A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Owen adjusted his hat on his knee. “My family used to live on that land. I was born there, my father was born there, and his father before him. My family members are buried there. Surely you can understand the attachment.”

  Mr. Farley shook his head. “A weak sentiment, boy.”

  Owen ignored the patronizing tone and the condescending use of the word boy. It mattered not to him what Mr. Farley thought about his reasons for wanting the land.

  When Owen did not respond, Mr. Farley sat back in his chair. “I’ve worked hard over the years to expand the estate and make it profitable. What makes you think I am willing to sell?”

  Walmsly Hall was in financial trouble. Everyone knew it, but Owen thought it best to avoid the topic. The man who had occupied the former gamekeeper lodge at Kirtley Meadow died a few years ago, and it had been sitting empty ever since. “With the tenant’s death, I thought it would be an ideal time.”

  “An ideal time for you or for me?”

  Owen only returned the man’s pointed stare.

  Mr. Farley broke the silence. “I’m growing too old for games, and I can see you are in no humor for idle conversation, so I will be blunt. Normally I would never consider such a suggestion that I am in need of assistance. Just as I am too old for games, I am too set in my ways to go tramping across forest and vale, and from what I am told, you are the man most capable of helping me. I’ve not had a gamekeeper on my land since Landem died two years ago, and we are facing the same issues you are facing at Bancroft Park.”

  “Poachers,” Owen supplied. “All the wooded lands in the area are. With last year’s flooding and the closing of the Wickford mine, people are growing desperate.”

  “I have heard reports of gamekeepers south of here taking money to turn a blind eye to the deeds of the less fortunate. What do you think of that?”

  Owen narrowed his gaze. “If that is your way of asking my opinion on the behavior of some of my colleagues, then I would respond that gamekeeping is not a hobby I play at, sir. This is my profession. I have dedicated my life to it, and I know no other way.”

  “I meant no offense.” Farley stood and limped to the window and stared out for several moments. “I like you, Locke. I think you are a man of your word, and my instincts are rarely wrong on such things. I am losing more and more game by the day. I went hunting the other day, for my own amusement, and did not come across a single animal worth shooting. I have reports daily from the groundskeepers that they sight strangers on my land. I do not have the manpower to take care of the situation on my own. Help me with the poachers, and I will sell you the land you want. I am willing to come down on my requested sum if you can find the parties responsible.”

  Farley reached for a piece of paper and his quill. He drew his gray eyebrows together and dipped the quill in the inkwell. He wrote on the paper and then passed it over the desk to Owen. “Go on. Take it.”

  Owen stood from his chair and accepted the paper. The ink was still wet as he read the number. He blinked. This number he could afford.

  Owen was careful to show no reaction, for his enthusiasm at the prospect was tempered by reality. His spare time was limited, and what he did have was dedicated to Hannah. Farley was asking a great deal of him to rid the land of poachers. He was unsure how he would find the time to meet the man’s request.

  Owen shifted his stance. “I am employed by Bancroft Park and my time is spent there.”

  “I do not see this as a contest, Locke. Like I said, I am not interested in games. My only interest here is preserving the self-sufficiency of my estate as a whole and ensuring there will be enough game to support future generations without having to reintroduce animals into the space. If I must part with land at a lower price than I think it is worth, so be it. Take me up on this offer. I will only make it once. Rid Walmsly Hall land of poachers, pay the requested sum, and Kirtley Meadow will be yours.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Owen had not been at liberty to set foot on Kirtley Meadow since he was a boy—not and avoid trespassing. But now, with Mr. Farley’s permission, he stepped eagerly over the mossy earth and was free to explore the space once more.

  In his mind’s eye, he could still see his father ahead of him to point out any traps that might have been left. Even today he carried a stick to tap the ground, just in case a wayward trap remained.

