Owen squinted to see in the slanting sunlight and saw beige rough linen, as if he was looking at someone’s back.
Owen cocked the hammer on his rifle, preparing himself for what might meet him. “You are on Bancroft Park property. Show yourself.”
The person did not move.
Owen called louder. “You are trespassing.”
Drake barked and inched toward the body.
At the sound a flash of black and gray bounced. To Owen’s surprise it was not a man. A boy’s thin frame sprinted through the grasses.
Owen ran after the boy and with his long gait quickly overtook him. He grabbed the boy’s collar.
“Let go of me!” The youth jerked, squirming to free his coat from Owen’s grasp. “Let go!”
Owen held his coat firm. “Be still, boy.”
The trespasser continued thrashing. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I said be still! I’m not going to hurt you. I am just going to talk to you.”
The boy eventually stopped his flailing. Perspiration plastered his dark hair to his pale forehead, and his small chest heaved with the wild exertion. He refused to look in Owen’s direction.
Owen recognized the boy. John Winter was a student at Fellsworth School. Once a week Owen took a group of boys out in the forest to teach them about hunting and survival, and Winter had been a part of the most recent group. The goal of such outings was to help prepare the young men for life beyond Fellsworth School. Not to encourage poaching.
It was the very thing that had been Owen’s concern since he first started the program: the more he armed the boys with knowledge of fowl, fish, and animals, the more comfortable they became in the element. He was teaching them the very skills they would need to indulge in illegal activity, but he thought Langsby was teaching them enough about character to alleviate that threat.
But this boy’s actions confirmed Owen’s fear.
He nodded at the child’s hands. “What do you have in your hands there?”
John tucked his hands behind his back, hiding the contents.
Owen tightened his grip on the boy’s collar. “I’m not letting you go until you show me what you have.”
John lowered his ruddy face and moved his hand just enough to present a length of rope.
“And just what were you planning to do with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? With a rope in the forest? Perhaps you thought you would set a snare?”
The boy’s dark eyes grew wide. “No, no, I didn’t! I promise!”
“How about you and I take a walk, hmm? I think Mr. Langsby would like to know why you were in my forest instead of tending to your studies.” Owen stretched out his hand, and the boy handed over the rope.
He released the boy’s collar and gave his shoulder a nudge to get him walking. Owen kept pace next to him, just in case he decided to run.
Chapter Eighteen
What do you think of the school now that you have had a chance to explore it for yourself?” Uncle Edmund fell into step with Annabelle as they crossed Fellsworth School’s main courtyard.
Annabelle looked to the top of the bell tower as it chimed the hour. For the past two hours her uncle had taken her on a tour of the school grounds, helping her become acquainted with the space that was to become her home. “It is impressive, Uncle. Really it is.”
“I know I shared a great deal of information with you, but in time you will become better acquainted with our way of life.” Uncle Edmund adjusted his hat as he and Annabelle walked down the narrow brick lane from the brew house to the main school building. “The school, as an institution, is really quite self-sufficient. Anything we do not make or grow ourselves is brought in, and we have little need to go into the village for supplies.”
Annabelle wrinkled her nose as the unfamiliar scent of yeast and grain tickled it, and the unpleasant scent of manure and animals traveled on the morning breeze from the nearby pastures. She had been at Fellsworth for over a week now, and this was her first venture out of the superintendent’s cottage.
He’d given her a tour of the outer stables and the kitchen gardens, the chapel, the blacksmith, and the conservatory. Large structures of brick and limestone rivaled some of the buildings she saw when she and her mother had traveled north. The school even boasted a working coal yard to provide for the winter warmth and a cow house and slaughterhouse to provide enough meat to feed such a large group of people.
Her uncle’s chest swelled with affection and pride as he pointed out the cobbler shop and bake house. Annabelle’s mind swam with all she had learned and seen, and she feared she would not remember it all or perhaps lose her way.
“I cannot believe how large the grounds are.” She quickened her gait to match her uncle’s brisk pace. “Why, it is a village in and of itself!”
“That is the idea. Complete self-sufficiency. These children need to become acquainted with the ways of the world. Their parents have sent them to us to care for them, and for most children, they will not return home for years on end. ’Tis a harsh world in which we live, a cruel one, and the children must realize that they must use the tools they have and work toward the greater good.”
Annabelle stiffened at the term self-sufficiency. She had never been self-sufficient. Up until a few days ago she had not even dressed herself without the assistance of a maid. A pang of shame swept over her.
As if sensing her silent concern, her uncle added, “I do need to remind you, however, that these children may be at a boarding school, but this is not the sort of school that you or your brother would have attended. These children are not from wealthy families. Quite the opposite is true. Many of their parents have sacrificed relationships with their children for an education that will equip them for their lives ahead. The children here work hard to learn trades.
“Some of the older students work in the slaughterhouse, and others work in the bake house and brew house, and it is expected that they work to help earn their keep. Students are involved in the running of every part of the school, from tending the kitchen gardens to managing the laundry. Each child has at least one daily chore, and it is our job to see that they appreciate the value of a job well done. Our students leave here ready to go into service or an apprenticeship, and we do not want them overwhelmed and bewildered when they do.”
