The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors)

by Sarah E. Ladd

  George headed into the stable with the horse, then turned and waved a finger toward the pony. “Bring ’er over here, boy.”

  Charlie nodded and led the compliant, pudgy pony into a stall.

  William watched the boy stroke the pony’s back and pull a carrot stump from the pocket of his coarse linen coat. He stroked the pony’s muzzle, then closed the stall door and left the stable.

  “Where’s he going?” William asked.

  But before George could respond, the boy appeared, leading a goat.

  “Ah, Delilah.” William snorted. “I forgot she would be joining us. Hey, Lewis, do you recall when last there was a goat at Eastmore?”

  Lewis shook his head and leaned on the pitchfork, his lips twitching in amusement. “No, sir, can’t say I do.”

  Once inside the stable, the goat planted her hooves on the dirt floor and refused to move. She bleated and jerked her head backward, nearly pulling the lead rope from Charlie’s hand.

  The boy yanked back and eventually claimed victory. He led the animal to a smaller pen and closed the door.

  Amused, William leaned back on the stall door.

  “The little ones are fond of that goat,” George said, pointing his thumb in the animal’s direction. “Charlie here is no different.” He waited until Charlie untied the animal and walked out of the stall, carefully again closing the stall door. “You’ll probably have a handful of visitors coming by to visit the goat, if I know them students.”

  William cocked an eyebrow. Children? At Eastmore? There hadn’t been children on the grounds since he had himself been a child. Even his own niece, Graham’s daughter, Lucy, had been to visit only once or twice.

  George adjusted his hat. “’Course, it’ll be hard on Charlie to go back home and be away from the horses . . . Tends to ’em day ’n night, he does, ’specially since that groom of ours left.”

  Lewis hooked his arms over the stall wall. “Yes, we heard Temdon left a few months back. Heard he took a post over at Ambledale Court, if I’m not mistaken.”

  George shook his gray head. “Yes, sir. Left like a thief in the middle of the night, he did.” He clicked his tongue and ruffled Charlie’s hair. “But we manage all right, don’t we, lad? This one here’s got the makin’s of a fine horseman.”

  The boy grinned at the compliment.

  William leaned with his elbow on a fence and nodded toward the stable. “You might be interested in the fact that we have three in foal, one of them due in a couple of weeks.”

  Interest flashed in the boy’s eyes, but it was George who kept them on task. “Just so we are clear, we’ll be earning these horses’ keep. Charlie’ll be by to tend to our animals. No need for Mr. Lewis to do it. Charlie’s fast too. If you have any tasks for him, I am sure he would oblige.”

  Lewis pushed himself away from the stall wall. “He needn’t come back and forth every day, ’specially with no place to board a mount at Rosemere. There are quarters in the back of the stable. I sleep in one, Charlie is welcome to the other.”

  The boy looked up at George, as if looking for permission. George simply nodded.

  “It’s settled, then,” William said. “Welcome to Eastmore Hall, Charlie.”

  It was snowing again.

  That was fine with Patience, for the sullen gray sky and nipping wind suited her mood.

  Oh, how her soul longed for warm, carefree days with azure skies and puffy clouds, with purple heather dotting the moors and the lure of the nightingale’s song whispering through the tall grasses.

  But those days seemed so long ago . . . so far away.

  Her half boot sank in the mud. She muttered under her breath and held out her hand for balance. This winter had been one of the darkest, coldest, snowiest winters she could recall. And the thickening clouds confirmed that they were not done with it yet, even though spring should be appearing any day.

  But at least here on the broad expanse of the moors, despite the falling snow, the air felt fresh. She could breathe without effort. It was the evening snow that obscured her vision, not a threatening curtain of smoke.

  She quickened her pace, determined to visit Charlie at Eastmore by nightfall. As a child she had always been a little frightened of Eastmore Hall, with its stone embattlements, formidable gates, and the fortress of trees reaching their black limbs toward the heavens. She rarely had cause to visit, but occasionally her father would take her to call on old Mr. Sterling. And when Mrs. Sterling had been alive, she had permitted Rosemere’s students to visit her garden to study the flowers and vegetation.

