A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Langsby sat back in his chair and looked toward the beams crossing the planked ceiling. “Let me think. The staff here is a large one. But my wife, the headmaster, the headmistress, or I have hand-picked each one. It would be a shocking revelation if it came to be.”

  “Keep a watch. I do not wish to be an alarmist, nor do I wish to see a boy enter a life of crime. I would like to have your permission to speak with members of your staff to see if I can learn anything.”

  “You have my permission to speak with anyone you like regarding this matter. I shall speak with the staff as an entirety and reiterate the seriousness of such a situation. Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We will do whatever necessary to put an end to this.”

  “The sooner the better,” added Owen. “Hunting season begins in just days, and the forests and fields could become quite dangerous with the hunting parties Mr. Treadwell has planned.”

  “Can the hunting season really be upon us again?” Mrs. Langsby fanned her face. “Merciful heavens, this summer has flown by.”

  Owen smiled at the woman. How she hated to see her husband upset—an endearing quality. She possessed a gift for steering conversations, and he recognized her desire to shift the conversation now. “It has. Autumn’s colors are already presenting themselves.”

  Mrs. Langsby’s face brightened. “And, of course, the Autumn Festival will be here before we know it.”

  Miss Thorley lifted her head. “I have heard about this festival. Jane told me about it.”

  “Oh, you will adore it, my dear. It is the largest celebration in Fellsworth! An entire evening of dancing and eating, laughing and merriment. People come from far and wide to join in the merriment.” Mrs. Langsby looked at Owen. “You will be attending, will you not?”

  “I would not miss it.”

  Mrs. Langsby stood. “Will you join us for dinner, Mr. Locke? Cook made a special meal for us in anticipation of Annabelle joining us, despite the fact that it is Sunday.”

  Owen adjusted his grip on his hat. “This is a family dinner. I could not impose.”

  “When is a friend an imposition?” exclaimed Mrs. Langsby.

  He had to admit, dinner and time with friends, including the lovely Miss Thorley, was definitely an improvement over his plans for the evening. “If you are sure, I would be happy to join you.”

  Dinner passed with easy conversation. In fact, happiness welled within Annabelle at the simple event. This feeling, this sensation, was what her heart had longed for. Her uncle teased her with playfulness. Her aunt fussed over her with motherly love. And not since Samuel had Annabelle’s heart leapt at a simple smile or question from a man as it did with Mr. Locke.

  Outside the window the sun was setting, shooting brilliant strokes of pinks and oranges across the fading blue sky. Tomorrow would signal the start of another week’s tasks. She was sad as the evening was drawing to a close. The thought of returning to the tiny attic room and the loneliness lingering there dimmed her spirit. Even her aunt and uncle’s tiny attic room seemed preferable to the one she shared with Jane, Louise, and Crosley.

  But despite her disappointment at the day’s ending, Annabelle’s heart swelled—could this be what her heart was seeking? A home with her aunt and uncle? The attention of a gamekeeper? Simple dinners and genuine conversation?

  At dinner’s end Uncle Edmund was called to the school on a matter of urgent business, and Aunt Lydia escorted Annabelle and Mr. Locke back to the parlor where Annabelle needed to pack her painting supplies.

  Aunt Lydia was about to be seated when a twinkle sparkled in her eye. In an abrupt motion she reached out and took Mr. Locke by the arm. “Oh, I’ve a brilliant idea. While you are waiting for your uncle to return to escort you home, Annabelle dear, you must paint Mr. Locke.”

  Shyness rushed in a flush to Annabelle’s cheeks. Her emotions concerning Mr. Locke were changing and growing at such a rapid pace that the idea of studying him so intently unnerved her.

  Owen’s laugh relieved her. “Miss Thorley’s talents would be put to much better use painting someone else. Yourself, perhaps?”

  “La, what do I need with a painting of myself?” Aunt Lydia waved her hand in the air. “But you, Mr. Locke, how Hannah would treasure such a gift.”

