At the landing she stopped to take several deep, steadying breaths and allowed her pulse to slow. She wanted to put the awkwardness behind her and focus on enjoying her few hours of precious freedom. She stroked her hand down her gown, smoothing the fabric that still bore a few wrinkles from being folded in her trunk.
Uncle Edmund was waiting for her in the main vestibule. After the service he had returned to his study to retrieve a handful of books, and now he stood at the edge of the stairs, waiting for her. As she approached, he looked at the box in her hands. “What’s this?”
“My watercolors. I hope you don’t mind. I thought it might be nice to do some painting this afternoon.”
“Here, I will trade you.” He reached out to take the watercolor box from her. “These books are a bit lighter than that box.”
Together they crossed the grounds as they walked to the cottage. Annabelle had come to Fellsworth expecting her uncle to be as she remembered him: strict and severe. But the harsh man she remembered from her childhood was really more quiet and thoughtful. Over the last several weeks she had grown to see a softer side of him—a side that cared deeply for those around him.
The sun splayed on the manicured lawn. Its warmth felt comforting on her arms and seeped through the bonnet atop her head. They passed through the girls’ playground and garden where the girls were spending their free time.
“It is good to see the children run, isn’t it?” Her uncle’s love for his life’s work was evident. “Such activity is healthy for them.”
Annabelle focused on a group of girls skipping rope. What would it have been like to have such a childhood? “Did you and Mama play like that?”
“Your mother was forever in trouble for climbing trees. One time she got stuck on a branch and our father had to climb up after her.” He chuckled. “Our mother was beside herself with attempting to make Mary more ladylike.”
Annabelle smiled. She liked hearing stories of her mother. “I often wonder what life would be like if she were still living. I do miss her.”
“As do I.” He squinted in the bright sun and furrowed his bushy brows. “I harbor regrets when it comes to Mary. I often wish I would have done more to encourage our relationship after she married your father. But she was so headstrong.”
“Of all the words I could think of to describe Mama, headstrong would not be one of them. Determined? Perhaps. But not headstrong.”
The cottage’s iron gate squeaked on its hinges as Uncle Edmund pushed it open. “As much as I hate to admit it, your father and I did not agree on much of anything, and I think it embarrassed your mother. But you are here now, and our family can be complete once again.”
Our family.
How long had her heart yearned to belong somewhere? His words indicated that she was a welcome addition to their home, and her spirit warmed.
Later that afternoon after the meal, Annabelle joined her aunt and uncle in the cottage’s modest parlor. Sunshine flooded the quaint room through two large paned windows. Three thick wooden beams ran the length of the white plaster ceiling, and two faded sofas stood perpendicular to the massive hearth. No fire blazed in the space because of the late summer heat, but the scent of years of wood smoke lingered.
Her uncle had placed her watercolor box on a small side table just inside the door. As her aunt sewed and her uncle read, Annabelle stepped over to the box, popped it open, let down the compartment on the underside of the lid, and retrieved a stack of paintings. She flipped through the thick papers, reliving flashes of memories with each one.
She had never shown her work to anyone besides her mother, governess, or painting master. No one else would have been interested. Even Samuel had shown little interest in her creative endeavors, and he referred to painting as a trivial occupation that ladies played at to pass their time.
But after speaking with her uncle about her mother, she thought he might appreciate seeing her likeness, even if it was only a mediocre resemblance.
Painting in hand, Annabelle turned and approached her aunt and uncle. “I thought you might like to see this. I painted it after Mama died, but it’s the last likeness I have of her.”
Uncle Edmund lowered his book, looked up, and removed his spectacles. He discarded the book on the chair’s arm and stood, his attention fixed on the painting. His words were slow, as if greatly awed by what he was seeing. “Oh, Annabelle, my dear, look at how you have captured her likeness.”
She felt sheepish under the praise. “I tried. I was young when I painted this. It was done after she died. But I thought you might enjoy it, if for no other reason than the memory.”
