He nodded as her voice trailed off, and he gave her a moment to comprehend the gravity of his news. “He died of the injury.”
Moisture pooled in her eyes. Her lip trembled. “Is it known who is responsible?”
“They don’t know. When I left, a private man had been hired to learn what he could. I can see the news distresses you, but seeing that it was your home, I thought you should know.”
She looked to the side, toward the Fellsworth tree line, as if focusing intently on some distant object.
One of the most important skills Owen’s father had taught him was how to read people, but he did not know her well enough to be able to gauge her response. Many women he knew were prone to dramatics, but Miss Thorley seemed quite still on the matter. Her expression gave up little emotion, but the creeping red blotches on her neck and chest and the flushing of her cheeks expressed more than her words ever would.
She shook her head slowly. “I just cannot seem to comprehend this.”
“I did not mean to upset you, but I thought you needed to know.”
Her brow furrowed and she turned. “Thank you. If you hear of any developments, will you inform me?”
“Of course.”
He patted his horse’s neck. “At least you are safe here, come what may.”
She smiled as she looked to the forest. The breeze lifted a loose lock of hair and fluttered it over her face, and she lifted her delicate white hand to still the strands. She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. When she looked back at him, her usually bright eyes were framed with redness. He wished he had a handkerchief to give her.
He leaned lower. “I know you have been through an ordeal, Miss Thorley. I do not wish to overstep my bounds, but if there is something you need to talk about or any questions you might have, I hope you know that you have a friend in me, should ever you need one.”
She gave a little sniff, shook her head, and looked to the ground. “What you must think of me, Mr. Locke.”
“I think you have been in a difficult situation. And you have handled it as well as any lady could.”
Knitting her fingers together, she looked back at him, and her thin eyebrows drew together. “There was something odd that happened just the other day.”
He sobered. He had not really expected her to confide in him. He had only hoped to lay the foundation for a friendship. But the tension in her expression and the moisture in her eyes made it clear something bothered her. “What was it?”
“I was in my uncle’s garden the other afternoon, alone, and a gentleman called.”
Owen frowned. Everyone in Fellsworth knew that if you needed to speak with one of the Langsbys, they were always at the school and rarely at home, especially during the afternoon hours. He remained silent.
“He said he is a teacher at the school, a Mr. Bryant. He asked after my uncle. I told him he wasn’t home, but it was very odd. He knew my name, and then he asked me if I was related to Thomas.”
Owen’s horse nudged at him, and he shifted the animal’s muzzle away. “I know Bryant. He grew up around here and used to be Treadwell’s frequent guest at Bancroft Park, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he had met your brother on a hunting party or card game or something of the sort. But do not let it distress you. Bryant is generally harmless.”
“I suppose it was just a surprise, that’s all.”
“If he gives you any trouble at all, let me know. I’ve no problem having a conversation with him. I am here most days in one capacity or the other. I am at your service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Locke. You have already done so much for me.” She gave another little sniff. “At one time I thought I knew exactly what my future held. Now, I haven’t the slightest notion.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Thorley, none of us knows what our future holds. A fortnight ago you had no idea you would be here in Fellsworth, and I bet this morning young Mr. Winter had no idea he would be sitting in the headmaster’s study trying to justify his actions.”
She responded with a forced smile as a group of children crossed the yard, and Drake stood up and circled around Owen’s legs.
He did not want to leave Miss Thorley, but from the corner of his eye he saw a group of teachers watching them. He knew how gossip could travel, and the kindest thing he could do for her at the moment was to let her get about her business.
“I have some hares for the kitchen. I’d best deliver them before the hour grows late.” He bowed. “Good day, Miss Thorley.”
She smiled and dipped her head.
He gave the horse’s reins a tug and whistled for Drake and then headed toward the kitchen’s back entrance.
As he walked away from her, he immediately felt her absence. He cast a glance back in her direction. Her white skirt swayed with each step she took, her bonnet’s ribbons whipping in the breeze.
