A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She frowned. She looked to the left and back to the right. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  Despite the sun’s intense heat, her blood ran cold.

  Mr. Bryant was playing a game with her.

  Frustrated and a little unnerved, she headed back down the village’s main lane toward the school’s entrance. Her heart was even heavier than when she left. She had failed to sell her pearls, and what was worse, Mr. Bryant had witnessed the ordeal. But she suspected that Mr. Bryant’s interest in her went far beyond mere jewelry, and that frightened her most of all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It’s been far too long since I have been out in the forest.”

  Treadwell fell into step with Owen as they walked through the backwoods of Linton Forest the following week. The sunlight flitted through the emerald canopy, and swallows swooped in the branches overhead. “It is so peaceful out here. I envy you, Locke, passing your days here.”

  Owen glanced up as a group of ducks flocked overhead toward Foster’s Pond. “Autumn will be here soon. Before you know it you’ll be out with the hunting parties every week.”

  “Are the pheasants ready for the season?” Treadwell squinted toward the trees. “I haven’t seen any about.”

  “Oh, they’re here, but they’ve enough sense to keep away from the man with a firearm.” Owen winced at the volume of Treadwell’s voice. They’d catch nothing today if the man continued speaking so loudly.

  “Good.” Treadwell shouldered his weapon, oblivious of Owen’s annoyance. “You know how these hunting parties go. Guests can get so grumpy when they can’t find birds. Whether or not they can shoot them is another matter entirely. Do you remember when we were boys how your father would take us ferreting?”

  “I do. And do you recall the time you were setting the fish trap at Foster’s Pond and fell in? I thought your father was going to have an apoplexy when my father took you back to the main house.”

  Treadwell laughed and shook his head, then sobered. “Father could not see the humor or the adventure in such an activity. I often envied you, you know.”

  “What? Me?”

  “Yes. Did you never wonder why I was always around and asking your father for shooting lessons? Your father invested in you and taught you. My father provided a tremendous living for me, but that was the extent of it. When he died, I knew him no better than I knew the butler or my tutor.”

  Owen stiffened. He and Treadwell were friends, but their discussions rarely took such a personal turn. His own father’s death left the single biggest hole in him—even more than the loss of his mother and Diana. Owen’s entire childhood was spent at his father’s side, learning about the fowl of the air and the beasts of the fields. He’d begrudged the hard work of the gamekeeping life as a boy, but now he saw the value and purpose in it. He may have envied Treadwell’s pampered upbringing, but looking back he would not trade his experience for anything.

  The soft sound of rustling leaves made Owen start. He put his arm out to stop Treadwell, then put his finger to his lips. Within seconds he had his target in sight, the weapon’s stock against his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

  “Amazing,” breathed Treadwell as Drake ran ahead to retrieve their game. “I didn’t even see it.”

  Owen shrugged his game bag from his shoulder. “Just instinct now. See that bunch of undergrowth there? The rabbits like to gather there, especially at this time of day.”

  Treadwell shook his head and waited for Owen to bag the game. “I came along today because I wanted to speak with you about something.”

  Owen raised his eyebrow as he knelt and fastened the bag. “And?”

  “I spoke with Farley yesterday about Kirtley Meadow.”

  Owen stopped, rested his elbow on his knee, and fixed his eyes on Treadwell. “We’ve been walking all morning and you just now bring up this news?”

  Treadwell smirked and pulled a slip of paper from his emerald waistcoat. “I paid him a little visit the other day and we had a chat. I told him I would give you this.”

  Owen’s heart raced as he looked at the folded missive. “What’s that?”

  “Go ahead.” He extended the letter to Owen. “Read it.”

  Owen stood and took the letter. He stared at it as if it were either magic or poison.