Aunt Lydia stood and stepped behind her husband. “Why, it looks just like her!”
Annabelle picked up another small portrait. “I know you have never met Thomas, but I painted this one of him. I could not persuade him to sit very long to have his portrait painted, but it is a pretty close likeness.”
Uncle Edmund lowered the picture of her mother and took the one of Thomas. He studied it for several moments. “I see your father when I look at this. So many years have passed since I saw him last, but I recognize him just the same.”
She wanted to ask so many questions but held her tongue. She was not sure if it was appropriate. Her papa was a strict man, but regardless everyone seemed to be fond of him. Everyone except for Uncle Edmund.
After several moments of silence, she asked, “Why did you dislike my father so?”
“It isn’t that I disliked your father exactly.” Uncle Edmund lowered the painting and returned his spectacles to his face. He pressed his lips together, as if contemplating his words. “Mary and I lost our father when I was ten years of age, and it was very difficult on all of us. With no other man in the house, I always felt fiercely protective of Mary, even though she was three years my senior. Our father’s death significantly altered our financial status. When Mary met your father, she believed him to offer her the security we had been without and to be the answer to her problems.”
Annabelle sank into the chair next to the table. Her own situation was in some ways similar to her mother’s. She had never heard another person speak about her parents’ relationship, and she sensed she was about to get the answers to the questions her uncle had put into her head all those years ago.
“I was concerned with his nature from the very beginning. He was too spontaneous, too impudent. But Mary saw none of what I saw. She saw a handsome, brazen, daring young man who was rapidly rising in society. I believe she allowed her fear of an unknown future to cloud her judgment. By the time the truth of his nature was revealed, she was already married.”
Sensing her aunt’s gaze, Annabelle looked to see her aunt smiling at her, as if eager to change the subject to a more pleasant one. Her aunt’s blue eyes lit, and her faded copper curls bounced. “I’ve a brilliant idea. You should paint your uncle!”
Annabelle raised her eyebrow. “It has been a long while since I painted a portrait. I am sure it would disappoint.”
“But how do you know if you do not try? Oh, please do. It would mean ever so much to me. I have no likeness of him, and I can’t recall the last time we had a painter at Fellsworth.”
Annabelle looked at the earnest sincerity in her aunt’s expression. She and her uncle had done so much for her—how could Annabelle deny her?
“If you promise to extend grace,” she offered.
Her aunt clasped her hands together. Uncle Edmund cracked a rare smile. “I’ve never been painted before.”
“We can get started right now if you like.” Annabelle stood from her chair. “Be seated in the chair next to the window so we have the light.” She arranged her things around her, asked for some water, and set up her box.
Annabelle looped her painting smock over her head and tied it behind her back. “After my mother died, my governess insisted that I study under a painting master to develop the skill. I fear I had no talent for music or dancing, and I suspect she feared this would be my only lad
ylike endeavor. I suppose all of those hours have proven to be in vain now. For what good is such a talent now?”
Aunt Lydia tilted her head. “What do you mean? Do you not enjoy it?”
“Of course I enjoy it.” Annabelle smoothed her paintbrush’s bristles. “But it does little to help me at the school. I fear I am dreadfully behind the other teachers in what we are to be sharing with the girls. Of course, reading and arithmetic are one thing. But I can hardly teach sewing or any of the domestic arts.”
Aunt Lydia stepped closer. “But just because it is not helpful at the moment does not make it invaluable.”
Uncle Edmund shifted his position. “Please do not make the mistake of thinking that just because you do not use the talent on a daily basis, the time and effort are wasted. It is true of any skill, is it not? The dedication and discipline required to develop any talent are what is important. The task at hand is not nearly as meaningful as the shaping of the character and the mind. Your work, and the time it took, is evident. And that is where the pride should lie.”
Never had anyone spoken such words to her. Her papa acted as if painting was a waste of time, but her uncle seemed to understand the importance of it, and that sentiment alone endeared him to her all the more.
