Crosley knelt on the floor as she pinned the hem. The chamber had no long looking glass in which Annabelle could check her reflection, and she shifted uncomfortably in the garment. The sleeves hung long over her hands, and the bodice drooped.
She pressed her lips together. She would not be upset over a gown. At least she was free here. She would not have to marry Mr. Bartrell. But that did not mean she had to like the gown.
Crosley stood from her work and stepped back, propping her hands on her hips as she assessed the length. “Fortunately the woman who wore this before you was much taller. This hem can be adjusted to the right length. Are you going to wear the boots with this or the slippers?”
At Wilhurst House her entire dressing room had been filled with slippers and boots of every color and material. And now the thought of wearing the same shoes day after day was just another reminder of the sacrifices she was making.
Annabelle tilted her head. “I suppose the boots are most practical.”
“It’s difficult to believe that this might be the last gown I fit for you.” Crosley motioned for Annabelle to lift her arms and pinched the fabric along Annabelle’s side to see how much would need to be taken in.
As Crosley pinned the fabric, the door opened. Two women bustled into the room—one was dressed in a gown like the one Annabelle now wore, and one was dressed in a gown like Crosley’s. Their steps slowed and their expressions changed with interest as they noticed Annabelle.
Crosley straightened. “There you are. Here is the woman I was telling you about. Annabelle Thorley. This is Louise Stiles and Jane Henton.”
Miss Stiles’s hair was neither brown nor blonde, but the hue lingered somewhere in between. Her thin lips quirked downward and her brow furrowed.
Annabelle forced a smile. “How do you do, Miss Stiles.”
“Miss Stiles?” The plain woman chortled as she eyed Annabelle from head to toe. “We don’t rely on protocol here. Call me Louise. So you are old Langsby’s niece, are you? Heard you was coming. Didn’t know we’d be sharing a sleeping place, though.”
Annabelle had hoped to keep the fact that she was the superintendent’s niece quiet. She did not want to be treated differently.
Before she had a chance to answer, Miss Stiles blurted, “What happened to your face?”
Annabelle’s hand instinctively flew to her cheek. She had thought it looked better, but apparently traces of faded blue and subtle yellow were still visible. “An accident, I am afraid.”
“An accident? You must be a clumsy one then. You’d be wise to give a care in the future. Fellsworth School has little time for those who do not pay attention to their surroundings.”
Annabelle’s mouth fell open. Never had she been talked to in such a disrespectful manner by a kitchen maid. Never.
The coarse woman latched her gaze on Annabelle and did not look away, almost as if issuing a silent challenge.
Annabelle swallowed her instinct to scold the woman, as she would have done had the woman been a servant in her house. But she no longer had servants—nor was she a mistress of a house. If anything, other people had power over her.
Annabelle lifted her chin. She would not stoop to unbecoming behavior, regardless of her situation. “Thank you, Miss Stiles. I shall remember that in the future.”
Miss Stiles raised her eyebrows. “Oh, will you now?”
“Leave her alone, Louise.” The other woman with softer features and a kinder smile draped a shawl over one of the far beds and walked toward Annabelle. “Like Margaret said, I am Mrs. Jane Henton. Welcome to our chamber, Miss Thorley.”
Annabelle paused for a moment. She had called Margaret by her surname for so long it would take her a while to get used to hearing her former lady’s maid referred to by her Christian name.
Mrs. Henton looked around the space. “I know these quarters are probably not what you expected, but I am told it takes a little time for the chambers to be arranged.”
“Oh no, this is, uh—perfectly adequate.” Annabelle pivoted to give Crosley access to the back of the gown.
“Adequate, is it? Not good enough for the likes of you?” Miss Stiles tilted her head.
Annabelle was already tired, and she did not feel like a battle, especially with a woman she did not know. “As I said,”—she fixed her gaze on the ruddy-faced woman—“it will do.”
Jane lowered her voice. “Do not pay any heed to Louise, Miss Thorley. She is overly blunt, I am afraid. Our introductions have not started on the best note, and I am sorry for it. I do hope you will call me Jane. Everyone does.”
Annabelle nodded.
Crosley motioned for Annabelle to turn and step out of the gown.
Annabelle complied. She reached for her wrapper and secured it around her waist before moving back to her bed.
Jane followed her. “I hope you are feeling better.”
“Hmm?”
“Margaret told us you were not feeling well and that is why you were staying with your aunt and uncle instead of coming to the school right away. I hope your affliction has passed.”
“I am very well. Thank you.” Annabelle glanced at Crosley from the corner of her eye. What else had the woman disclosed about her and the reasons they were in Fellsworth?
“My, but your things are pretty.” Jane propped her hands on her hips and looked at the pile of Annabelle’s gowns, underdresses, and chemises on the bed. “Is that Belgian lace?”
Annabelle straightened, surprised—and pleased—to find that the woman knew of such things. “Yes, you are familiar with it?”
“I am. Before I came here I was an assistant to a dressmaker in Bath, and I have always been fond of such lace as a trim. And this shawl! Beautiful. Unfortunately you will not have a great deal of opportunity to wear such lovely things here, but they are pretty to look at nonetheless. Where is it you come from?”
