“Confident? I wouldn’t say confident. But I do believe that we have God-given instincts. We are not just placed on this earth haphazardly. Each of us has a path. Each of us has a purpose. It is part of life to find that path and follow it.”
She was quickly realizing that Mr. Locke was not guided by societal convention. He was direct and self-assured. His words sounded like those her uncle would say, or even her mother. “You mentioned God-given instincts. Are you a man of faith, Mr. Locke?”
“I’ve seen far too much to be otherwise, Miss Thorley.”
Was she a woman of faith? She did not know. She thought of the prayer her mother had written for her. The prayer she read, attempting to make it her own. Had God even heard it?
An awkward silence hovered, and she felt as if she needed to say more. She sat on the log behind her. “I attended church with my mother as a child, but after her death my family never went again. And my governess used to make me memorize Scripture. At one point, I would guess I could have recited several verses. But now I fear it has faded from memory. I just don’t know anymore.”
He surprised her by crossing the small clearing and sitting on the log next to her. She could feel his warmth as he neared. He rested his elbows on his knees, just like he did in the carriage ride from London. He looked down at the ground for several seconds and then focused his attention somewhere off in the distance.
“Things happen in life we cannot understand. We can only do our best and seek God’s guidance and move forward the best we are able.” He turned to look at her directly. “All will work out well in the end, Miss Thorley. You’ll see.”
How could a man whose wife had been murdered view the world so optimistically? She had experienced pain, but so had he. And he seemed to handle it much better than she. “I envy you, Mr. Locke.”
He chuckled. “And why would that be?”
“You seem to be at peace with the world.”
He looked off into the forest again. His expression darkened. “I don’t know if I would go that far.”
She could not help but stare at him. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. She quickly considered the men who had been in her life before coming to Fellsworth. Her father. Her brother. Samuel Goodacre. Cecil Bartrell. Their primary focus had been on improving their social and financial standings by any means necessary. As a group they were never content, never at peace.
Mr. Locke seemed to be the opposite of these men in so many ways. Could he really be as genuine as he seemed?
A gentle silence balanced between them. She was grateful for his presence, but then, as quickly as that realization glimmered, Crosley’s harsh words echoed.
She was alone.
With a man.
Just as she had cautioned Crosley about.
And even though she was not flirting, she could recognize the double standard. She stood from the log and wiped bits of debris from her hands. “I suppose I should return to my duties.”
He stood as well.
She felt hesitant to leave. He, at the very least, was becoming a friend. “In fact, I will be spending time with Hannah later today.”
His face brightened. “My daughter tells me you have been teaching her to paint.”
Annabelle laughed. “Yes. She is working on it.”
“I hung her painting of a cat in the cottage.” A smile crossed his lips. “Very pretty.”
Annabelle smiled at the memory of the childish painting. “She will improve, with time and practice.”
“I appreciate you taking her under your wing. She can be so shy, and sometimes I wonder if she is truly happy at Fellsworth. I am grateful to you for showing such interest in her.” He gathered his horse’s reins once again. “Do you paint often?”
“A little. That is, I used to. I am not sure I will have much time moving forward, but as you said, paths and purposes change.”
He stepped closer. “For what it’s worth, Miss Thorley, I admire the decision you have made. I know it was not an easy one, but a brave one, and I commend you.”
Her cheeks warmed under his praise.
“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, but nor do I wish to have discussions about you without your knowledge. Treadwell mentioned that you were being pressured into a matrimony.”
What else had Mr. Treadwell divulged about her past? “Do not apologize, Mr. Locke. It was hardly a secret. Likely every person in London was aware.”
“No man has the right to force a woman to marry against her will.”
“I don’t know if I would go so far as to say ‘forced.’ ‘Strongly, emphatically encouraged’ may be more accurate.”
“Do you miss your family?” He lifted his gun back to his shoulder.
She tilted her head. She was glad to be free of her brother. It would be a lie to say that she missed him. And as for her sister-in-law, she did not really know her. Not well, anyway. “I suppose the most accurate statement would be to say that I miss the way my life used to be.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Miss Thorley should not have been in Linton Forest. And yet he had encountered her, and Owen could not help but smile at the recollection.
He ducked his head to miss a low-hanging branch as he reluctantly rode back toward the east meadow. Drake trotted alongside, his furry head barely visible in the tall grass, and his horse tossed his head in the afternoon air.
He could have easily passed the day in her presence. She had seemed well, if not a little distracted. With each interaction he learned something new about her, and his attraction to her intensified. The newness of her presence in Fellsworth had to wear off eventually, but now, in the forest’s quiet, it was easy to allow his unguarded mind to open to possibilities of a different future.
After Diana’s death he had accepted the fact that his romantic days were behind him. His inability to protect her affected him profoundly, and to this day, complete forgiveness was unattainable. That failure pushed him harder. He prided himself on protecting what was around him—the land. The animals. His daughter.
It was for that reason Miss Thorley was dangerous.