Annabelle thought of her own education—of Latin and French, painting, dance, harp, and singing. A single governess had dedicated years solely to Annabelle and had been charged with the task of preparing her to enter genteel society and make an advantageous match.
And where had that gotten her?
She knew nothing of the skills her uncle described, and thinking about the tasks ahead unnerved her.
“The girls’ school and the boys’ school are about equal in size, 150 students in each, but the two schools never interact, except for chapel on Sundays.”
He pivoted to face the school’s main entrance. “The main building there houses the library, my study, and other shared rooms. Then off the main hall to the left are the boys’ school and dormitories and to the right the girls’ classrooms and dormitories. That is where you will, understandably, spend most of your time.”
Despite her trepidation, a little thrill surged through Annabelle. She’d been mourning for so long that the idea of a new purpose appealed to her.
Her uncle was about to show her the library when he stopped and looked down the path. Annabelle pivoted to see what he was staring at.
Mr. Locke was walking down the school’s main drive.
He was a welcome sight—a familiar face after spending several days in relative isolation. He did not smile as he approached; instead, his expression seemed almost sullen. But despite that, he truly was a handsome man—handsome in a way to which she was unaccustomed. In London the men she encountered were polished and pristine, but Mr. Locke possessed a rugged air.
His hair was wild and unkempt, even from below his wide-brimmed felt
hat, so unlike the fashionable style many young men wore. It was blown by the wind and curled according to its own will. A coat of rough brown linen highlighted the broadness of his shoulders, and tan buckskin breeches tucked into tall riding boots bore testament to his profession.
He was on foot and led his horse with one hand, and the other hand he had firmly on a boy’s shoulder. Drake trotted alongside him, his tail wagging with each step.
It was impossible for her to guess the boy’s age. Ten? Eleven? Despite the afternoon’s heat, the boy’s round face was pale, and his dark eyes were wide. He was dressed in the school uniform of gray trousers and a black coat, but he wore no hat, and his ebony hair clung in damp clumps to his face. His small chest rose and fell with each breath. Apprehension twisted his young face.
Annabelle frowned in pity. Her uncle’s disposition changed as well. His steps slowed, and his demeanor tightened to one much more intimidating.
Mr. Locke gave a slight bow. “Miss Thorley. Mr. Langsby.”
“Mr. Locke.” Her uncle’s voice was low and dauntingly soft. He crossed his arms over his chest and focused his attention on the boy. “Mr. Winter. Should you not be about your studies?”
The boy shifted but remained silent.
“I encountered Mr. Winter in Bancroft Park’s east meadow.” Mr. Locke extended a small ball of rope. “He was in possession of this.”
Her uncle took the bundle and tapped it against his hand. Annabelle was not sure what was going on, nor what the significance of the rope was, but based on the men’s sober expressions and the look of fear in the boy’s eyes, the situation was a serious one.
Her uncle stepped closer to the boy. “I am sure you have a good explanation as to why you were on Bancroft Park property.”
The boy gulped and looked to the ground. “I haven’t, sir.”
“I see.” Langsby pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “You would not have been using this rope for any sort of hunting now, would you?”
The boy did not look up.
“Mr. Locke, I am in your debt. Thank you for bringing him to me and leaving the magistrate out of it.”
Mr. Locke nodded. “I know you will take care of the situation.”
“This matter will be dealt with swiftly and appropriately, I can assure you. And it will not happen again.” Her uncle stepped back to allow the boy room to walk around the horse. “I am sorry to have burdened you. I am sure you had much more important things to do with your time than to escort Mr. Winter home.”
“Don’t give it another thought. It is important that Mr. Winter here knows that there are very serious penalties for trespassing, and if he had intended to use that rope in an act of poaching, the consequences would be very dire. He would be wise to steer clear of Bancroft Park property completely.”
Owen watched uncomfortably as a tear escaped the boy’s eye and plopped down his freckled cheek.
He felt bad the boy was frightened, but it was much better for him to face Mr. Langsby than the magistrate, especially on the significant charge of poaching.
Langsby clamped his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I think it is time we go have a talk with the headmaster, don’t you?”
The boy did not respond but kept his head lowered.
Owen glanced up to assess Miss Thorley’s take on the situation. Her usually full lips were pressed into a narrow line. A straw bonnet covered her hair, but even with the brim’s shadow he noticed that the bruising on her cheek was fading. She looked relaxed. Rested. Pretty.
The sight of her reminded him that he’d been carrying the news about Mr. McAlister’s murder for days, but he had not had the opportunity to inform her of the happenings of a guest in her home.
As Langsby turned to guide the boy down the path, Owen spoke. “I have some news for Miss Thorley from London. Might I detain her for a moment?”
Miss Thorley lifted her head at the mention of London, and Langsby looked to his niece. “Of course she may remain if she wishes. This situation may take a while to deal with. Annabelle, would you be so kind as to tell your aunt I might be late returning for the evening meal?”
She nodded. “Of course, Uncle.”