  At one time Kirtley Meadow had been part of Bancroft Park, but Treadwell’s father had gambled and lost the land in question to Farley’s father when Owen was just a lad. The original Bancroft Park gamekeeper’s cottage stood in Kirtley Meadow—the very cottage had housed generations of the Locke family. There was nothing remarkable about the land itself. It was beautiful, of course, with lush elm groves and sparkling ponds, but it would be of little interest to most. But to Owen it held a symbol of his family’s past. His ancestors were buried under its willows. While the property he sought to purchase would never be a great estate like Bancroft Park, it would be enough for him to make a living and to honor his family’s legacy.

  As Owen hesitated, Treadwell rolled his head to the side in exasperation. “Will you just read it? For a gamekeeper you are unusually dramatic.”

  Owen drew a breath and opened the letter. He scanned it quickly, hungry to comprehend the letter’s meaning without wasting time in the details. His heart clenched as the meaning of the words sank in. “He is willing to sell the land. But there are conditions.”

  “What sort of conditions?”

  Owen handed the letter to Treadwell. “You can read it for yourself.”

  The letter, which initially he had hoped would give him the answers he so desired, only frustrated him further.

  Treadwell’s voice increased an octave as he perused the missive. “What? This amount is twice what the land is worth. How can Farley think that anyone would pay this?”

  “First of all, keep your voice down. We’ll catch nothing if you carry on like that,” growled Owen. “Besides, it doesn’t matter that it is twice what it’s worth. It is twice what I have, so the topic is closed.”

  Treadwell’s voice lowered. “That’s it? You are just going to walk away? This is the beginning of a negotiation. Or I can loan you the money. I have told you that before.”

  Owen shook his head. “I’ll not be in debt to any man, for any reason.”

  “You sound like your father. You Lockes and your wretched principles. Your life would be much easier if you would hold yourself to a more realistic standard.”

  “It is not only the money. Finish reading the letter.” Owen pointed his gloved thumb at the paper. “The sale of the land is contingent on the fact that I help him solve his poaching issues. Seems he is dealing with a particularly stubborn band, and he isn’t having any luck with the magistrate.”

  Treadwell chuckled. “What? You think you couldn’t do it?”

  Owen resumed walking. “’Course I could do it. But I am employed by Bancroft Park, not Walmsly Hall.”

  Treadwell handed him back the letter. “He also asks for you to visit him at Walmsly Hall to discuss the matter. It can’t hurt to just hear the man out.”

  “I suppose you are right.” Owen turned his attention to the row of hedges lining the path where rabbits liked to nest. Perhaps he would figure something out, as Treadwell suggested. Or perhaps he would remain only a gamekeeper. Time would tell.

  But it was another thought, equally as invasive, that had been on his mind since their hunt began, even more so than Kirtley Meadow. Owen could not shake the odd circumstances surrounding the McAlister murder.

  He was not sure how he had expected Miss Thorley to react at the news of the murder when he told her. She had been visibly bothered about it. Her neck had grown blotchy, a reaction, he was beginning to notice, that occurred whenever she was alarmed or frightened.

  Miss Thorley’s unnerved behavior in some way reminded him of Diana. She had become increasingly odd in the weeks leading up to her murder. At the time he attributed her erratic behavior to loneliness. It had been autumn, and Treadwell’s father was
still alive. The elder Mr. Treadwell was an avid hunter and hosted back-to-back parties where Owen would be gone from home for days. His and Diana’s new marriage was a tense one—a union of two personalities that were far too different.

  He would never cease blaming himself for her death. He should have noticed the signs—she had been fidgety, she looked unwell, and she said she had not been sleeping much. But when the truth of what had happened came to light, she was already gone. He would never know if the man had been threatening to expose the relationship or trying to persuade her to leave Owen. Regardless, the experience made him more observant in general, and Miss Thorley’s response to McAlister’s death had been too apparent to ignore.

  It was not his business, he knew. But Treadwell could keep no secrets and was an endless source of information.

  Owen tucked the letter in his pocket. “I didn’t get a chance to speak with you before you left London for Bath.”

  “Where were you, by the way, the day after we arrived? I went to the mews looking for you and they said you were gone.”

