not before seeing the man’s gray head shake from side to side. He looked up only after he heard the soft sound of slippers retreating and a door close and a latch click.

The vicar stood for several seconds with his back toward William before turning to face him. “Please excuse my wife.”

Feeling more uncomfortable than ever, William forced his feet to move. The vicar’s study looked like one would expect. A small but cheery fire burned in the small grate on the far wall. Two square windows were carved into the thick plaster walls, and naught but
a cross and a small painting of a woman with a lace cap hung on the space between. The vicar directed him to a seat, but William preferred to stand.

William was in no mood to exchange pleasantries, and there was no need to attempt to hide the reason behind his visit. “I suppose my visit is overdue.”

The vicar took the chair behind the tiny desk, the fire’s light hitting the sleeve of his severely cut black jacket.

William cleared his throat. “I need to speak with you about Isabelle.”

“I figured as much.”

William shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And I need to find out what you know about this.” He pulled the brooch from his pocket and leaned forward to place the jewelry on the desk. It sparkled and shone in the fire’s modest light. “Have you seen it before?”

The vicar paused, picked up the piece, turned it over in his hand, and then returned it to the desk. “Yes, I know it.”

The man’s responses were slow and frustratingly short. “We did not leave this topic on good terms all those years ago. I am no longer trying to find Isabelle, but since finding this brooch at Rosemere, I do need answers. I implore you. Once and for all, please tell me what you would not tell me then so I might make peace with it.”

The older man rubbed the whiskers on his square chin. His eyes seemed to darken, and he pushed his spectacles up farther on his nose. “Sit down, Sterling.”

Optimism surged at the change in the man’s tone. Perhaps finally he would hear the answers he sought.

The vicar’s voice was low. “I regret the way things were left. But the reason we would not tell you where Isabelle had gone was for her good . . . and yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes.” The vicar stood and moved to the window, his back to William. “Do you know why Isabelle came to stay with us, Mr. Sterling?”

“She was visiting for the summer.”

“Yes, but that is not the entire truth.”

The distinct feeling that he was about to hear news he would rather not hear seized him, making him feel ill. And yet he had come too far to stop.

“Isabelle was sent to us by her mother, who is my wife’s sister. You see, Isabelle had been involved with a gentleman in Southampton, and when their indiscretion was discovered, scandal ensued. The young man refused to marry her, so her mother sent her to stay with us until the scandal passed.”

William tried to remember, but no, Isabelle had never mentioned a past love. Ever.

Hammond said, “She came to us under protest. She was angry and defiant. And then she met you. After her history, you can imagine why Mrs. Hammond and I were so concerned at your relationship. You were both such vibrant people, and with Isabelle’s troubled past, we did not want her to make the same mistake twice. Then, when you proposed, we were naturally concerned, so we sent word of the engagement to her mother. The news made it to the other gentleman, and within days Isabelle received a letter with an offer of marriage.”

William was having trouble with the sequence. “This man proposed after I did?”

The vicar nodded. “I believe Isabelle was never able to let go of the other gentleman. After receiving his letter, she made her decision. She said nothing to us, just ran away during the black of night.”

William felt almost dizzy. The news, which should have brought peace and clarity, only muddied his thoughts, stirring up emotions that time had muted. “So she did not love me as she professed.”

“Remember, she was a troubled young woman. I do not believe she knew her heart. Which is why, when you tried to find her, we would not reveal her location. At the time, Mrs. Hammond and I believed that the other gentleman was a better choice.”

Half angry, half remorseful, William could not bring himself to look at the man. His chest tightened, his lungs refused to expand, not so much from the news but from the buildup of eight years of wondering. Eight years of regret.

So it had not been him.

Isabelle had a secret past—one she never trusted him enough to tell him about.

He should feel relief. But instead a weight pushed down on him. What had happened to Isabelle in all those years? Was she happy? Did she ever think of him? He needed to know. “Where is she now?”

The vicar hesitated. “She died, Sterling.”

The words hit harder than the blows that Rafertee’s men had delivered. Heat crept up his neck, choking him. “Died? How? When?”

“She died four years ago of a fever.”

William had to remind himself to breathe. To blink. “Why, then, did you not tell me as much? Let me make peace with it. How difficult would that have been?”

The vicar remained calm. “Because there is more to tell. And it is time you know the truth.”

“Truth? What truth?” William jumped from the chair and paced the small room, growing increasingly aggravated. “Everything I thought was a truth I am learning was a lie.”

“I understand you are angry. I would be too. But perhaps when you hear what I have to say, you might understand.”

William continued to pace, his teeth clenched so tightly that his entire jaw was beginning to ache.

The vicar picked up the brooch. “After Isabelle married, we learned soon after that she was with child. The child—a baby girl—arrived five months later. You see, she had only been married five months when the baby came, and yet the baby was fully developed. Of good size and sound health. It was obvious. The child was not her husband’s.”

Beads of sweat formed on William’s brow.
Isabelle bore a daughter
.

He squinted in confusion, then slowly, as the words came together in his mind, he knew. He had been with Isabelle in the months before she left.

“Her husband quickly figured out Isabelle’s deceit and threw her and the child from his house. She took the child to her mother’s, but the scandal was great, and her mother, too, would have nothing to do with them. When the little girl was not yet four, Isabelle wrote to us. She’d fallen ill, and Mrs. Hammond and I went to visit her in the days before she died. She asked us to care for the child, to keep the child free of scandal. And on her deathbed, she named the child’s father.”

William looked up and met the older man’s eyes, his mind swimming with a certainty that he already knew what the man was going to say.

“She named you as the father.”

The news should have been a shock. And it was. But he knew it was the truth. He could not deny it. Emotions swirled within him. Isabelle bore a child.
His
child.

He was a father.

Anger took hold. It bubbled low within him and grew with every passing second. “Why was I never notified?” William shouted. At a vicar. He should stop. “You knew this and you kept it from me! What gave you the right?”

“She asked us not to tell you.” Hammond’s voice was frustratingly calm.

“And why would she do that? Did she think I would not take responsibility? Did she not know that I loved her? That I would still care for the child?”

“She was ashamed. She confessed that she knew she was with child when she left you and married another. She had been blinded by what she thought was love for another and made a selfish decision.”

“Wait.” William held up his hand to stop the man. “She knew she was carrying my child and still she married?”

“It pains me to be the one to tell you.”

William ignored the apology. “Did she think I would abandon
our
child?”

“To be fair, Sterling, the life you were living at the time Isabelle died was hardly one of a family-centered man.”

“And what qualifies you to make that decision?” William thundered.

“Nothing, other than experience. For if you had decided not to care for the child, what then? Is it fair that the child be exposed to a life of rejection when she could be happy and well cared for in a girls’ school?”

The words hit with a force that almost stopped his next breath. The vicar’s words held merit. After Isabelle left, he had spiraled quickly into a dark, lonely place. Intoxicated every day. Up all hours of the night. Asleep all day. “Perhaps I would have acted differently had I known.”

The vicar returned to his desk and sat down. He leaned forward, his voice still low and controlled. “Perhaps, but rightly or wrongly, I made a promise. And for the child’s welfare, I kept it. Forgive me if I have wronged you. But I made the decision with the information I had at the time.”