  He smiled. In fact, he was smiling more and more. When she first met him, he had seemed somber. Serious. But tonight his behavior seemed relaxed. He was in the company of his friends, and his comments were unguarded. His countenance was quite changed.

  He turned dark, smiling eyes on her. “What do you think, Miss Thorley? Mrs. Langsby seems to think you can paint me. Do you?”

  His direct attentions incited a flutter in her heart. She could not deny that the thought of spending more time with him appealed to her. In fact, a renewed energy flowed through her. She grinned. “For Hannah, I will try. Sit there, by the fire. We don’t have much light.”

  He straightened his coat and sat on the chair.

  Her aunt clasped her hands before her. “I’ve got to write instructions for the cook, so I will be just in the kitchen. I trust you will let me know if you need anything?”

  Annabelle could not prevent her eyes from widening.

  Her aunt was leaving her.

  Alone.

  With Mr. Locke.

  In London this never would happen. Time and time again she was learning that the rules of etiquette and decorum were slackened in Fellsworth.

  Annabelle muttered a response to her aunt’s question. “Uh, I can’t think of anything I need.”

  Mr. Locke gave a little shrug. If the idea of spending time alone with her unnerved him, he gave no indication of such. “You are kind to offer, but I am quite content.”

  He pushed his fingers through his curly black locks. “Shall we get started, Miss Thorley?”

  Aunt Lydia propped her hands on her hips. “Well then, I shall be back shortly. And when I return, I expect to see a lovely portrait of our Mr. Locke.”

  She scurried from the room, and as her footsteps quieted, the crackling of the fire—and the heat radiating from it—intensified.

  Annabelle drew a deep breath. Her aunt’s intentions were obvious. A flush of excitement warmed her face. Aunt Lydia had clearly decided that Mr. Locke was an appropriate beau for her. She had made the comment before he arrived that day, and several suggestive comments and knowing glances during the course of the dinner confirmed Annabelle’s suspicions.

  Now she felt strangely nervous as she assessed him. The fire’s glow flickered on the angles of his face, and she set about arranging her painting materials in preparation. “Have you ever had your portrait painted before?”

  He gave a good-natured laugh. “Actually, it might surprise you to learn that I have.”

  She raised her eyebrow. “Oh? Recently?”

  “Well, actually it was not a portrait exactly. It was a silhouette.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, his tone sobered, and he looked down at his hands in his lap. “My wife created it for me, at her home in London before we were married. She was quite talented.”

  The mention of his wife surprised her. With Mr. Locke’s reserve it was a personal topic she did not expect to arise. But since he seemed so comfortable with it, she felt brave. She cleaned her brush in the water pot and blotted it on her towel. “My uncle tells me she was a gentleman’s daughter.”

  “Which probably makes you wonder what she was doing with me?”

  She snapped her head up, afraid he was offended, but a smile crossed his lips—the same smile he had used with his friends at dinner.

  The tension in her shoulders eased. “Well, you have said yourself that you do not care for London and you much prefer life in the country.”

  “You are right, Miss Thorley. Very perceptive. But I did not meet Diana in London. I met her in Bath.”

  “Bath?” The elegant town was a winter favorite for many of her London acquaintances. “I have never been there myself but have heard it is intoxicating.”

&
nbsp; “Well, I am not sure if intoxicating is the word I would use to describe it. Busy, hot, and pompous seem more accurate descriptions. I was accompanying Treadwell to the north to a breeder and he broke his journey in Bath. That is why I was there.”

  “Oh. I see.” She straightened the paper before her. She cast another glance at his straight nose, full lips, and the cleft in his chin. It felt almost indecent to be studying him so intently. A tremor shook her hand as she poised her brush over the paper. “But now you have piqued my curiosity, Mr. Locke. That does not explain how you made your wife’s acquaintance.”

  A smile dimpled his cheek, and he looked to the wall behind her, as if reliving a happy memory. “I was very young at the time, mind you, and was much more likely to throw caution to the wind than at present. Treadwell was invited to a masquerade ball and he invited me to attend.”