The afternoon light slid across the room as they remained for quite a while in silence. Uncle Edmund sat in his chair, still and straight. Aunt Lydia sewed. Annabelle painted. And for a time she felt as if all was normal at last.
The clock on the mantel struck the four o’clock hour, and her uncle looked to the timepiece. “I expect Mr. Locke to visit today. I should have thought he would be here by now.”
Annabelle’s brush slowed at the mention of Mr. Locke’s name. Ever since their private interlude in the forest, he had occupied her mind. At the very thought of him, her heart fluttered within her.
“He is an interesting person, isn’t he?” she said, not taking her gaze from her work.
“There isn’t a finer man in the area. I knew his father well, and I am pleased to say that he is the very likeness of the man.”
Annabelle bit her lip as she tapped her brush in the color. If she was to learn the truth about him, there would be no better person to ask than Uncle Edmund. “I have heard rumors about him.”
“Rumors?”
“Yes.” Annabelle lifted her eyebrow playfully. “I am sure it is no surprise that the teachers have a story about everyone.”
Aunt Lydia clucked her tongue. “I’d not doubt that. Those women will take a story and run with it. What tales have they been spinning?”
Annabelle lowered her brush. “I heard his wife was murdered. Surely there is some mistake.”
“Sadly, no.” Uncle Edmund exchanged glances with his wife. “It’s been several years now, but the story is still as sad as it was the day it occurred. It was a black mark on our village.”
“But what happened? It is hard to believe that something so violent could happen here.”
“It is a tragic tale, really.” Her uncle removed his spectacles yet again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Locke’s wife was a gentleman’s daughter, flighty and high-strung. Diana Wilcox was her name. They married quickly. I remember thinking how odd it was that a man as sensible as Mr. Locke would make such a hasty decision. But the decision was made, and he brought her to the gamekeeper’s cottage at Bancroft Park. They did not attend the church on the school grounds but one in the village, so we did not see her very often, but there was always something about her that did not quite fit in.”
Annabelle felt an immediate tie with the young woman. Did she herself not feel like an outsider? “How so?”
“She was an unpredictable thing if I remember, but lovely. Very lovely. It was easy to see why a man would be taken by her beauty. But she had another side—a history. As the story goes she was betrothed to a man before Locke, a soldier in the infantry who was believed to be killed in battle. Only after she married Mr. Locke did her soldier return without so much as a scratch.
“Unbeknownst to Mr. Locke she renewed her acquaintance with the soldier. No one knows with certainty what happened, and probably nobody ever will fully know, but Mr. Locke and one of the under-keepers returned from a hunt to find them both dead, and with Miss Hannah asleep in her cradle, blessed child. To learn of the death of a loved one and a betrayal at the same time, why, it was enough to crumble any man. The Wilcox family asked to take the child, but Mr. Locke refused to part with her.”
The story sickened Annabelle. “Poor Mr. Locke.”
“Of course, scandal and rumors ensued. It has been all these years and still people whisper when he passes. For the first several years he was quite a changed man—dark and angry and sullen—but more recently there has been a glimmer of the old man returning.”
Annabelle slumped her shoulders. Hearing the story from her uncle, a reliable source, seemed to make it that much worse. “Such a horrific story.”
“He is dedicated to his work and his daughter, as he should be.” Aunt Lydia fixed her pointed gaze on Annabelle. “But what he needs is the love of a good lady.”
Annabelle refused to meet Aunt Lydia’s stare. Heat crept up her neck. Such a comment.
“Oh, look.” Aunt Lydia stood from her chair, looking out the front window. “There is Mr. Locke now.”
Chapter Thirty
Owen knew in an instant that he was in danger of losing his heart.
He’d stopped by the superintendent’s cottage as planned after spending the day with Hannah to inform Langsby about seeing the boys in Kirtley Meadow. But when he arrived, the unexpected sight of Miss Thorley slowed his steps and his breath. For a moment he saw nothing but the brightness of her hazel eyes and the luster in her light-brown hair.