  Kirtley Meadow was a beautiful bit of earth, especially at this time of day, when the sun was just beginning its ascent to the heavens. It had mossy knolls and valleys lush with emerald undergrowth. A wide creek bubbled through the grassy lowland, tumbling over smooth gray stones that had likely been in the same place since before Walmsly Hall was even constructed.

  Farley had been right about one thing—the area held few signs of wildlife. No rabbit nests dotted the low-lying brush. No indented fox trails led down to the water. What he did find were numerous signs of human activity. Something near his boot caught his eye, and he knelt to pick up several frayed rope fibers. To most they would have blended in seamlessly with the long grass. But he had seen this before.

  He needed to be on his way if he would be joining Hannah for church on the school grounds. He rarely hunted on Sundays and restricted any work to merely tending the animals in his care, for he devoted the afternoons to Hannah. He squeezed the rope in his hand. If he was to find the source of the poaching on Walmsly Hall grounds, as well as at Bancroft Park, he needed to act whenever possible.

  He walked along the creek bed, which fed into a fishing pond. At this time of day, the fish should be close to the surface, but even though the pond was relatively clear, he saw none. He began to circle the pond, where the mud was soft. He should be able to see signs of life at this pond—hoofprints from deer drinking from the water, paw prints of the curious fox—but he saw mothing. Instead, boot prints caught his eye.

  He knelt next to them. They were smaller than his, like those of a youth. His mind went to young Mr. Winter. But these boots prints were too small, even for him.

  Owen continued his path around the pond. Several more boot impressions marked the water’s edge. He reversed his route around the pond, disguising his own boot markings as best he could. He decided it would be best to return at night.

  As he turned to go back through the forest, something caught his eye. A flash of black. A color he would not normally see in the forest. He stepped backward, retreating into the long morning shadows.

  And then he saw it again.

  He did not have his rifle, but his pistol was tucked in his coat. He knew better than to enter the woods without any protection, not because of the animals, but for this very reason. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled it free.

  He stepped toward the sight. And then, the figure whipped around. Owen stiffened.

  It was a boy. In a black coat. A black Fellsworth School coat.

  Owen lowered his weapon. He’d not shoot a boy. The boy sped across the woodland and disappeared into the thick forest. And then another boy popped up and followed close behind.

  Something was going on with the boys at Fellsworth School.

  Someone—undoubtedly an experienced poacher—was influencing them at the school, and it spread beyond young Mr. Winter. There could be no question—it was far too coincidental to encounter not one but three boys.

  He had a hunch that if he could track down the man responsible for this, then he would take a significant step forward in reducing the poaching activity not only at Bancroft Park, but at Walmsly Hall as well.

  Later that morning, Owen met Hannah just outside of the Fellsworth main hall for church.

  The student body was too large for the church in the village, and as a result both the boys’ school and the girls’ school gathered together once a week for service in the school’s chapel. The service was the one part of school life that was open to the villagers.

  Sunday morning was usually Owen’s favorite time of the week. It was a special time with Hannah, and then they would
go back to the lodge. But today, his heart was heavy.

  Once seated next to Hannah on the bench they sat on every week, he looked out over the crowd assembled. Almost three hundred children attended the school—half of whom were boys. And someone was attempting to sway some of those boys to try their hand at poaching.

  Hannah opened her prayer book and retrieved a piece of paper. She extended it toward him. “Look what I did, Papa.”

  He unfolded the paper, and on it was an orange circle with green leaves. Her face beamed, and he put his arm around her. “Did you paint this?”

  “I did. Miss Thorley helped me. Do you know what it is?”

  Owen looked at the picture. Surely he should know what it was, but he could not figure it out. “Of course I do, but why don’t you tell me and see if I am correct.”

  “It is a peach.”

  Owen nodded. “Exactly what I thought, poppet.”

  He plopped a kiss on the top of her cap and turned his attention to the other happenings in the room.