  “A masquerade ball!” She laughed, giving her head a shake and pressing her brush against the paper. “You surprise me. I must say that is the last thing I would have expected to hear from you.”

  “It does sound odd, doesn’t it? At the time Treadwell and I had been having a great number of discussions about life in the city versus life in the country. He dared me to attend to see what I thought of his sort of entertainment, behind the anonymity of a mask, no doubt, so I complied.”

  Candlelight illuminated her space as her paintbrush outlined his square jaw. “And what did you think of the event?”

  “For the most part it was tedious. But if it weren’t for the ball, I never would have met Diana. I never meant to attempt to elevate my social standing by attending. Far from it. I meant to observe, nothing more. But I encountered Diana quite by accident, and with my identity hidden, I thought nothing of passing the evening in conversation with such a charming lady. One thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, we were married and she was leaving her life of privilege to move to Fellsworth.”

  She motioned for him to angle his face toward the light. “That is quite a story.”

  “In hindsight I realize I was probably wrong for taking her away from the only life she had known. But at the time, she was so unhappy that I allowed myself to think she needed me to save her from an unpleasant situation.”

  Annabelle remained silent at his story. Had he not saved her from an unpleasant situation as well?

  She wanted to know more, but instead of offering more details on the topic, he fell quiet.

  The conversation shifted and flowed easily as she painted his torso. His broad shoulders. Muscular arms. Dark eyebrows. Intense eyes. He shared a little more about his childhood—about long summer afternoons helping his father in the meadows. She told him about how she spent her childhood afternoons painting with her mother. The conversation was warm, unguarded. It was different than her conversations had been with Samuel.

  Thinking back, she realized her interactions with her former beau had been more about impressing him and improving her status than deepening the bond between them. She’d been so careful not to say anything embarrassing or that would cause him to think of her in a different light. Perhaps it was because she was a little older or she had experienced much more, but she felt no need to alter her opinions or cast a shadow on the truth as she talked with Mr. Locke.

  The door rattled open, and her uncle appeared in the threshold. Annabelle lifted her gaze to the mantel clock, unaware of how much time had passed.

  Uncle Edmund’s return ended their solitude. “What are you up to? More painting?”

  “Yes, Aunt suggested that I paint Mr. Locke.” She leaned back so her uncle could see her work.

  He adjusted the spectacles on his nose as he assessed the painting. “Well now. That is quite impressive. And quite an improvement on the original subject.”

  She laughed at his joke. “I am not finished yet, clearly, but I think I have enough of a start that I can finish it in the coming days.”

  “I hate to hurry you along, dear, but I need to escort you back to your hall by curfew.”

  “Yes, I should be returning to my duties as well.” Mr. Locke stood before he turned to Annabelle. “Thank you, Miss Thorley. I look forward to seeing the finished piece. Please pass along my gratitude to Mrs. Langsby for an enjoyable evening.”

  Mr. Locke bid farewell to Uncle Edmund, and within seconds he was gone.

  Annabelle felt his absence immediately as he exited the parlor. Mr. Locke took with him the energy in the room, and her heart was already longing for the time she would see him again.

  She smiled up at her uncle, who was looking down at her with fatherly affection. “He is a kind man.”

  “A kind man, yes. An honorable one. And he seems quite taken with you, my dear.”

  Heat rushed to her face, but her heart leapt also. Annabelle started to clean her brush. She looked to the empty space where Mr. Locke had been.

  Perhaps her uncle was right. Perhaps Mr. Locke was smitten with her. She allowed herself to remain in the optimistic joy of such a sentiment for a few seconds before forcing her mind back to more practical matters. He was vastly different from Samuel, but had she not also believed Samuel to be different than he actually was?

  She would do well to guard her heart, for as charming as Mr. Locke could be, she knew the pain of betrayal, and she needed to protect herself from it, whatever the cost.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  She’s gone!”

  Annabelle jerked her head up and paused in her task of gathering readers. Mrs. Tomlinson rounded the corner of the middle library, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed. “Mrs. Tomlinson, is something the matter?”