  Owen was not in the habit of lying, but he also did not want to incriminate Miss Thorley. “An errand, ’tis all. But it seems I missed all of the excitement.”

  Fortunately the answer pacified Treadwell. “Yes, the decision to depart for Bath was sudden. But after the discovery of McAlister’s body, and the fact that Miss Thorley left in such a hurry, the family was distraught. Thorley’s wife fainted more than once. You know me. I am not one to abandon an interesting scene, so I traveled with them.”

  “What exactly happened to McAlister?”

  Treadwell drew a deep breath and expelled it forcefully, as if it were difficult to recount the specifics of the night. “I don’t know. Surely you saw how the party was shaping up. It was a bit too raucous, even for me. When we returned to the house, we went to the billiards room. Thorley and Bartrell began to argue. Bartrell wanted—nay, demanded to marry Thorley’s sister, the lady you met on the street that day in London. It was quite uncomfortable for McAlister and myself, being forced to witness such a personal argument. Apparently Miss Thorley refused him quite severely. Not that I blame her, for he is a pompous, pretentious man who grated on my nerves terribly. His only redeeming quality is that he is a terrible hand at cards so I made a tidy little sum. But as the night wore on, he became quite dark and sullen, so I retired to bed.”

  “Did you hear the gunshot?”

  “Did you?”

  Owen nodded. “I heard one gunshot. According to the driver I spoke with, it might have been the shot responsible for McAlister’s death.”

  Treadwell shook his head. “I heard nothing. After a bit too much brandy, I was dead to the world. When I awoke, a magistrate was at the breakfast table and Mrs. Thorley had a case of the vapors.”

  Owen tucked the bit of information he did receive in the back of his mind: Miss Thorley was escaping an unwanted marriage—a fate she deemed worse than teaching at a poor school.

  But still something seemed off.

  And he determined to find out what it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Annabelle was late.

  Again.

  She forced her hand through the black linen gown’s sleeve and muttered under her breath as her finger caught in the hem.

  Normally Jane would wake her, but this morning Jane had breakfast duty and had to oversee the youngest girls as they set the breakfast tables. Annabelle had awoken when she left but had fallen back asleep.

  Would it ever be easy to wake up in the morning at an early hour? For her entire life she had been used to sleeping as late as she liked, and never did she have to wake herself.

  She fumbled with the tie at the back of her neck and reached for her boots. Perhaps one day she would master the art, but for now, waking up before the sun was definitely one of the most difficult aspects of her new life.

  Once her boots were secure, she grabbed a hairpin. She twisted her hair into place before scurrying through the door. Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as she flew down the empty hall and main staircase toward the girls’ classrooms.

  She stopped outside the door of the chamber she was supposed to be in. She waited for her pulse to slow and normal breathing to resume before she pushed open the heavy oak door. Annabelle winced as it squeaked on its hinges, drawing even more attention to the fact that she was nearly a half hour late for her class.

  Mrs. Tomlinson turned and lifted her chin to look down her pointed nose at Annabelle. Her sharp, dark eyes flashed. “Ah. Miss Thorley. So good of you to join us.”

  Behind her, a chorus of girlish giggles filled the high-ceilinged chamber. Mrs. Tomlinson whirled around, silencing the snickers with her glare. She then turned back to Annabelle. “I’ve other classes to tend to. Your tardiness has put me behind schedule. Can I trust you to hear the girls’ reading so I can get the other classes under way?”

  Annabelle froze under the intensity of Mrs. Tomlinson’s directness. “Of course, Mrs. Tomlinson. I mean, I will see to the reading.”

  Mrs. Tomlinson pressed her lips into a firm line and held Annabelle in her gaze for several seconds. Annabelle wanted to shrink into the ground and was suddenly mindful of how untidy her hair must be.

  “Very well.” Mrs. Tomlinson broke her focus and gathered a small stack of books on the table next to her. “Ladies, mind Miss Thorley. I expect a good report.”