  But that had been many years ago. After she crested Wainslow Peak and headed down toward the gothic house, she found the structure slightly intimidating, but not frightening. If anything, the unkempt ivy clinging to the facade gave it a dejected appearance, and the overgrown shrubbery made it look lost. Forgotten. Forlorn.

  Patience walked past the main house toward the massive stable. The half door was open, and yellow light spilled out on the snow marred with boot and hoofprints. Welcome warmth radiated from the structure’s confines, and the earthy smell of hay mixed with the undeniable scent of horses seemed to beckon her to draw nearer. Winking lanterns hung from iron hooks down a long, wide corridor, illuminating two rows of wooden stalls. Horses’ ears pricked at her arrival, and she heard voices. She stepped inside, let her cloak’s hood fall to her shoulders, and tapped her gloved knuckles against a wooden beam. “Is anyone here?”

  A heavy wooden door creaked open, and as her eyes adjusted to the light behind him, she recognized the man as the one who had accompanied Mr. Sterling to the fire. He wiped his hands on his pants and smoothed his wool coat. “Can I help you, Miss Creighton?”

  “Yes, thank you. I am looking for—”

  She did not need to finish her sentence, for young Charlie came rushing from the room with the enthusiasm of youth. “Miss Creighton!”

  After the days of injury and soot, disappointment and cold, Charlie’s freckled cheeks warmed her heart, and his happy smile made the cold walk worthwhile. She hurried to him and pulled him close, pressing a kiss atop his sandy head. “Charlie! How I have missed your smiling face. How are you finding things at Eastmore Hall?”

  Boundless energy radiated from the boy. “Just fine, Miss Creighton. And look! I will show you. I have taken good care of the horses, like Mr. George told me to do.”

  He tucked his hand in hers and led her to a section of stalls where the two Creighton horses stood. King and Queen. Patience smiled and rubbed her hand across the elderly mare’s velvet muzzle.

  “And see, I’ve taken care of Delilah too.”

  Patience turned and peeked over the stone stable wall down into a straw-padded stall. In the middle of it stood Delilah, who raised her head at the commotion and bleated.

  Patience regarded the animal with reserved familiarity. “There you are, you cheeky animal.” The goat bleated. “You caused quite a commotion.”

  The goat bleated again.

  Charlie motioned for Patience to come closer. “Is Emma all right?”

  Patience could not help but smile at his concern. “She will be. You are kind to ask.”

  He shifted nervously, his eyes darting from the goat to the horses. “Will you tell her that I will take good care of Delilah for her? Do you promise?”

  “Of course I will.” Patience hesitated, trying to decode the emotion playing on the boy’s stoic expression. She remembered the basket on her arm and held it out to him. “Look, I brought you something.”

  Brightness returned to Charlie’s eyes, and he peered meekly at the basket.

  Patience bit her lip and leaned forward as if to whisper a secret. “Do you want to see what it is?” She led him to a stool and sat down, balancing the long basket on her lap. She pulled back the cloth and revealed jam tarts and rolls and a jar of honey. “Mary and the girls packed it for you. They were worried that you would go hungry.”

  He grinned, and she pulled the cloth back farther. “Jane se
nt you this scarf she made, fearing you would be cold”—she pulled the cloth off the rest of the way—“and I brought you a book.”

  His brow creased at the sight of the bound volume.

  “You do not think I would let your studies suffer simply because you are not on Rosemere grounds, did you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She smiled and deposited the book in his hands. “I think you will like it.”

  “Yes, Miss Creighton.”

  The boy leaned in to her. Her heart swelled with affection for the child, who, even though he was a stable boy, was like a student to her.

  “At least the horses and cow are safe.” Charlie sniffed. “And Delilah and Violet.”

  Without warning, there was a commotion out in the courtyard, and the stable door flew open and banged against the wall. A tall cloaked man leading a bay horse walked in and stomped snow from his boots. “Blasted cold,” the man murmured, tossing the reins in Lewis’s direction.

