The Headmistress of Rosemere (29 page)

William forced his breathing to slow. Beads of perspiration lined his brow and dampened his shirt.

The vicar’s voice was calm. “And that brings me to the brooch.”

The brooch
. William had almost forgotten about it.

“When the child entered our care, Mrs. Hammond and I placed the child at Rosemere, which is why you found Isabelle’s things there.”

“You mean to tell me that my child has been living on my own property for all these years?”

The vicar nodded.

William pressed a hand to his forehead and whispered, “Which girl?”

“Emma Simmons.”

The girl’s face flashed in his mind. Of course. He saw it clearly. Isabelle’s olive complexion and mahogany hair. His own clear light-blue eyes with the Sterling black lashes. Anger flared afresh. “Why would you allow that poor child to think she had no one, that she was an orphan? That is cruel!”

At this, the vicar did not respond.

William leaned forward, his hands on the back of the chair, and willed his breathing to slow, the volume of his voice to lower. “Who else knows of this?”

“My wife.”

William rolled his eyes. Suddenly Mrs. Hammond’s cool behavior was almost understandable. “Who else?”

“Mr. Creighton, before he died, knew of the circumstance.”

It was not Mr. Creighton who concerned William. “Does Miss Creighton know?”

“No. But I feel strongly that she should. After the fire, she had questions about Emma’s family, but because of my promise, I could not provide answers.” He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. “But she deserves to know, as does little Emma. I hope you will do the right thing.”

25

I
’
m a father.

William stepped out of the vicarage, out from the Hammonds’ home. Snow swirled around him.

A father
.

The reality muddled his mind. He’d been a father for years, and he never knew.

In a fog, William mounted Angus and circled the horse around.

His daughter had been living less than a mile from his estate.

William didn’t know if he was angry.

Or happy.

Or scared.

He’d raced Angus on the way over here, eager for answers. But now that he had every answer to every question, he wasn’t sure what to make of them.

Isabelle. She’d betrayed him and rejected him. And then kept the greatest secret from him and took it with her to her grave. Why on her deathbed did she insist that he not be told? Was it embarrassment, as the vicar had said? Or something else?

Would knowing he had a daughter have changed the manner in which he had lived his life these last eight years? Apparently Isabelle had thought it would not have made a difference, and better for her to think that than accept William as the father.

He could not doubt his paternity. He knew the past; he knew full well his actions. And there was no mistaking the blue eyes and black lashes that had long marked the Sterlings. The deep dimple in the child’s cheek was so like his mother’s.

He urged Angus into a faster gait. The snow had turned to sleet that, driven by the wind, stung his eyes. The cold forced its way through the fabric of his caped coat, pricking his skin and chilling him to the core. He stopped at the top of Wainslow Peak and looked down toward the school. In the past few weeks, this school, this small school, had turned his life upside down. And his daughter was inside and had been for years.

Twilight was falling, and yellow candlelight winked from Rosemere’s windows. Every breath he took burned in the chill air. He had two choices. Accept the child as his own or turn his back on her and continue the secret.

He realized he could ignore the news he had received—allow life to continue on as it had for Emma. She seemed content enough in Miss Creighton’s care. But now that he knew the truth, could he doom her to a life alone, with no family? An orphan?

And what about his life?

How could he take on the responsibility of a child when he could not even manage his own affairs? He thought of Rafertee. The debt. The beating. Maybe even the fire at the Rosemere stable. How could he put a child at risk? And not just any child. This was his child.
His Emma
.

He turned the horse to the east, ready to head home to Eastmore Hall. A prize by any account. But increasingly, it had become a noose, growing tighter and more cumbersome by the day.
The tally of his folly, his gambling, had grown too large, too dangerous. He’d been fighting to save Eastmore Hall and the land, at times asking himself,
For what?
He now had a reason to fight. A purpose. His daughter. This was for her. An atonement for her lonely life up until this point.

He circled his confused mount, trying to determine the best course of action. He could not go to Rosemere. He was not yet ready to tell Miss Creighton and reveal his identity to his daughter. Instead, he needed to think.

Jumbled thoughts, a torrent of disorganized priorities, bombarded him. He should formulate a plan. But he’d never been good at such things. He just acted on impulse.

One thought came into focus—being worthy.

Worthy of his family’s legacy.

Worthy of his daughter’s esteem.

And another thought seemed to align itself with every other rational thought in his mind . . . worthy of Miss Creighton.

26

W
illiam was exhausted. His heart’s pace had not stilled, his mind had not yet calmed. When Eastmore Hall came into view, he was surprised to see light spilling from the windows. It had been months since Eastmore Hall’s windows had shone so. Something was not right.

With a swift kick to his horse’s belly, he maneuvered down the narrow path and through the arched stone gate.

Lewis, as if waiting for him, stood under the portico and reached out to take Angus’s bridle.

William dismounted. “What’s going on here?”

“Riley and other men. They were working out at the site for the new mill when the snow began. Came back here to wait it out.”

William stepped under the portico and wiped the sleet from his face. “Made themselves at home, did they?”

A twinge of self-conscious embarrassment surged through him. How many of them would see the state of Eastmore? With its sheeted furniture? Its cold rooms?

He rubbed his chin. Surely they would figure out his secret. And he was almost relieved.

William stepped into his own house. The grand foyer had been lit, and light and masculine chatter spilled out through the library’s paneled doors.