It had been many years since he had allowed himself to invest in a woman. Not since Diana. But seemingly out of nowhere Miss Thorley appeared, and somehow he felt responsible for not only her safety, but her happiness as well. His own contentment now seemed intertwined with hers, and he had the sensation that his journey with Miss Thorley was just beginning.
Chapter Nineteen
Every action Annabelle had taken in the last week culminated in this moment. She stepped into the small room, valise in hand, and assessed the tiny attic chamber that was to be her new home.
Twilight was falling. The final meals of the day had been served, and outside the room’s two narrow windows, brilliant hues of pinks and oranges painted the fading sky.
Ever since her discussion with her aunt and uncle, she’d known this day was coming. Her bruising, although not gone entirely, had subsided, and now it was time to move out from the protection of her uncle’s home.
Her shoulders sagged in a momentary lapse of decorum as she shifted her eyes from the rough planked floor to the row of four narrow beds separated by small chests. She groaned. She had never shared a chamber with anyone. Ever.
She closed her eyes, as if by doing so she could erase the sight of the dowdy room from her memory. She forced her mind’s eye to conjure her chamber in Wilhurst House—a room of lush, vibrant satin fabrics in shades of pinks and greens and ornate gilded wallpaper boasting a tranquil country scene. A space with warm candlelight, a crackling fire, and inviting overstuffed chairs.
She opened her eyes and exhaled. No amount of wishing, dreaming, or imagining could transport her to such a place. This was her space now. Bare. Cold. Uninviting.
She had two choices—be miserable or try to make the most of the situation.
She was not sure which bed was to be hers, so she rested her valise on the floor next to the washbasin and stepped to the open window. A cool night breeze puffed inside and danced against the thin linen curtains. She adjusted the fabric to survey her new domain. She could see the kitchen gardens and the back wall of the school stables. If she arched her neck, she could see the gray thatching of her aunt and uncle’s cottage, and beyond that lay the village of Fellsworth. A church spire jutted into the sky, and a dirt road snaked amid the brown stone buildings. A late-summer haze hung damply over the ground below.
It was so calm, so peaceful compared to the view outside her London window, where shouts and smoke floated through the thick, soot-filled air. But here the air was thin and light, and scents of earth and forest laced every breeze.
A few children scampered in the yard, playfully dancing in the twilight, and two kitchen workers labored in the garden, their heads covered with white caps. She lifted her gaze toward the cottage where she had spent the past several days, and something—or rather someone—caught her eye.
Mr. Locke was speaking with someone she did not recognize. There was no mistaking his broad shoulders or his notable height, even in the day’s fading light. A broad-brimmed hat covered his dark hair, and a light-brown coat hugged his muscular torso. In one hand he held a giant black horse’s reins, and Drake sat at his feet.
&n
bsp; Comfortable in the knowledge that she would not be caught staring from such a distance, Annabelle allowed her gaze to linger on Mr. Locke. While they were traveling together, she had failed to notice a great deal about him. But in the quiet moments over the past few days, the memory of him would sneak into her thoughts.
“What are you looking at?”
Annabelle jumped at the suddenness of the voice and whirled from the spot.
Crosley stood in the doorway, her blonde head tilted to the side. In one hand she held a candle, and her other hand was propped on the hip of her new black dress. A knowing smile played on her thin lips.
Annabelle dropped the curtain and clasped her hands behind her back. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, hmm?” Crosley smirked and with purposeful steps strode next to Annabelle and lifted the curtain’s corner. After a glance to the ground below, she let the curtain slip from her fingers. “He is handsome, is he not?”
Heat crept to Annabelle’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Crosley laughed. “Oh, I know you far too well. Why, you have been looking at Mr. Locke, am I right? Please don’t pretend you didn’t notice him, for I will not believe you.”