  “Goodness, yes. I just need to catch my breath.” The older woman held one hand to her chest and the other in the air. “Miss Locke is missing.”

  “Hannah Locke?” Annabelle whirled around and lowered the books. “Missing?”

  “Yes. She is nowhere to be found.” Alarm shrilled and quickened the woman’s voice. “We are all on the search for her and cannot locate her anywhere. Have you seen her today?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No. Did you check her chamber?”

  “Of course we did. She is not there.”

  “And you asked the other girls if they have seen her?”

  “Yes.” Her voice rose an octave. The older teacher fanned her flushed face with her hand. “No one has seen her since the midday meal. Oh dear, this is not good.”

  Annabelle tensed. She had enjoyed getting to know Hannah over the past several weeks, and it was not like the girl to defy the rules, let alone disappear. Something had to be wrong. “Have you notified Mrs. Brathay?”

  Mrs. Tomlinson gave her head a sharp nod. “The kitchen staff is out searching the grounds now, but with all this rain they are having trouble.”

  Annabelle looked to the window and to the forest’s edge and the pewter sky above it. A steady, cool rain pelted the wavy glass and settled a chill over the grounds. “Do you think she would have gone to Bancroft Park? To her father?”

  “One of the blacksmiths was going to ride out to the gamekeeper’s lodge, but I am concerned. It is unlikely Mr. Locke will be home this time of day.”

  Annabelle chewed her lip and moved to lookout the window. Two men jogged through the courtyard. They had to be in search of Hannah.

  Genuine concern coursed through her. Annabelle would hate to hear of any child lost or missing, but she had developed a fond attachment to the wide-eyed, friendly child.

  Mrs. Tomlinson knit her fingers together in front of her. “Please keep a lookout for her, and if you think of any place she might be, please do not hesitate to let me know.” With the parting words, the flustered woman quit the library.

  Annabelle looked at the sky again. When Hannah had talked of wanting to go home, she mentioned the path through the forest near the garden wall. Would anyone else know about the path to which Hannah had referred?

  As a clap of thunder grumbled low far in the distance, Annabelle made up her mind. She would go find the path hers
elf.

  She hurried out into the early afternoon. The rain had already started to muddy the paths, and Annabelle wished she had thought to grab her shawl. She made her way to the school garden and headed for the stone wall that separated it from the forest.

  Once she arrived she stared into the path’s dark depths, trying to decide what to do. It looked so different than it did the day she had encountered Mr. Locke. His warnings of traps and animals rushed to mind. Even though Hannah was a gamekeeper’s daughter, did she understand the danger that lurked between her and her home?

  “Hannah!” she called out. A flock of birds suddenly flew from nearby branches, causing Annabelle’s heart to leap in her chest. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called again.

  She waited for a response, but none came.

  Annabelle hurried along the path that bordered the forest. Hannah had told her that the cottage was visible when the trees were bare, so it couldn’t be that far.

  As the distance between her and the school increased, she looked back toward the buildings. People scurried out, no doubt seeking the child, but no one seemed to look toward the forest. Did it not make sense that if Hannah did not want to be at the school she would go home?

  She lifted her skirts and stepped off the path into the woods. Hannah had also said her home was on the other side of the pond. With the pond in sight, Annabelle inched forward, keeping an eye out for traps.

  She walked deeper. Carefully. Watchfully. She rounded the pond’s swampy bank, taking great caution not to slip. Looking behind her, she could no longer see the school. In fact, greenery and branches swallowed any trace of the path she had traversed.

  She swallowed a lump of trepidation as she gazed in the other direction. There was no sight of a cottage, as Hannah had claimed.

  Annabelle turned a full circle, trying to get her bearings, but with the constant movement of wind whistling through the branches and the rain’s disorienting rhythm, she was, herself, becoming quite lost.

  The forest was much noisier than she imagined it would be. Even in the rain the birds fluttered among the branches and called to one another. The wind whistled through the leaves and roared past her. It was as if the forest had its own language—one she did not understand. Annabelle called the child’s name several times, then strained to hear any response.