She wore a gown of light blue. The soft fabric rested delicately on her shoulders and exposed graceful white arms. Not since London had he seen her in anything besides the black Fellsworth gown with a high neckline and long sleeves.
She was beautiful.
And she was looking at him.
For a moment he forgot why he was here.
“Mr. Locke.” Langsby looked up from his chair. “I would rise to greet you, but my niece is painting my likeness. I do not wish to disrupt her.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disrupting you.” Owen found his voice, bowed toward Miss Thorley and her aunt, and gestured toward the painting. “May I?”
“By all means.” Miss Thorley leaned back so he could see the work. “I am almost done.”
Mrs. Langsby lowered her sewing. “She has been working at it all afternoon. Is it not a work of art?”
Miss Thorley continued her painting. It was amazing, really. Delicate strokes spoke to a keen eye for detail. She captured the older man’s essence, from the wrinkling around his eyes to his thin lips to the spectacles balanced on his nose. She had turned simple colors and abstract strokes into something captivating.
He had never watched anyone paint before. It was a mesmerizing process, how she could take the medium and turn it into something completely different.
“It’s beautiful.” Owen chuckled. “Well, as beautiful as Langsby can be.”
She laughed at his joke, brushed her hair from her face with the back of her hand, and tilted her head as she studied her work in silence for several seconds. “I think my uncle has a noble brow.”
“Noble brow indeed.” Langsby huffed and then cleared his throat before he turned his attention to Owen. “What did you want to speak with me about?”
Owen fidgeted with his hat in his hands, acutely aware of Miss Thorley’s presence. “You have company. I’ve no wish to intrude. I can come back at a later time.”
“Nonsense.” Langsby waved his hand dismissively. “Anything we discuss in front of my wife and niece will stay here. Sit, Locke.”
Owen knew how gossip traveled in the school, so if Langsby was willing to discuss matters in front of Miss Thorley, she must have his trust. Owen did as bid and sat next to Miss Thorle
y, the only remaining free chair in the room.
He sharpened his focus. “I have been asked by Mr. Farley of Walmsly Hall to look into poaching activity on his land.”
Mr. Langsby sobered. “Farley? That is odd. I was under the impression that the relationship between Walmsly Hall and Bancroft Park was quite strained.”
“It is. At least between Mr. Farley and the Treadwell family. But this is a private matter, one that does not have to do with Bancroft Park.”
“How interesting.” Langsby shifted toward him slightly. “Go on.”
Owen was keenly aware of how Miss Thorley was watching him from the corner of her eye. He was hesitant to say too much, but what did he have to hide from Mr. Langsby, Miss Thorley, or anyone for that matter? “I am interested in purchasing Kirtley Meadow from Mr. Farley. Up until now Mr. Farley has refused to part with the land, but he has relented. The stipulation is that I help him rectify the poaching issue on his land.”
“Kirtley Meadow. That is where the old gamekeeper cottage is, right?”
Owen nodded. “It is. But that’s not why I am here. I was at the property this morning, and I encountered two more Fellsworth boys.”
Langsby’s expression darkened, and he nearly jumped from his chair. “Fellsworth boys? Who were they?”
“I did not get a good look at their faces, but I recognized their attire.” He glanced at Mrs. Langsby, whose worried eyes were fixed on her husband. Her lips had turned down into a frown. “I know you have taken steps to address the issue, but I am growing increasingly concerned the issue is bigger than we thought.”
Langsby drew a deep breath and rubbed his bony hand across his forehead. “I had hoped that business would be past us by now.”
Owen continued. “Maybe we are missing someone obvious. Perhaps one of the blacksmiths or maybe one of the brewers? In my experience the most successful poachers are the least likely candidates. They appear to be hardworking, upstanding citizens, which is the perfect cover for their work. They hide in plain daylight, which is why they’re so difficult to apprehend.”
A Stranger at Fellsworth Page 20