Annabelle’s mouth opened, and she promptly snapped it shut. Never would Crosley have dared to address her with such familiarity, at least, not in their traditional roles.
Annabelle crossed the room and picked up her valise. “I was doing nothing of the sort. Besides, you should not speak of men in such a manner. It is not decent.”
“Not decent?” Crosley huffed. “Why not?”
“It . . . it just isn’t proper.” Annabelle adjusted the valise in her arms.
“Proper? What do I care about what is proper?” Crosley’s voice rose. “We are not in London anymore.”
Annabelle looked away to hide the emotion on her face. She had not seen Crosley in several days, and she seemed like a different person entirely. Crosley had always been so disciplined. Her words had always been pristine and gentle, but now she was speaking in a manner Annabelle never would have expected.
Crosley continued. “Besides, you and I are not necessarily guided by the same philosophies. I prefer to speak my own mind and not be persuaded by someone else telling me what to say or do.”
“I am not persuaded by others,” defended Annabelle. “I should think my decision to leave London would stand in testimony to that fact.”
“Oh, do you now?” Crosley’s smirk dripped with sarcasm.
Annabelle weighed her words before she allowed them to slip from her mouth. She lowered her voice and cooled her tone. “I find you quite changed, Crosley.”
Crosley flung her arms out, like an estate master surveying his land. “Good. I am glad. For why should I not be different? I am no longer a lady’s maid in the fine house, bound by the constraints of obedience and decorum. I am a kitchen girl in a school. As long as I do my work, nobody cares if I speak my mind or not. It is not a lofty position, no, but one not limited by a mistress and it’s free of the expectations of others.”
Annabelle could not be more shocked at Crosley’s cheekiness. She brushed her hair from her face. She did not want to argue—not when Crosley was the only familiar face in a sea of the unknown. “If that is your feeling on the matter, then I am happy you are confident in your new role.”
“Oh, I am happy.” A laugh escaped. “Are you not happy? How could you not be? Isn’t this what you wanted? To be free?”
Annabelle pressed her lips together, grateful for the room’s gathering darkness. To be honest, she didn’t want any of it.
She had not wanted to be forced to make a decision to leave her home in the black of night.
She had not wanted Samuel Goodacre to break their engagement.
She did not want to have to rely on an uncle she did not know to make provisions for her.
When Annabelle did not answer, Crosley’s face fell. “Perhaps this—all of this—is for the best. After all, I have been acquainted with you for years. When was the last time you were truly happy?”
The question flamed the spark of frustration burning within her. “I don’t think that is a topic we need to discuss.” Annabelle had not intended for her words to be voiced with such vehemence.
Crosley used her candle to light another one and let her opinions flow unchecked. “I do not know what will happen tomorrow, the day after that, or the week after that, but this I know for sure: you will be about as happy here as you allow yourself to be. And I, for one, intend to be very content.”
Annabelle lifted her eyebrow. She was not sure how to interpret this new version of Crosley, but she would not have this conversation. She nodded toward the beds. “Which one should I use?”
Crosley pointed to the bed on the end. “Sorry, you have the bed closest to the window. The girls say it can be pretty drafty in the winter months.”
Feeling more dejected than ever, Annabelle dropped her valise on the narrow bed and plopped down on it.
With arms folded across her stomach, Crosley moved back to the window and looked down at the courtyard. “My, but Mr. Locke is a handsome man.”
Annabelle unfastened her valise, refusing to engage.
Crosley dropped the curtain and sat on the edge of Annabelle’s bed. “The female staff were all aflutter when they noticed him on the property. They melted into silly schoolgirls, no more mature than the students that walk these grounds.”
Annabelle pulled a gown from her valise and shook out the wrinkles. She may be in a new situation, but she would not bend so low as to discuss such an improper topic so crassly.
Crosley leaned forward, as if preparing to share a very great secret. “They seem quite worried about you too. They said he never speaks to any of the female staff. Ever. And just today he spoke with you on the lawn ever so long.”