  Even with the windows open, the high-ceilinged room caged the early autumn warmth, and despite the discomfort, the room was quiet. It was amazing, really. Row after row of children sat motionless, clad in heavy, black clothing. And they were so well behaved.

  Owen could remember being a boy and looking over the gate at the Fellsworth children in the yards tending to the school’s orchards and animals. It was one of the reasons he was so insistent that his daughter participate. He wanted her to learn to think for herself. Read. Write. But most importantly, he wanted her to know that her value lay not in making a successful match as an adult, but in developing her character now.

  Hannah sat next to him quietly, primly, her small hands folded in her lap. Her hair was covered with a white cap, and only tiny white-gold strands hinted to the color. The caps made all the girls look alike. Modest and proper.

  The teachers sat in a long row of chairs lining the stone wall. The male teachers lined the east wall, the female teachers the west. The light streaming in from the windows landed on the female teachers. They, too, appeared uncomfortable under the heat. The formal teachers were at the front, and the junior teachers to the back. They all were dressed in high-necked gowns of black, and white caps covered each head. But in the row of women, Miss Thorley sat the straightest. She radiated elegance. Perhaps it was her nature. Perhaps it was the way she was taught. He liked the thought of Miss Thorley influencing his daughter and teaching her. He would be proud if Hannah grew to exhibit such strength and grace.

  The rest of the staff was along the back row. He spotted Miss Crosley right away. She leaned back in her chair against the wall. He could not help but think of when he saw her with the man. He had no wish to judge, but he was surprised that she would risk her position in such a way.

  He completed his scan of the room, looking down the row of male teachers. It was presumptive to assume that one of the men was aware of, or perhaps promoting, poaching among the male students. The boys all had humble beginnings. With the school’s help they would have brighter futures, but if they continued down the poaching path, their futures would be bleak indeed.

  He knew, at least by sight, the male teachers—Mr. Hemstead, Mr. Miller, Mr. Bryant, Mr. Ashworth, and a handful of others. Some of them had come through the school system, and others had traveled far to assume their current roles.

  He lifted his gaze to the workers seated at the back of the room. Attending Sunday service was a requirement for everyone who worked on the school grounds, and in the back sat the brewmaster, the blacksmith, the stable hands. Any one of them—or none of them—could be involved in the poaching. And Owen would not rest until he found out the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  He’d been watching her. Direct stares. Subtle grins.

  Annabelle exited the church as quickly as she could. Despite the morning’s stifling heat, her blood ran cold. Not since the night her brother struck her had her nerves felt so frayed.

  She hurried across the school grounds, slowing only once to cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure she was not being followed. From a distance, she saw him through the swarm of people, standing on the edge of the church grounds, speaking with a man she could not identify. Even now, his gaze was on her.

  Mr. Bryant.

  Perhaps her imagination was getting the best of her. Maybe he wasn’t looking at her, but only in her direction. It would not be the first time she’d fretted unnecessarily since arriving at Fellsworth.

  But this felt different. Mr. Bryant was different. He knew her brother. He’d followed her into the village and watched her as she attempted to sell her jewelry. Perhaps his attention was innocent enough, but the unwanted focus revived the fear associated with her decision to leave London. Those facts alone made Annabelle want to put as much distance as possible between the two of them.

  Before long she was at the girls’ building, and she dashed up to the attic chamber. She was the first one back, and she bustled into the tidy, stark room, pulling her cap from her head as she did so. She hurried toward the window to look at the grounds below.

  Mr. Bryant was nowhere to be seen.

  She heaved a sigh and sank down on her bed. Every other Sunday afternoon she would be relieved of her duties at the school, and today was her day. She needed to free her mind from the discomfort Mr. Bryant had caused her if she was to enjoy the afternoon.

  Crosley entered the room just behind her and dropped her reticule on her bed. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve been invited to dine at my aunt and uncle’s.” Annabelle reached behind her back to unfasten her gown.

  Crosley raised her light eyebrows. “When are you leaving?”

