Wilhurst House’s driver’s words of the murder stood fresh in Owen’s mind. Surely the timing of Miss Thorley’s departure and the murder was mere coincidence. Miss Crosley also had left at that time. He knew even less about her. But regardless, he had made the decision to help them both, and he needed to be willing to accept any consequences.
“You would have done the same thing. Trust me on that.”
Whitten laughed. “Probably not. But I have heard that the lady in question is quite a beauty. My Martha delivered hares to the school just the other day and met her when she called on Mrs. Langsby at the cottage. Said the newcomer was the loveliest person she ever did see, and you know that is high praise from my wife.”
Owen could not deny the truth in Mrs. Whitten’s words. He had thought of Miss Thorley several times since leaving her in Langsby’s care. Something lurking in her hazel eyes had intrigued him, and mystery swirled around her—a mystery he would like to solve.
Whitten kicked another stick from his path. “She also said you were a fool for taking her to the Langsbys’ instead of persuading her to become mistress of Bancroft’s gamekeeper cottage.”
It was one thing to comment on her beauty, but another thing entirely to suggest a commitment. “If you are referring to matrimony, you know I have no interest in marrying again. Miss Thorley needed assistance, that is all.”
Whitten threw his head back in laughter so raucous that the swallows fled the canopy of leaves above them. “When it comes to pretty women, a man is always thinking matrimony. Gamekeeping is a lonely endeavor, Locke. It would do you good, if you ask me. Doesn’t do for a man to spend all of his time in the woods and none with a lady.”
Owen adjusted his satchel. “You know my history and the history of this place. It isn’t fair to ask a woman to take on those ghosts.”
Whitten’s tone sobered. “But enough time has passed. It is time you thought of your own future again. I tell you this as a friend.”
The corner of the stone cottage’s thatched roof came into view, and a dog’s barking pierced through the cacophony of the wind through the leaves and the birdcalls. The chimney’s familiar scent of smoke welcomed Owen home and puffed gray-and-white vapors into the sky.
It had been his father’s home before him. Even though Owen was born in the gamekeeper’s lodge in Kirtley Meadow, he spent his early life in this ancient structure surrounded by his mother and sister. His family had never known want, but his mother emphasized faith over fortune, and his father preached that a man’s wealth was pride in a job well done and not the number of his possessions. It was the place where he sat with his father and learned to clean his firearm, train dogs, and trap hares. His mother and father were dead now, and his sister lived several counties away, but he did not live alone.
His housekeeper, Mrs. Pike, had been his wife’s maid before they were married, and after his wife’s death, she stayed on. Years passed, and what started out as a temporary arrangement became permanent.
Mrs. Pike was in the front garden, working in the house’s shadow. As usual, her unruly, graying hair hung in a single braid down her back. Long strands of silver had pulled free from the tether and wisped about her face and shoulders, and it was this wildness and her odd, unconventional ways that contributed to the chatter that had swirled about her the day she first set foot in Fellsworth.
“Mrs. Pike,” Owen called out.
She straightened from her gardening, brushed the leaves from her soiled apron, and propped her fist on her thin waist. “There now. You’re home.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t ousted the woman from your house yet,” Whitten muttered from the side of his mouth as they approached.
“She’s harmless.”
“Harmless or not, that woman is as odd as they come.” Whitten eyed her.
“She may view the world differently than most, but she helped me with Hannah when I had no idea what to do. I’m in her debt.” Owen chuckled as they stepped into the courtyard. “Besides, if it weren’t for her, who knows when I’d get a decent meal.”
Bancroft Park was ripe with rumors, and after his wife’s death, he was the subject of every wagging tongue, especially given the tragic and odd events leading up to it. Mrs. Pike was accused of aiding the murderer, of sorcery, and of every other manner of foul play. People expected him to throw her from the land, but he never believed the chatter. Mrs. Pike was opinionated, but she had been a loyal servant. He could not knowingly send her to the poorhouse—and sleep with a clear conscience.