Nervous warmth spread over Annabelle at the thought. She liked Mr. Locke. She enjoyed his company and felt respected in his presence. And she liked that he was comfortable talking with her. But she had thought their conversation on the lawn to be a friendly exchange. To know it was the source of gossip pained her. She did not want to alienate herself from the other women before she had even made their acquaintance.
Crosley toyed with her cuff. “They have told me a bit about his past. It is tragic and romantic.”
When Annabelle did not cease her unpacking, Crosley straightened. “Do you not want to know about it?”
Annabelle picked up a pair of slippers from her valise and moved them to the chest. “I don’t think that it is—”
“I know, I know, you do not think it proper. But wait until you hear.” Crosley reached across the bed and grabbed Annabelle’s hand to cease her movement. “His wife was murdered. Murdered! Can you imagine?”
At the shocking word, Annabelle stilled and snapped her gaze to meet Crosley’s wide-eyed stare. “What?”
“Yes. She was murdered in their own home when their daughter was just a baby.”
A sinking sensation tugged at Annabelle. Mr. Locke had seemed so stoic and composed. She never would have imagined that he suffered such a loss.
The poor man.
The poor child.
Annabelle said nothing, but she resumed her task and removed a gown from the valise. Now that she had heard the first bit of the story, there was no denying that she needed to hear the rest.
The candle’s light reflected on the soft angles of Crosley’s long face. “According to Louise, a woman who shares this very chamber, Mrs. Locke had a beau before she met and married Mr. Locke. The beau was presumed dead in war, but when he returned he found Mrs. Locke married to another. A forbidden, scandalous romance ensued. After quite some time, the man killed her in a rage when she refused to run away with him, and then he was so distraught that he took his own life.”
At this, Annabelle’s heart ached in her chest.
“You have heard that Mr. Locke’s child attends the school here.”
Annabelle nodd
ed, unable to pretend that the story did not touch her. “I have.”
“Well, there is question as to whether or not the child is even Mr. Locke’s natural daughter. The rumor that she is the child of the mysterious soldier follows her wherever she goes.”
Annabelle needed to stop the gossip. Crosley had crossed a line. “How can you speak of such things of a man we barely know?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” snipped Crosley. She stood from the bed and placed the candle on the stand next to the washbasin. “If you did not hear it from me, it would only be a matter of time before someone else told you. I’ve been here well over a week now, and I have learned that gossip and stories travel faster than they did through the staff at Wilhurst House.”
Annabelle stiffened. Did rumors like this fly through her old home? If so, she had been oblivious, but her family definitely would have given the servants much about which to engage in tittle-tattle.
Her father’s warning about not trusting servants leapt through her mind. No, Crosley was not the woman she had believed her to be. The truth of it struck Annabelle’s heart more than she cared to admit.
She propped her hands on her hips and looked up at the wide, dark beams crossing the ceiling. A whole new world was opening up before her—a world she was not sure she understood or even wanted to understand. But like it or not, it spread before her, wide open and scary.
Chapter Twenty
Don’t move a muscle.”
Annabelle stiffened her arm and stood perfectly still as Crosley pinned the sleeve at her wrist. Crosley stood back and flicked her gaze from the length of one sleeve, to the other, and then back again.
Annabelle looked down at the faded, coarse gown with a sigh.
The awkwardness of her odd conversation with Crosley had dissipated, and night had fallen. The light from two candles lit the space, and now the former lady’s maid was altering the school gown to fit Annabelle’s form.
Annabelle held her breath as Crosley finished her pinning. She was not sure why Crosley offered to help her with the gown, for she seemed to take pleasure in the fact that Annabelle was clearly out of her element. But whether it was to gain the upper hand or to prove Annabelle’s insufficiencies, Annabelle was grateful just the same, for she would have no idea how to begin the task.
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 13