Annabelle considered her response. She could certainly name her town without giving too many details of her previous life. “London.”
“Your possessions are certainly the finest of any teacher here.” Jane’s gaze lingered on the peach netted gown.
“She had the best situation of us all prior to Fellsworth,” added Crosley, a playful grin on her face. “She was a companion to a young woman who got quite fat and could not fit into her gowns anymore. So she gave ever so many things to Annabelle. More’s the pity, right?”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. Crosley had just referred to her by her Christian name. She just nodded, supposing she should be grateful for Crosley’s interjection.
She had not given much thought to what she would tell others when they inquired about her past. And Crosley was right—it was no secret that both lady’s maids and companions were often the recipients of the mistress’s castoffs. Such an explanation would account for Annabelle’s possessions. She was uncomfortable with lying, but the less that was known about her past, the better.
The other girls began preparations for bed. There was little talk. Louise read. Jane wrote a letter at the room’s only desk. Crosley had gone down to sew the dress by light from the kitchen’s fire. Eventually, Louise and Jane both extinguished their candles and went to bed. Annabelle knew she should sleep also, but she felt too ill at ease.
She pulled up a chair between her bed and the wall, next to her small wooden chest that would house all of her belongings. The low, sloping ceiling made her feel caged in, and sitting as opposed to standing seemed more comfortable. She leaned forward and lifted the iron latch and pushed the lid open, wincing as its hinges creaked.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the noise had not woken her roommates. Her candle’s light slanted on their sleeping forms. Neither of them moved a muscle. In fact, the steady rhythms of their breath seemed loud in the small space. It was a wonder any of them could sleep at all given the noise of it.
Annabelle gave a little shiver. With night, coolness fell over the room, and she rubbed her hands together in front of her. How they trembled
. She rubbed them together again.
Annabelle needed to finish unpacking, but she found concentrating on the task at hand difficult. Her mind wandered to the news Mr. Locke had shared regarding Mr. McAlister’s murder. The thought of any person losing their life in such a violent manner made her ill. She thought of the missive he’d sent her. Now she would never know what he wanted to tell her. Another shiver traversed her spine. Perhaps if she had known, she could have helped prevent his death in some way.
But the most troubling recollection was that of the blood on her brother’s attire. He couldn’t have been involved, could he? But why else would there have been blood?
Her brother had always been fond of boxing. Perhaps they were behaving like boys and had a bit of a brawl. Or perhaps he had tripped and fallen and cut himself. As much as she tried to convince herself of possible scenarios, she could not persuade herself of his innocence.
She glanced back at the sleeping women before she lifted the stack of Samuel’s letters from her valise. They were still bound in a blue ribbon. A part of her wanted to indulge in the memories and read the letters one by one, allowing them to transport her to another time and place. But she resisted. It was getting harder and harder to find solace in his words. Now they were so long ago, they seemed more like a fairy tale than anything else.
She placed the letters in the bottom of her chest and reached for her watercolor box sitting next to her valise. She opened the lid and shifted the mixing tile back in place. She flipped down the clip on the bottom of the lid. A few of her favorite private projects were still pinned there, just as she had placed them in London. One by one she lifted them from their place. A portrait of her childhood dog. A portrait of her father. A portrait she had painted of her mother.
She swallowed a lump of grief at the sight of her mother’s likeness. It was not a very good likeness. She had painted it from memory. Annabelle had been only twelve at the time, and her watercolor technique was unrefined. The strokes were unsteady and their weight was uneven, but she had managed to capture her mother’s straight nose, blonde hair, and hazel eyes.
Would her mother approve of the choices she had made?
She returned the painting to the watercolor box and lifted her father’s portrait. It, too, had been painted many years ago, but the likeness was there, complete with dark hair and stern black eyes. No smile. She lowered the painting. Try as she might, she could barely recall her father’s smile, so rare was the action.
With a sigh Annabelle returned the contents to the watercolor box and tucked the entire box into the chest and then pulled out the pouch of jewelry. She poured some of the contents of the bag onto her lap. A garnet-and-diamond ring. A sapphire brooch. Her amethyst pendant. A string of pearls from the East Indies. The beauty in these fine pieces sparkled, but it was their exquisiteness that she valued. These were her security.
Should she ever find herself alone again, she could sell these and live quite comfortably. Perhaps it would be wise to try to sell one in town, as soon as she could steal away.
She cast a glance back at the sleeping forms. The only person who knew she possessed them was Crosley, but even she did not know exactly what Annabelle had brought. Her confidence in the former maid to keep her secrets wavered. Annabelle’s only concern now was keeping her jewels safe and out of sight.
She divided the pieces up as best she could, worried that keeping them all in one place could jeopardize their safety. She tucked a ring in her watercolor box. Tucked a necklace in the toe of one of her slippers. She tore a small hole in her mattress and stuffed a trinket inside.
Annabelle pushed her hair from her face. She hoped she would not need to sell them soon. She and her uncle had not even discussed if she would be compensated for her work as a teacher. She had no idea how much it would cost to live, what she would need to buy, or anything else along those lines. She’d never had to worry about those things . . . until now.