The butler looked at him apologetically. “Welcome home, Mr. Sterling. These men seemed determined to wait out the weather here. I did not think you would wish me to turn them away.”

“You are right, Cecil. Thank you for handling them.”

Cecil took William’s outside things. “I served them the last of the port. I hope I was not presumptuous.”

“No, of course not. How long have they been here?”

“About two hours.”

William shook the moisture from his hair, his clothing, and, with a deep breath, stepped into the library. His instincts were tingling.

Five men, each with a drink in his hand. Their loud laughter and disheveled appearance suggested they had been indulging far longer than the two hours the butler had suggested, or else they had been at it before they arrived.

It was Riley who first noticed William.

“Sterling! There you are! Where in blazes have you been? Been waiting for hours.”

William stiffened as Riley slung his arm around his shoulder, heavy with the weight of uncontrolled movement. William scanned the room. He recognized Carlton, but the other men he’d not seen before. Yet they were in his house. And were they involved in his business venture?

He nodded in their direction. “Who are your friends?”

“This here’s Cyrus Temdon. And this is Henry Groves and last is Charles Benson. All these fine men are going to help us with the mill as soon as the land softens a bit.”

William eyed the men, who had been playing cards, his
annoyance growing by the moment. The men appeared sloppy. Foxed. Is this what Riley had meant by “taking care of the details”?

“Will, you need something to drink. Somebody get this man something to drink.” He held up his glass, entertained by his own notion, and then pointed his finger toward one of the men.

“Thank you, no.”

Riley’s eyes opened wide and he tucked his chin down, as if unable to believe what he had just heard. “Sterling? William Sterling? Turn down a bit o’ brandy?”

Riley leaned in closer, nearly tipping over until William shifted, allowing his partner to get his footing. “Listen, these blokes are good sorts, just fancy a pint or two. They’ll be right in the morning, and then you’ll see.”

William grunted. “Look a little sorry to me.”

“Best not let them hear you talk like that. Tend to be sensitive, that lot.” Riley waved a pointed finger in the air. “Listen, I been meaning to discuss a matter with you.”

William almost dreaded hearing the words. There was always something Riley wanted to discuss. “What?”

“The land that we are building on is top-notch. Top-notch, indeed. If only we had more room.”

William frowned and folded his arms across his chest, unable to pry his eyes from the raucous game of cards and unwilling to have the same conversation they’d had on the moors. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, you know my thoughts on the Thaughley River. But what if we also had an outlet to the main road in town?”

William’s response was curt. “Don’t see how you can have it both ways. Besides, we’ve talked about this, Riley. Latham Hill is the only land I am willing to invest.”

“Whoa, no reason to be so testy. Just making conversation.” An easy laugh slipped from Riley.

Everything amused Riley when he had a drink or two. Everything was a joke. But William was hardly in the mood for such folly. His body ached from the ride, and his head pounded with the recent news. Normally a drink and company would soothe anything, but he was past those days. He just wanted answers.

Riley sauntered to the gaming table, and William sat like a stranger in his own home. Activity swirled about him, infusing the house with life and gaiety. Had he not in recent weeks been lamenting the lack of companionship? Mourning the days of parties and gatherings, weekend house parties and extravagant festivities? With these men in his house, the noise pummeled his ears. Their gritty laughter made the pounding in his head worse. Perhaps he’d grown used to the quiet and lonely evenings, but he knew there was more to his discomfort than that.

His thoughts were no longer on finding pleasure in the moment, in finding splinters of raucous distraction to divert his mind from the matters weighing on his soul. Call it maturity or perhaps even responsibility. He was no longer that same person.

He was a father.

While the merrymaking raged on, William racked his memory, trying to remember the details of the child. He tried to recall the happy, bright-eyed child he saw on his first visit to Rosemere, but instead his memory held tight to the recollection of what she had felt like limp in his arms. His heart thudded against his rib cage even though he sat perfectly still.

He wanted to see her. Wanted to know she was safe. Wanted to protect her. But his library was full of living, breathing memories of the past he needed to face and confront before he could be the type of father he wanted—no, needed—to be.

“Join us, Sterling.”

William waved Riley off.

“Not like you to turn down a game of chance, now is it?”

“Been a long day.” That really was not a lie.

“More like you have someone else on your mind.”

William bit on the leading question. “Oh yeah? And who is that?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time over at Rosemere, or am I mistaken? That sister of Creighton’s is pretty. Is that the reason you are not interested in selling the land? Eh?” Riley took a long swig of brandy, then turned back to William and pointed a wobbly finger in his direction. “Ah, and I say that is a capital idea. Just what you need.”

William studied his neighbor. Even though drink softened Riley’s edge, experience had taught William that it also unearthed another side of Riley. Drink had the tendency to loosen Riley’s tongue. Opinions flowed freely. Accusations and condemnation emerged with equal ease.

“You are mistaken. My only interest is in my horses.”

Riley snorted a sarcastic chuckle and rolled his head to the side to face William, his dark eyes red. “Yes, yes, I know all about your horses. But you cannot keep secrets from an old friend.”

Old friend, indeed
. William shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe I will have a drink.” He ignored the sly smile on Riley’s face and helped himself to a glass.

“That’s what I like to hear. So tell me. Miss Creighton, is it?”

William did not like the sound of her name on Riley’s lips. She was pure. Good. And increasingly, Riley seemed to become a representation of things that were evil.