The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors)

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “I play the pianoforte. And I sing. Rawdon says that both of those are taught here.”

  “Indeed, they are.” Patience felt a twinge of guilt for not being more welcoming to this young woman who was far from home. She offered a smile. “I will speak to the other teachers. I am sure they will be grateful for the assistance.”

  Patience was about to say more, but the study door flew open, as it did nearly every day, and there, in the doorway, stood Cassandra.

  Cassandra’s flushed expression changed when she beheld Lydia.

  Patience jumped to her feet, fearing that Cassandra would disappear as quickly as she had come or, worse yet, would say something she might regret.

  Patience rushed to Cassandra and took her by the arm. Her friend was trembling. Clearly, Cassandra had figured out Lydia’s identity. Patience wanted to soothe the pain that she knew must ache, but at some point, the women needed to meet. As long as Cassandra was at Rosemere, it was inevitable.

  “Lydia, allow me to introduce Cassandra Baden, a teacher here and a great friend.”

  Lydia stood and smiled, seemingly oblivious to any discomfort, and clasped her hands before her. “How lovely to meet you, Miss Baden.”

  Patience winced at Lydia’s unchecked enthusiasm. Her pretty brightness. She cast a quick glance, taking note of the subtle gathering of moisture in Cassandra’s brown eyes and the slight reddening of her nose. The words felt dry in her mouth, yet Patience continued, “And Miss Baden, my sister-in-law, Lydia Creighton.”

  She marveled how Cassandra managed a smile, a proper greeting, and a nod, all before politely dismissing herself.

  Lydia gave a little giggle as Cassandra closed the door behind her. “I think I shall be happy at Rosemere, Miss Creighton.”

  Patience eyed the empty space where her friend had been standing. Time was changing. Everyone around her was changing, moving in their own rhythms. Could it be that she was changing too?

  18

  A few hours later Patience sat across from Lydia in the drawing room while they worked on their embroidery. Her mother had even joined them, and little Louisa, who was feeling poorly, slept on a sofa just across from Patience, her head on Lydia’s lap. As she stole another glance at Lydia, Patience was reminded of the Shakespearean tragedy she had read with the girls so many times—Brutus betraying Julius Caesar.

  Cassandra was in an upstairs room, weak from crying and sorrow, and here she sat with the woman who was at the source of her dearest friend’s heartache. Patience had managed, after the awkward interchange between Lydia and Cassandra in the study, to convince Cassandra to remain at Rosemere until she at least found another position. In the light of this new day, Cassandra seemed more rational, but even with this small victory, Patience feared losing her friend forever.

  Patience shifted uncomfortably and looked at her mother, enveloped in a wingback chair. She was clad in modest black bombazine with a widow’s cap atop her graying head. For the first time in months, the older woman’s pudgy fingers worked an embroidery needle. The lines on her face seemed softer today, and her color was decidedly improved. Patience looked down at her own embroidery. Red roses intertwined with ivy with a most intricate backstitch. She had embroidered a verse her father had often quoted:

  Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

  The words, which she had worked with such love, seemed vacant, hollow.

  At any other time Patience would have been pleased that her mother was resuming one of the tasks she had enjoyed. But instead, the step forward was bittersweet. Patience remembered how for months she had been unable to rouse her mother from despair. With Rawdon’s return, her mother had joined them for dinner last night and seemed to enjoy Lydia’s company. Patience should be grateful, but her heart would not allow it.

  As Patience pulled out an incorrect stitch, she stole several glances at her new sister-in-law. Earlier that morning Lydia had looked pale, fragile. By early afternoon, she seemed much improved. Pinkness colored her cheeks a becoming hue, and her eyes, bright blue, were fixed firmly on her needlework.

  “Your work is quite lovely,” Patience said.

  Lydia looked up and smiled. “Why, thank you. I fear my governess spent many hours trying to teach me the art. You would think for all of her teaching my skill would be greater than it is.”

  Patience lowered her work. “You were educated by a governess?”

  “Indeed.” Lydia looked wistfully to the ceiling before turning back to Patience. “Miss Wimple. She first taught my older sisters. She has been with my family for as long as I can remember.”

  Lydia appeared barely old enough to be out of her governess’s care. Even with her hair swept high above her head, her fair skin and fresh expression made her seem so young. “Forgive me for asking, Lydia, but what is your age?”

  “Eighteen.” A playful smile curved her lips. “And I can guess what you are thinking.”

  Patience bit her tongue. There is no way Lydia could possibly guess what was in her mind.

  “I am young to marry, to be sure, but my father was pleased. Rawdon is an impressive young man, and my father has long admired him and found the match most agreeable.”

  “And why would he not?” Patience’s mother beamed proudly. “Rawdon is the kindest man. So like his father.”

  Patience saw—and seized—the opportunity to learn more. “How did you become acquainted with Rawdon?”