She was about to close her valise when she spied her mother’s prayer journal at the bottom. The other items she had unpacked had brought her some sort of comfort, but the sight of the leather journal unnerved her. She lifted the smooth tome and turned it over in her hands.
Annabelle had been unaware that her mother kept a journal until after her death. She had been going through her mother’s things when she found the book tucked in one of her trunks. Once she realized that the volume contained her mother’s private thoughts, she did not even tell her father of her discovery. Instead, she hid it away, keeping it as a secret, although painful, memory. In fact, she had never even read it in its entirety.
She flipped open the cover and angled it toward the candle’s flickering light. On the pages were drawings, stories, and prayers. Her name flashed on one of the pages, and Annabelle stopped.
PRAYER FOR ANNABELLE
Let her know love, and let her know the peace that comes with forgiveness. Keep her safe from those who wish to harm her, and give her strength as she faces life’s challenges. Give her grace to walk through shadows, wisdom to make decisions, and discernment in where to place her trust. Let her life be a happy one, marked with laughter, and give her health so she may live long and continue to spread the joy that she has brought to my life. But most of all, let her always feel loved and wanted, for she is the light in my darkness.
She pressed her eyes closed to squeeze the moisture from them, closed the book, and tucked it in the bottom of her trunk.
Her breath came in shuddery gasps. She did not want to cry. For she had been strong. She had been resilient. But now, her mother’s whispers, written more than a decade ago, threatened to undo her.
She wished she could have her mother’s faith and believe that a prayer could bring her safety and happiness, but perhaps she was too far down her own path for God to hear or respond to her. God had not answered her mother’s prayers, and she doubted He would answer hers.
Feeling almost desperate for consolation, she snatched up the book again and found the page. It had been so long since she prayed on her own, but she read the words once more. Perhaps God would listen to her, perhaps He wouldn’t. But at least, for a moment, the words brought her comfort.
Chapter Twenty-One
Owen rapped his knuckles on the thick oak door to Langsby’s study before he pushed it fully open. “Have a moment?”
Langsby looked up from the paper in his hand and pushed his spectacles up on his nose with his forefinger. “Locke, come in. Just the man I need to speak with. Sit down.”
The study was dark, and in fact, Owen was surprised that Langsby had not yet returned to the superintendent’s cottage for the night. A small fire blazed in the grate, and two candles were aflame on Langsby’s desk.
Owen had remained at the school longer than he anticipated. After delivering the hares to the kitchen, he had been asked to stop by the stables to take a look at one of the ill horses. Because of his knowledge of animals, he was often asked to help when they fell ill at the school, and by the time he was certain the horse was out of danger, the hour had grown quite late.
He sat across from Langsby. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Langsby leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I spoke with young Winter.”
“And?”
“I asked what he was doing in the meadow, and at first he said merely exploring. I kept after him for an explanation, and he eventually shared the truth.”
Locke leaned forward. “And what did he say?”
“He admitted that he was paid to go onto Bancroft property to catch rabbits, but he refused to name any names.”
Owen slapped his knee. “I knew it.”
“We will keep working on it.” Langsby pushed the stack of letters to the side. “He has been suspended until he agrees to give me names, and he is currently being kept apart from the rest of the students.”
“I hate that it has come to this.” Owen leaned back in his chair. “It is not the first time I h
ave dealt with poachers who have paid children to do their work, but it has always been children from either the miners or the gypsies, never a boy in Winter’s position.”
“I expect more out of my students, Mr. Locke. I’ve said it a dozen times, and I will say it until the last day I draw breath: developing character and conscience will always trump an academic education, and I see this as one of our biggest challenges yet. I will not rest until I am certain that no other boys are involved in this scheme. I have already added two more night watchmen and have informed the instructors that they will take turns monitoring the boys’ dormitories to make sure no one leaves during the night hours.”
“I know you’ll see to the matter, Langsby.”
“Thank you again for not taking this to the magistrate. A charge like this could ruin a boy’s chance at a decent future. We will get to the bottom of it.” Langsby folded his hands on the desk’s leather inlay, as if to signal the end of his train of thought. “I trust you had a pleasant conversation with my niece.”
Owen nodded. He did not know why he should feel uncomfortable discussing her. “Yes, I did. I had news from London to share.”
Langsby eyed him suspiciously, as if poised to ask for more details.
Owen quickly changed the subject. “She told me she is to be a teacher. That is quite a change for her.”
Langsby nodded. “It would have been easier for all parties, perhaps, to allow her to stay on as a guest at the cottage, but what lesson would be learned there? If she is serious about leaving the life she knew, she will need to become more acquainted with life outside of London. This is one way of doing it.”
“What will she teach?”
“That is up to Mrs. Brathay. I only hope that Annabelle finds value in the experience. I must say, knowing her mother, I fully expected Annabelle to abandon her plan after a day or so of our quiet life here in Fellsworth. But she has surprised me. I’ve not heard one complaint from her.”
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 14