Mrs. Pike gathered her work-worn skirts and stepped over her rows of herbs toward them. Trouble was written in the furrow of her brow. Owen doubted he would have to wait long to hear what it was.
“While you were gone a limb fell over my chamomile. Do you think that Mr. Whitten moved it?” She fixed narrowed eyes on Owen and waved in Whitten’s direction. “No, he would not. And what kind o’ man couldn’t be bothered to help a woman with such a task? No decent man, t’be sure.”
The wiry woman and gruff under-keeper locked gazes in a wordless battle of obstinacy. It appeared the long-standing feud between the two was as spirited as ever it had been since the day Whitten criticized Mrs. Pike’s care of the hounds well over four years prior.
Owen ignored her grumbling and tied his horse to a tree trunk. “Where’s this limb?”
She jerked her finger toward a small herb garden boasting mounds of small white and yellow flowers. Across it lay a branch about the size of a man’s leg. Not heavy, but likely too cumbersome for the older woman.
Owen looked to Whitten, doing little to hide his annoyance. “You wouldn’t move that?”
Whitten sniffed and ran his thumb over his whiskered chin and glared in Mrs. Pike’s direction. “I don’t take kindly to orders. Ask a body to do something, not order him about as if you was a duchess.”
Owen reached over, lifted the limb with one hand, and sent it soaring toward the woodpile.
Mrs. Pike’s eyebrows rose. “There now, Mr. Whitten, see what a good man can do when he sets ’is mind to it? ’Tis not that difficult to act the gentleman.”
“Bah.” Whitten grimaced and turned back to Owen. “Give a shout when you want to go to the path by Foster’s Pond. Until then, I’ve got real work to do.”
Mrs. Pike crossed her thin arms across her chest and lifted her chin in triumph as she watched the old under-keeper stomp through the underbrush toward the main road. “Never met ’is like, that sour old goat. Serves ’im right, after what I heard of ’im.”
Owen brushed the debris from his hands. He could always count on Mrs. Pike to relay the latest gossip. “And what did you hear of him?”
“Not fitting for a lady to say.” She sniffed. “But the next time he comes around, lookin’ for some rosemary for his toothache, he can keep walkin’. I’ll not be sharing any o’ my rosemary with the likes o’ ’im.”
Owen ran his hand down his face. “Well, if you won’t tell me what he’s done, I’ll be off to see to my evening rounds.”
“Will ye be back for dinner, then? I’ll not keep the stew on all day. Makes the meat shrivel up to next to nothin’ and the potatoes as dry as I don’t know what. I’ll not spend all day on fare just to have ye waste it.”
Owen rolled his eyes and returned to his horse. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“See that you are, else it’s to be bread and cheese for your supper.” She picked up the rake and returned to her duties.
Owen whistled for Drake. “Good day to you, then, Mrs. Pike.”
The early afternoon sun slanted across Fellsworth School’s meticulously manicured lawn. Annabelle lowered her paintbrush and drew in the lush scent of summer roses and sweet honeysuckle. Would her amazement over such beauty and vibrancy ever cease?
Crosley was already settled at the school and working in its kitchen, but for the past several days, Annabelle had spent her mornings and afternoons painting in her aunt and uncle’s private garden amid the entrancin
g foxglove and fragrant lavender while the bruising on her face subsided.
No wonder her mother had always spoken so fondly of her childhood in the country. Mama had always said that one day they would leave London for good. Now Annabelle understood her desire. But even if her mother had survived the winter fever, her father would have forbidden such a venture.
She shrugged the sobering thought from her mind. Annabelle was tired of feeling sad, fretting about the future, and mourning the past. She had resigned herself to her new role, and now that her strength was returning, so was her determination.
So now she sat in the lush space, paintbrush in hand, small canvas propped on the easel with the sun blanketing her shoulders with warmth.
An unfamiliar male voice broke her reverie. “Pardon me, miss. I’ve no wish to intrude.”