  The groom cleared his throat. “Mr. Sterling, we have a visitor.”

  “Huh?” Mr. Sterling whirled around and paused in the middle of pulling off his gloves. The intensity by which his startling blue eyes locked with hers slowed Patience’s breathing. She suddenly felt self-conscious of the manner in which the wind must have tugged at her hair.

  “Uh, Miss Creighton.” She had caught him off guard. He swept his hat from his head and pushed his hand through disheveled hair. “My apologies. I did not see you there.” He offered a stiff bow.

  Perhaps it was the effect of the wind’s bite, but Patience thought she noticed Mr. Sterling’s face redden.

  Finding her voice, she set the basket down and stood up. “No, please, do not apologize. I was only visiting Charlie. How is your arm?”

  He lifted the wounded arm and cocked his head to the side, the hint of a smile dimpling his cheek in the subtlest manner. “I am managing fine. Thank you.”

  She hesitated and placed her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Again, Mr. Sterling, I cannot thank you enough for your generosity in allowing the animals to stay here. And, of course, Charlie. I am sure he is as comfortable here as he ever was at Rosemere.”

  Mr. Sterling patted his horse’s rump as Lewis led the animal away. “Think nothing of it, Miss Creighton. I am happy to be of service.” He nodded toward the empty stalls. “As you can see, we have plenty of room. My horses could use the company.”

  Patience looked down the row of empty stalls. She’d always heard that William Sterling was rumored to be an expert horseman. But now that she took the time to look, she wondered where all the horses were that were said to be housed here.

  She turned back to Mr. Sterling, trying to stay focused as he drew nearer. In the hustle of the fire, she had failed to notice that the bruising around his eye had faded and the cut on his lip was barely noticeable with the slight stubble on his chin. The light brown hair falling over his forehead hid the spot where the gash had been. His eyes appeared piercing and intense under the lantern’s glow, and a flush crept up from her neck.

  What a silly schoolgirl inclination. She was here for Charlie. “I see that your eye appears to be much improved.”

  “It is, thank you. How is the little girl?”

  Patience relaxed at the sincerity in his voice. “Emma grows stronger by the hour. She will no doubt be back to her mischief in no time.”

  The sound of Charlie rustling in the basket brought her back to her senses. She needed to be on her way if she didn’t want to cross the moors in the black of night. She knelt next to Charlie, giving him her best reassuring smile. “It will soon be dark. I must go, but I will return in a few days to see how you are. George said he’ll be here in the morning. Are you sure you are all right?”

  Charlie nodded and wiped his hand on his trousers. “Yes, ma’am. I am sure. Thank you for the basket.”

  “Of course, Charlie. You were so brave yesterday. I am proud of you.”

  He beamed at the praise and then cast a sheepish glance at the men. Patience felt reluctant to leave him. Yes, he was their stable boy, but he held a special place in her heart. She squeezed his shoulder, turned, and walked down the corridor. Mr. Sterling was waiting at the entrance.

  She smiled and nodded. “Good evening, Mr. Sterling. And thank you again.”

  Mr. Sterling followed her from the stable and looked around. “Where is your horse? I will fetch him for you.”

  “That is not necessary, Mr. Sterling.” Patience adjusted her cape. “I walked.”

  Her answer brought a frown to his face. “You walked? But surely you cannot walk home. It is getting far too dark. Here, I will have Lewis ready the carriage.”

  Patience lifted her hand in protest as he started to step past her. “You needn’t bother, sir. ’Tis but a short walk. I should be home before the sun sets.”

  “At least allow me to saddle one of our horses for you. We have a sidesaddle, I am sure.”

  “Oh no, we have no stable in which to give your horse shelter tonight. And in any instance, I do not ride.”

  He blinked, shocked, as if she had told him that she didn’t believe the sky to be blue. “You do not ride?”

  “No.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Darbury is a small town. I can walk anywhere I need to go. I never had the need to learn.”

  “Miss Creighton, everyone has need to learn to ride a horse.”

  His enthusiastic certainty brought a smile to her lips. She shrugged. “My father forbade it.”