He already felt the budding need to protect her from those who wished her harm. The stronger his feeling of regard for her grew, the stronger that need became. But he knew the bitterness of failure—and the crippling consequences that accompanied it.
Miss Thorley, in many ways, reminded him of Diana. Both were from London. Both were the daughter of a gentleman. Both were born far beyond his station. Both women had chosen to leave their lives behind and start anew, and he would be wise to heed history’s lessons.
But he could not deny the incessant whisper echoing within him. What would it be like to have a family? To be welcomed home into the arms of a woman who was eager for his return?
It was yet another reason he needed Kirtley Meadow. Even though the Bancroft Park gamekeeper’s lodge was his home, it was haunted by the horrific memory of what happened there all those years ago. The walls trapped him with the ghosts of the past. For years he had considered it his punishment, but now he was beginning to wonder if a fresh start—and self-forgiveness—was possible.
By the time he arrived back at the Bancroft Park stables, the afternoon was starting to fade. Treadwell met him in the courtyard.
“Locke. There you are. Been looking everywhere for you.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I received confirmation that we will be having guests for a pheasant hunt—the first hunt of the season.”
Owen nodded. Treadwell was not one for planning in advance. “When?”
“Next week. You’re sure the pheasants will be out?”
Owen dismounted. “They’re out there. The dry spring and summer may have been difficult on the crops, but the nesting birds flourished.”
“Good. I will confirm the plans.” Treadwell slapped his riding crop across the palm of his hand. “The guests will be here for a week. No doubt we will shoot every day.”
“How many
, and will they require mounts?”
“I am expecting five. And yes, they will all need horses.”
“Do you want me to prepare the arms, or will they be bringing their own?”
“I would assume they would bring firearms, but you never know with this party.”
Owen frowned. Many of Treadwell’s friends were well versed in the hunt and preferred their own weapons. In fact, the same hunting parties gathered in the forest each year. The Danhaven clan during grouse season. The Grentons during fox season. Time had taught him which guests needed his assistance and which were experienced enough to give them their lead. “Who will be joining you?”
“Thorley and Bartrell. You remember them, of course.”
“Thorley?” Owen snapped his head up at the name.
“The very one. You remember him, right? They are interesting characters, and pretty much invited themselves. Not that I mind—I’m always up for a good hunt. Three of their colleagues will also be joining us, although I don’t know them as well. They’ve been dejected ever since the terrible happenings in London when we were there last. I suspect they’re seeking a diversion. But it should be a good time. I can always count on Thorley to keep things interesting.”
Alarm pricked Owen’s senses. Miss Thorley’s earlier words regarding Mr. McAlister’s note flashed before him. He had little doubt that Thorley was in trouble, and Miss Thorley had traveled so far to be away from him. He did not want the man anywhere near her. “Pheasants can be tricky, even for experienced shooters. Are you sure that it is the right hunt for them?”
Treadwell shrugged. “He said he wanted to hunt, and I am sure they have hunted the animal before. We’ll just get Whitten and Geoffrey to come along to help. The way those boys like their brandy, the chances of them actually getting out of their beds to brave the morning chill are unlikely. But I should like to be prepared just the same. I trust you’ll arrange things appropriately?”
Owen’s chest tightened. “Of course.”
“Oh, and did you decide what to do about Farley’s offer?”
“I am to visit him tomorrow. I should know more then.”
Annabelle sat with Hannah in the middle library.
Hannah beamed with pride as she closed the book. “I did it, didn’t I?”
Annabelle patted Hannah’s arm with pride. “See? When you put your mind to it and try your very best, you can do it.”
Hannah leaned her blonde head forward to look past Annabelle at the watercolor box. “Now can we paint?”
“I think you deserve it.” Annabelle pulled the box toward herself. “What should our subject be?”
Hannah bounced in her chair. “Let’s try something besides a rabbit. My last one didn’t turn out very well.”
“Your rabbit turned out perfectly.” Annabelle hugged the box to herself. “How about we paint something small? The day is fine. Shall we take the box outside and find our subject?”
Hannah nodded eagerly.
They stepped from the library into the school’s courtyard, which was next to the girls’ garden. It was free time for the girls, and they were clustered in groups. Hannah stole glimpses of the girls as they passed.
“If you would rather go play with the other girls, we can paint another time.”
Hannah pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Annabelle held her hand above her eyes to guard against the bright sunlight as she assessed the other students. They were laughing. Playing. A handful of them had their small rackets poised for battledore and shuttlecock. Others were engaged with their cup-and-ball, while the older girls held their sticks and ribbon-clad hoops for a game of the flying circle. The children who were normally so reserved in the classroom now seemed happy and carefree.
Annabelle did not have a lot of experience with childhood friendships. With the exception of her brother, she rarely had other children to play with. She returned her sights to Hannah. She did not watch the girls. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the toe of her boot. Was it sadness? Shyness? Annabelle couldn’t tell.
She adjusted the box in her hands. “Well then, if you are certain, where would you like to go? The flower garden or the orchard?”