Annabelle glanced up from her watercolors. A stranger—a handsome one, with dark eyebrows and light eyes—stood at the gate. How long had he been there, observing her?
“I do not wish to disturb your solitude.” His friendly voice boasted confidence. “I am here to call on Mr. Langsby.”
She straightened her shoulders. “He is not here, I am afraid. He is at the school.”
A half smile quirked up one side of his mouth, then he swept his straw summer hat from his head, revealing thick light-brown hair. “Forgive me, but I do not believe we have met.”
“No, sir, we have not.” Annabelle lowered her paintbrush to her side and glanced back at the home’s back door, hoping, praying, that anyone, even the maid, would appear. This was not how her introduction to the people of Fellsworth was supposed to occur. She was to wait until after her face healed.
She waited for him to excuse himself and go back to wherever he had come from, but he continued to stand at the gate.
Speaking with a strange man, especially alone, was an unforgivable breach of the rules of etiquette. But how could she escape without extraordinary rudeness?
“Pardon my boldness, but are you Mr. Langsby’s niece?”
She could find no way to avoid such a direct question. “Yes, sir. I am.”
He stepped farther into the garden, as if they were great friends instead of strangers. “Well, how fortuitous for me to have come, then. Miss Thorley, isn’t it?”
She stiffened. “You know my name.”
“Yes, your uncle shared the news with the headmistress that you would be joining our ranks in a few days, and, well, nothing stays secret for long at Fellsworth School.”
She frowned at the familiarity with which he addressed her. “Forgive me, but how are you connected with the school?”
“Simon Bryant, at your service.” He bowed. “I teach the young men at the school. I will pay a call to his study. You know Mr. Langsby—if he is not at home, he is at the school. He is one of the most dedicated men I know.”
Annabelle used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, which after being warm and inviting, was now oppressive.
His gaze narrowed and lowered from her eyes. “What a beautiful pendant. Is that an amethyst?”
Flustered that he was so intimately studying the jewel about her neck, she grabbed the piece to cover her bare skin. “It is.”
His smile remained unchanged. Unflinching. “A very beautiful jewel for a very beautiful lady.”
He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, wait. I wanted to ask you something. With your permission, of course.”
Her stomach sank at the directness of his gaze and the confidence of his countenance. She was walking a fine line of propriety. “You may.”
“Are you any relation to Mr. Thomas Thorley? The name is an unusual one. I wondered if by chance there was a connection.”
Annabelle’s heart stuttered. She had hoped for complete anonymity. She had only been here a couple of days, and already she was losing control.
He stood there calmly, his gaze on her expectantly.
“I am.”
When she did not offer to expand, he drew closer to her. “I have known Mr. Thorley for several years now. He travels here every winter for the hunting over at Bancroft Park. The man enjoys a good hunt.” He looked at her as if he knew a secret.
Gooseflesh pebbled her arms, yet her temperature seemed to rise. Thomas could not find out where she was. He just couldn’t.
After several moments of awkward silence, his animation returned. “Well then, I’d best let you get back to your task, and the midday meal will soon be concluded, which means my classes will resume. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Thorley. I am sure I will see more of you in the coming weeks.”
She said nothing, only dipped her head in a parting curtsy. She did not take her gaze from him until he disappeared through the gate.
She rubbed her arms in an attempt to shake off the awkward interaction. She lifted her brush to the canvas, but her hand trembled so the stroke of pink paint wobbled out of line. She drew her hand back and looked to the empty space where Mr. Bryant had been.
Perhaps the visit was innocent enough. Perhaps it was not. But the sneaky suspicion that Fellsworth was not as safe as she thought it would be had taken root, and she feared that suspicion would not be easily shaken.
Chapter Seventeen
The late-afternoon sunlight cast long shadows over Foster’s Pond. Owen glanced down at the grass along the waterline. Whitten had been right: The grass was trampled and the reeds broken. The path was too broad to have been made by a deer or fox. Only an inexperienced poacher would leave such incriminating evidence.