  And with that, the older teacher left the room.

  The deafening silence weakened Annabelle’s resolve as she stepped to the front of the room and retrieved the book Mrs. Tomlinson had left behind. Her hand trembled as she picked up the reader and turned to face the twenty-one sets of eyes watching her every move.

  She swallowed to moisten her dry throat. “Uh, can someone please tell me what you were reading?”

  Nobody moved.

  Panic welled within her. Annabelle fixed her eyes on a plump, dark-headed girl in the front row. “Miss Cranden, can you please tell me what you were reading?”

  The girl looked to her neighbor before she responded. “We were just about to start reading the story that begins on page 29.”

  Annabelle expelled a sigh. “Can you start the reading for us?”

  Miss Cranden stood up and began reading, her voice clear and strong in the room’s stillness. Annabelle fixed her eyes on the back wall. It was going to be a long morning.

  “I am so glad that is over.” Annabelle hurried down the path leading from the girls’ dormitory to the garden.

  Jane lengthened her gait to match Annabelle’s hurried one. “I was sorry to hear that you overslept. I should have made sure you were awake.”

  “It is not your responsibility to make sure I am up.” Annabelle purposely slowed her steps. “Please tell me this gets easier.”

  “Do you mean waking up on time?”

  Annabelle smiled. “No. Teaching. I have been here for weeks now, and I seem to be no better at it than I was the first day I arrived.”

  Jane looped her arm through Annabelle’s. “Don’t fret. It really does take time. Besides, you are doing better than you think. The children can be a handful, especially the little ones, and whether you think so or not, they seem to be fond of you.”

  “Then why do they not listen to me?”

  “They will. Earn their trust and respect.” Jane gave a little laugh. “They gave me quite a fit when I first started teaching, especially the older ones, but they have come around.”

  It was the noon hour, and the children had broken their studies for the midday meal. Instead of eating in the tiny room set aside for the teachers, Annabelle and Jane had opted for a stroll in the garden. After several days of intense summer heat, an overnight storm had sliced the oppressiveness, and today a gentle, cool breeze was just what Annabelle needed to find peace after a trying morning.

  They walked in the shadow of the willow trees. Annabelle drew in the soft aroma of bark and pasture. As strange as it was to admit, with the exception of
the early hours she was growing accustomed to the change of pace. Slowly the pains associated with her old life were subsiding, and the repetitive rhythm of Fellsworth School was becoming her norm. She found unexpected comfort in the strict routine and purpose in the discipline, even though adherence was difficult at times. She had even come to accept the new manner of dress and found it freeing not to change her gown several times a day.

  “How long have you been here?” Annabelle was curious to learn more about the woman who was quickly becoming her friend. They shared a chamber, but they didn’t have much time to spend in conversation. “You appear so comfortable here.”

  “Oh, bless you. I came here four months back. After my husband died I had no family left in Bath, so I was eager to accept the position here. Louise Stiles and I actually arrived on the same day.”

  “Did you know each other prior to your arrival?”

  “No, it was purely by chance. She is quite a character, though. I am grateful you and Margaret have arrived.” Jane sobered. “The rumor is that you have never taught before.”

  Annabelle turned her head to face the other woman. “Is it that obvious?”

  “No, not obvious, I did not mean that. But there has been talk that you received the position because of your uncle, and for no other reason. I tell you this not in gossip or to make you feel uncomfortable, but the staff here can be difficult to navigate. It is quite difficult to obtain a position as a junior teacher, and I only wanted you to be aware.”

  The first dry leaves of the season crunched under Annabelle’s boots as she walked along the path. “I suppose the rumors are true. I needed somewhere to stay, and my uncle was kind enough to provide this living. And I am grateful.”

  Jane smiled. “Well, I have grown quite fond of you, if that is of any consequence, and I am glad you are here. You are a far more pleasant chamber mate than Louise, that is certain, and in time I think you will prove your merit.”