Hannah’s demeanor brightened. “The orchard.”
“Wonderful idea. Lead the way, Miss Locke.”
They found a spot in the south orchard near the garden wall, where Hannah’s beloved forests were evident just beyond. Annabelle set up the box and propped up the small easel. They sat in the orchard’s long grass and Annabelle placed a fresh piece of paper and set out the water pot. “Do you want to paint a peach?” she asked.
Hannah nodded eagerly.
Annabelle stood, plucked a ripe peach from the tree, placed it on a nearby stump, and returned to the grass. “Take the brush like this, get it wet, touch it to the color, and that is all you do.”
Eyes wide, Hannah took the brush and pressed the tip against the paper. She smiled as she swirled the brush on the paper, observing how it left a trail of color in its wake. “This is fun!”
“If you want to add a little shading, like a shadow, you can make it darker here. See how nice that looks?” Annabelle smiled as she watched the child’s enthusiasm. “It is good to see you smile. When I notice you around the school, sometimes you seem so solemn.”
The child’s paintbrush slowed, and she did not respond.
Annabelle tilted her head. “Are you happy at school, Hannah?”
The girl nestled in the grass. She dipped the brush in more paint and did not look away from the paper.
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about it.”
Hannah shrugged and studied the brushstroke she had created. “I don’t think the other girls like me very much.”
The admission surprised Annabelle. “Why do you say that?”
“One of the girls said I have white hair and it makes me look like an old woman. And another one said I was not very smart. They are not very nice sometimes.”
“Oh, I understand.” Annabelle scooted closer to Hannah and tucked her legs beneath her.
“How could you understand? I thought you said you didn’t go to school with other girls.”
Annabelle nodded. The child had a point. But she did know what it was like to be on the outside looking in. For the past two years she had fought to prove her merit. The memory of the night of the Baldwin dinner flashed before her. But nothing she’d done had made a difference.
A breeze danced through the orchard, carrying on it the scent of peaches at their prime. Annabelle hugged her knees to her. “Well, I don’t think your hair makes you look like an old lady. Quite the opposite. It is the purest blonde, and I happen to know for a fact that the girls tease you because they are jealous.”
Hannah squinted in the sun. “Really?”
“And as far as you being smart, well, I just sat with you in the library and listened to you read dozens of words that you have not read before, and I think that proves how intelligent you are.”
Hannah’s shoulders relaxed, and she tilted her head and pressed the brush to the paper.
As Hannah explored the paints, Annabelle’s own memories of painting as a child surfaced. Her mother used to watch Annabelle paint, just as she was watching Hannah. Mama had been so proud of her accomplishments. She had praised her, encouraged her. But what good would those accomplishments do her now?
Sadness tugged at Annabelle. If Annabelle had married Samuel, it was very probable she would have been a mother by now. It had always been a hope of hers. A dream. She always wanted a daughter and to have a relationship like the one she’d had with her own mother. In her current situation, Annabelle’s prospects were bleak. Who would want to marry a poor teacher?
She thought of Mr. Locke’s words from earlier in the forest. “We are not just placed on this earth haphazardly. Each of us has a path. Each of us has a purpose. It is part of life to find that path and follow it.”
She had thought she knew her pur
pose, thought she had figured out the intricacies of life, but it was not meant to be. Where would her path lead?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The day Owen had both anticipated and dreaded had finally arrived. He tapped the heel of his boot against the marble floor as he waited in Walmsly Hall’s vestibule.
Farley’s home was certainly not as fine as Bancroft Park. The building itself was every bit as old, but whereas Bancroft Park had been meticulously maintained, the demise of the Farley fortune was evident in Walmsly Hall’s current state.
Owen turned as the butler approached.
“Mr. Farley will see you now.”
Owen followed the wiry, hunched man through the great hall, the sound of his boots heavy on the stone floor, to the library’s entrance.
Mr. Farley was a quiet man who did not appear in public often. The fact that he had been in London when Owen and Treadwell were was a peculiar coincidence. It was odd that Treadwell and Mr. Farley would speak to each other while they were in another city but would rarely cross the bridge to speak to each other as neighbors.
The hefty man sat in a large chair, a thick book in his hand. He appeared much older than Owen remembered. His dusty-brown hair had whitened, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were etched much deeper than at their previous meeting. Mr. Farley grunted. “I take it you received my letter.”
Owen adjusted his hat in his hand but did not look away from Mr. Farley’s direct stare. “I did.”
“Sit, Locke.” Mr. Farley snapped his book closed and tossed it on the desk. The thud echoed loudly in the tidy room.
Owen sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, but he was far from comfortable.
“Can I offer you refreshment?” The offer sounded less than genuine.
Owen was not here for any other reason than to discuss Kirtley Meadow. “No, thank you.”
“Let’s get to it.” Mr. Farley rubbed his hands together. “I spoke with Treadwell. He says you are interested in purchasing some of my land.”
“I am.”
“And what would a gamekeeper like you want with it?”
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 18