Whitten had already returned to tend the hounds, and Owen needed to be on his way to Fellsworth to deliver game to the kitchen, but as he turned to the tree line, something shiny glimmered on the ground. He dismounted, removed his leather glove, and knelt in the flattened grass. A small length of copper wire, just the sort a poacher would use for catching carp.
Owen pursed his lips in frustration, stuffed the wire in his pocket, and stood. He had dedicated his life to this land and the living creatures on it. He refused to stand idly by while someone treated it with such disrespect.
Owen mounted once more, and his horse settled into a comfortable walk through the east meadow. Owen checked the hares tied to the back of his saddle and tightened the rope securing them. If he hurried, he could have the game to the school and see Hannah before the children retired for the night.
He surveyed the property. The feathery undergrowth brushed along his boots as they cut a path through the waving sea of grass. Drake trotted along beside them, the top of his brown head barely visible in the meadow’s thick growth.
The trilling of a group of starlings overhead captured Owen’s attention, and he glanced left to see two deer nibbling leaves at the forest line. He guided his horse away from the rabbits playing in the underbrush.
He closed his eyes and breathed the thick summer air. He loved this land. He loved the scents. The animals. The freedom of existing in nature. Being away from it for a couple of weeks had renewed his gratitude for the life he had built for himself. But still, a single thread of restlessness pulled through him. His unusual conversation with Miss Thorley had disquieted his normal contentment.
Their interactions, fleeting as they were, had awakened something in him—a desire that had not abated since he left her at her uncle’s home. Something in Miss Thorley’s actions—a fearless desperation for something new, something different—called to him.
It represented a truth that brought to light the gaping hole he’d so earnestly tried to fill with the business of everyday activities.
Ever since Diana died, loneliness lurked in his heart’s shadows. Its dulling pain had become his unwelcome companion. The endless winter nights and the repetitive summer days had reinforced the sensation. He’d been successful at suppressing it. Or so he’d thought. But now dissatisfaction churned.
He surveyed the land. Through death and trial, heartbreak and solitude, it had been his one constant. But it was not his land. And it never would be.
Owen’s thoughts turned for the hundredth time to Kirtley Meadow. The older Hannah grew, the more he wanted something substantial for her. Owning Kirtley Meadow would provide for her and secure her tie to the land that was her legacy.
The east meadow stretched nearly an acre past Foster’s Pond, and beyond that, statuesque elms and wispy ash trees rose majestically toward the serene sky. He let the reins slacken and gave his horse his head. Before long autumn would be at their doorstep, and hunting parties and fox hunts would demand his attention, but for now he could enjoy the slow pace.
He adjusted his rifle at his side and prepared to turn the horse toward the road to Fellsworth School when Drake stopped suddenly and pointed his nose toward the pond.
“We’re not hunting now, boy.” Owen adjusted the dog whistle hanging at his neck. “Let’s save it for another day.”
Normally at Owen’s voice Drake would release his lock on the animal at bay. Instead, his tail ceased wagging. His focus intensified. He pranced nervously alongside the horse. He snipped a low bark.
Owen squinted to see in the distance. “What do you see there?”
The dog’s tail wagged once more, and he turned a circle.
Owen dismounted, planted his feet on the soft ground, and adjusted his rifle. “Show me.”
The dog whirled and burst through the grass, creating a wave on the green sea. Owen gripped the horse’s reins as he followed in Drake’s direction. A rabbit, or perhaps a ferret, had caught his dog’s eye.
But as he drew closer, he saw what the dog had heard—a person hiding in the grass.
He narrowed his gaze. The dog was not tracking an animal.
Drake was tracking a person.
The hairs on Owen’s neck prickled. Rarely did poachers conduct their business during the daylight hours, but a nearby mine’s recent closing and flooding in the north fields made poachers more desperate . . . and braver.
He gripped his weapon tightly. Poachers were never unarmed—and always dangerous.
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 11