  “But your pupils ride, do they not? I assumed the students would ride the pony.”

  “Violet belongs to one of our former students who took a position as a governess in Somerset and could no longer care for the animal. The pony has been with us ever since.”

  “Did your father never ride? Your brother?”

  “Perhaps you recall my father walked with a limp. As a boy he was thrown from a horse and broke his leg. He never rode again, and I was not allowed to learn.”

  “A true shame, Miss Creighton.” He looked in the direction of Rosemere, his straight nose and fine profile a black silhouette against the unstable clouds. “Well then, you must at least allow me to escort you back to Rosemere.”

  The lighthearted banter she had been enjoying with him suddenly fell flat. Surely he was in jest. Patience looked at the ground, unable to meet his gaze. For what sort of man—what sort of gentleman—would ask to escort her home alone? It was preposterous!

  “Thank you for your concern, but that is not necessary.”

  He pressed his lips together. His confident composure had slipped, and he pushed his fingers through his hair. “I know how that must seem, Miss Creighton, but allow me to explain.” He lowered his voice as if he were someone with a great secret to tell. “I suspect you are aware that I was not thrown from my horse the other night. I do not mean to frighten you, but all is not as it seems. And with the fire . . .” His voice trailed off and he lifted his eyes to the moors. “I ask you to trust me when I say this. I insist upon seeing you home. For your safety.”

  Her eyes locked with his. No trace of a smile warmed his expression. His relaxed countenance had sobered.

  So her suspicion was now confirmed. It made sense. The split of his lip. The swelling of his eye. He’d been attacked. And was he suggesting that the fire might not have been an accident?

  A little shudder traveled her spine, and she looked back to the moors, where blackness was already swallowing Sterling Wood whole. She’d never been frightened of the moors, but then again, she’d never been issued such a warning.

  He continued, “I will bring my horse for the return ride.” She swallowed and nodded, propriety trumped by caution. He disappeared back into the stable, and she tightened her shawl.

  As she waited, her thoughts jumbled in chaotic disarray. Yes, she knew what was proper. She should stop him. The impropriety! Walking alone with a man—on the moors—and in the shadow of twilight, no less! And not just any man, but
a man of Mr. Sterling’s situation. His reputation. She tried to think of any excuse. But it was hard to argue with the visible manifestations that had marred his face. If vagabonds would do so much to a man, what would they do to a woman?

  But another sensation, stronger and more prevailing than fear, refused to leave. The unmistakable flutter within her when he touched her cheek last night, in the silence of Rosemere’s kitchen. After the fire. When he asked if she would be all right. When, if ever, had anybody, with the exception of Cassandra and perhaps Mary, cared to ask? The idea that he might care, sincerely care, moved her and pushed away her sense of propriety.

  He returned from the stable leading a large horse, his beaver hat atop his head, his caped coat billowing around him in the failing light. His face was shadowed, and yet she noticed he was smiling at her.

  “Are you sure you will not ride?” he said as he approached. “I can teach you and make a fine horsewoman of you yet.”

  The humor in his voice had returned but did little to set her at ease. “No, I am certain. I am sorry for you to have to saddle your horse again after you have just taken it off.”

  “Think nothing of it. Angus here fancies a walk.” He nodded toward the path leading to Wainslow Peak. “Shall we?”

  At first they walked in silence, their feet crunching the snow and ice the only sound. She was rarely at a loss for words. But he made her . . . nervous.

  She could scarcely recall being nervous in the company of others. Not even Ewan O’Connell all those years ago. And yet a new thought fluttered within her, and her palms were clammy. The mystery of William Sterling intimidated her as much as it intrigued her. She tried to think of something clever to say, something to fill the silence. And yet, she was distracted. Distracted by the directness of his gaze when he looked her way. Distracted by the slightest hint of a cleft in his chin. The rich timbre of his voice when he said her name.

  Fortunately, it was he who spoke first. “Thank you, Miss Creighton, for tending to my arm last night.”

  The memory of his closeness renewed her shyness. “My pleasure.”