“Good.” Langsby turned back to the boy. “Come with me, lad.”
When Langsby was out of earshot, Owen adjusted the horse’s reins in his hand and gave Drake the command to sit at his feet. “I hope you do not mind my asking to speak with you.”
“Not at all, Mr. Locke.” She smiled, and at the sweetness of it, he felt his shoulders relax. “It is pleasant to see a familiar face after so many days in the cottage.”
He was not gifted at making polite conversation. He did not want to blurt out the uncomfortable news, and her presence made his mind feel sluggish. “How are you getting along here at Fellsworth?”
“Very well.” She stilled her bonnet’s silky pink ribbon as a breeze swept in from the north. “My aunt and uncle have been kind and attentive.”
“I’m not surprised. Your injury appears to be much improved.”
“Oh.” She gave a little laugh and touched her cheek. “It is healing well, thank you.”
“Now that you are here, do you plan to remain in Fellsworth?”
She nodded and raised her eyebrows. “Indeed. My uncle has been kind enough to allow me to stay on as a teacher.”
“A teacher!” His effort to hide his surprise failed.
“Well, a junior teacher to be more exact.” Her voice trembled slightly, and she fidgeted with her sleeve. “Starting this night I will take up residence in the ladies’ apartments.”
How would a woman used to the luxuries of London fare in a simple attic chamber? “I imagine that’ll be quite a change for you.”
“It is. But I can hardly complain. At least here I am safe. And free.”
He wanted to ask her more details, but propriety prevented it. “And Miss Crosley? Has she returned to London?”
“Actually, she will be remaining in Fellsworth for the time being as well. Obviously I no longer require a lady’s maid, but my aunt saw fit to offer her employment in the kitchen. I have not spoken with her, but Crosley, that is, Miss Crosley, is one of the most adaptable people I know.”
Her face darkened, and she turned back to watch her uncle and the boy, who were still walking across the expansive lawn to the school. “The child seems terribly frightened.”
Owen adjusted his coat’s collar and tugged his neckcloth. “He’s in a great deal of trouble, I’m afraid.”
She frowned. “That doesn’t seem right. Are you sure he was trespassing and did not lose his way? He looked surprisingly upset for such a small offense.”
“If I suspected that the boy had only become lost, I would’ve sent him on his way without another thought. The truth is, I suspect he was involved in—or at least contemplating—poaching.”
“But why would you suspect that? I don’t think he would have need for food. And he is just a boy.”
“No, he wouldn’t be hungry while a student at Fellsworth. More likely he would be doing it to sell the game.”
She shook her head. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“It happens quite often. Seasoned poachers know the risks of hunting on a private estate. They could hang for such an offense. It is not unusual for them to pay boys like Mr. Winter to poach for them.”
“That is terrible!”
“I’ve no doubt that Mr. Winter knows it is wrong, but I suspect someone has promised him a fortune, or at least some sort of reward that makes it worth the risk. If the boy is caught, the man who was paying him gets off free while the boy suffers the consequences.”
She watched her uncle and the boy disappear into the boys’ wing. “What would happen to him if you went to the magistrate?”
“It would depend mostly on whether or not Mr. Treadwell chose to push the matter. I’ve had the sad experience of seeing a boy his age hang for being caught in the act of killing an animal. It hasn’t happened on land that I have be
en responsible for, but it does happen.”
Miss Thorley lowered her gaze.
“Fortunately, Mr. Winter has your uncle, the boys’ headmaster, and the rest of the staff here at the school. They’ll set him right and place him on a more productive path.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Will you inform Mr. Treadwell of this incident?”
“It’s my duty to inform him of everything that happens on his property. But don’t worry. If it turns out that someone was paying the boy to poach on his behalf, I will find out.”
Owen shifted. As much as he would like to stay and talk with Miss Thorley about anything, the news of the McAlister murder weighed on him. Really, it was not his place to get involved, and yet, he felt a strange sense of obligation to her.
He cleared his throat and checked to make sure no one was within earshot. “As you know, I returned to London after leaving you with your aunt and uncle.”
“Yes. Of course.” She fretted with the hem of her lacy shawl. “Now that I am here, London seems like it might as well be a million miles away.”
He adjusted the horse’s reins in his hands, uncertain of how best to proceed. “When I was there I had an interesting conversation with the driver at Wilhurst House. Are you acquainted with Mr. McAlister?”
Her gaze did not waver. “Yes, I know him.”
“Did you know him well?”
A flush rushed to her cheeks, and she brushed her hair from her face. “I have been acquainted with Mr. McAlister for several years. He was a friend of Thomas’s. But no, I did not know him well.”
The name had some effect on her. But what was it? Sadness? Melancholy? “Do you remember hearing a gunshot the night you decided to leave?”
Her eyes narrowed, as if she were cautious to speak on the topic. “I do.”
“Apparently your butler made a full investigation of the property and found nothing amiss, but the next morning Mr. McAlister was found dead in a nearby alley. He had been shot in the stomach.”
The color drained from her face. “Shot? As in . . . ?”
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 12