  “Presently.” Annabelle struggled to untie the strings closing her gown. “I want to change attire. I can hardly wait to be in something besides this black one.”

  Jane, who arrived after Crosley and was also going to enjoy a free afternoon, noticed Annabelle’s struggle with the tie and approached her. “I will help you.”

  With a grateful smile Annabelle pivoted and allowed Jane to untie her gown. Then she shrugged it from her shoulders. She quickly changed her petticoats to one of lighter muslin and relished the sensation of the refined fabric. With Jane’s help she donned a white underdress and a pale-blue netted overdress—one that she had not even touched in weeks.

  Crosley eyed Annabelle’s selection. Annabelle thought for a moment she was going to disapprove. But then Crosley wordlessly changed into the gown of cream sateen Annabelle had given her the night she left London. Alterations had been made. In addition to the lilac flowers, pink ones had been embroidered along the hemline, and lace trim had been added to the sleeves. Crosley shook down her blonde tresses and masterfully braided several lengths, looped them, and pinned them to the top of her head.

  “I’m going for a walk.” Crosley straightened from the looking glass and snatched her reticule from the bed.

  Miss Stiles walked into the room, face still flushed from the morning’s warmth. “Would you like company? I need to go back down to the kitchen garden. I’ll walk with you.”

  Crosley turned around. “Thank you, no. Some time alone is just what I need.” But the hastiness of her tone told another story.

  They watched as she left the room. Jane shook her head with a tsk. “I’ll bet a month’s wages that she is going to meet with Mr. Hemstead. And oh, I wish she wouldn’t.”

  Annabelle bit her lip. She shouldn’t comment on Crosley’s actions. Ever since their harsh conversation in the garden, the gap in their relationship had widened. Crosley had grown more secretive and quiet.

  “It is a good thing Mrs. Brathay has not learned of her behavior.” Jane turned to allow Annabelle to help her with the buttons on the back of her gown. “Girls have been dismissed for less. But then again, Miss Crosley has become somewhat of a golden child, hasn’t she?”

  Annabelle dropped her hands, confused by Jane’s words. “What do you mean?”
>
  Jane’s eyes widened. “Surely you have seen how she sews, have you not?”

  Annabelle fixed her eyes on the buttons in front of her. “I have.”

  “Margaret mended one of the girl’s dresses, and Mrs. Brathay took notice of her work and was quite surprised to learn that a girl who had served as an elegant lady’s maid was working in the kitchen. The rumor is that she will be promoted to teacher.”

  Annabelle whirled around. “A teacher of what?”

  “Sewing and domestic arts. Mrs. Brathay thinks she could be beneficial to the girls who will be going into service or seeking employment for dressmaking.”

  A strange emotion pricked Annabelle. She liked to think that she wanted the best for Crosley, but now she wasn’t even sure she really knew who Crosley was.

  Annabelle’s stomach sank at the thought of her own shortcomings as a teacher. The sad reality disturbed her: Crosley was excelling in her skills regardless of her odd behavior, and the only reason Annabelle was retaining her position here was because of her uncle.

  After Jane was free from her gown, she dug in her chest for a fresh one. “You still have never said how you and Crosley knew each other prior to coming here. One may suspect there is something to hide.”

  Annabelle hesitated and fussed with a bonnet. She had managed to avoid the question thus far, but she had not been asked the question directly. “We knew each other in London, and she decided to travel with me to Fellsworth for a new beginning. Other than that there really isn’t much to tell.”

  “But you are so different from each other. In fact, there are days when it would be hard to know the two of you were even acquainted at all.”

  “Relationships change over time, I suppose.” Annabelle donned her bonnet. The conversation was becoming too personal. “Enjoy the day, Jane. I will see you later this evening.” She left their small attic room, her watercolor box in hand, and rushed down the paneled staircase, the ancient steps groaning under the weight of each footfall.