  “It was just under six months ago at a ball my parents were hosting, and my father introduced me to him. The first time I danced with him, I knew my heart had been captured.”

  Patience drew a steadying breath. Her brother at a ball? So soon after their father’s death? She swallowed her misgivings and looked down at her needlework. “Your courtship was quick, indeed.”

  “Yes.” Lydia sighed, and a flush rushed to her cheeks. “However, I fear I am quite a romantic. Some things are meant to be.”

  The talk continued until the late-afternoon sun created long shadows across the drawing room’s modest rug. Despite her reservations when she sat down, Patience was surprised to find herself actually becoming fond of her new sister-in-law. The young woman possessed an easiness, an openness. And it was nice to finally hear her mother laugh.

  Eventually a comfortable silence settled over the room. Patience allowed herself to enjoy this free time, the diversion of her needlework. But it wasn’t long before a carriage sounded on the drive. She heard a man shout.

  Patience looked up. They’d been expecting a new student—a young girl from Manchester.

  “That must be the new Sutter girl, although I wasn’t expecting her for another day or two.” Concerned, Patience put down her needlework and went to the window.

  On the drive, the carriage rocked to a stop, and a tall, thin man with a tall beaver hat and caped greatcoat stepped down. Patience frowned and squinted, trying to get a better view, but the man’s hat brim blocked his face.

  No child exited the carriage. Something about the man’s gait seemed familiar and gave Patience reason to pause. His arms swung in a recognizable manner when he walked.

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Patience hurried down to the entrance in time to be present when George opened the front door.

  “Can I help you, s—” Her words dissolved into silence as she beheld the man. He was far from a stranger. In fact, no man could be less of one. For before her stood none other than Ewan O’Connell. She could not have been more surprised if the Prince Regent himself stood outside her doorway.

  “Ewan,” she stammered, barely able to hear her own words over the violent beating of her heart. Then, realizing she had addressed him by his Christian name, she quickly corrected herself. “I mean, Mr. O’Connell.”

  She could not think of an appropriate welcome. Her disciplined etiquette fled. Her wit slowed.

  He returned her stare, his light brown eyes fixed on her,
as if he were as shocked to see her as she was to see him. He snatched his hat from his head clumsily and held it in midair. Then an easy smile crept over his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Patience Creighton. I trust you are well.”

  Patience remembered to breathe. Such formality from the person who had shared her schoolroom. Shared her family’s table. Even proposed marriage to her!

  Memories of the day she refused him flashed before her. His red-rimmed eyes. The hurt. Today, quite another man stood before her. A much more confident man who now did not seem the least bit affected by seeing her again.

  “Indeed, I am.” She suddenly felt dizzy, as if she had seen a ghost.

  But Mr. O’Connell was no ghost.

  Patience grew uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze, and she finally managed to find her voice. “What brings you to Rosemere, Mr. O’Connell?”

  He stepped closer, his smile never leaving. He seemed to tower over her. Indeed, he was much taller than she remembered. “Your brother asked for my assistance.”

  Rawdon? Rawdon knew about this? If Rawdon knew Ewan was coming, why did he not say as much?

  The grin on Ewan’s face faded. “I see Rawdon did not mention I was coming.”

  “I am sorry, he did not.” Patience forced a pleasant expression to her face. She had navigated through difficult situations several times this month alone, and she would manage through this one. “But you are always welcome at Rosemere, Mr. O’Connell.”

  She must have looked quite the simpleton, standing dumbstruck, staring at the man as if he were a court jester.

  “Dare I presume that my room is still available?” His Scottish lilt was much less pronounced than it had been those many years ago.

  His room? She thought of the small chamber on the third floor he had stayed in, the room directly above where she slept. Did he still think of that as his own after he abandoned them in the middle of the night?

  A wave of guilt swept over her. Or, in truth, did he feel pushed out of their family by her refusal?

  “Of . . . of course,” she stammered, absently smoothing her hair from her face. “George will take your things up and will see that a fire is started.”

  “Thank you.” Ewan adjusted his satchel over his narrow shoulders and turned away as if to follow George, but then stopped and turned back. His eyes locked on her in a manner that was far too intimate. Far too possessive. “It is good to see you again, Miss Creighton.”

  Miss Creighton. Never before had he ever called her that. Always Patience. “Let me call for my brother, Ew—Mr. O’Connell. He will be—”

  Before her lips could form the rest of the words, Rawdon burst through the front entrance. “O’Connell! I thought I heard a carriage! Good man,” he exclaimed, clasping the man on the shoulder.

  “Creighton.”

  “I see you have already been reacquainted with Patience.”

  “Yes.” Ewan looked at her with those eyes again. The eyes that, even when they had been children, felt as if they could see to her soul. “It has been too long.”

  She shifted uncomfortably, wishing that any interruption would come. A girl running in the hall. A pupil needing assistance. But for once, the hall was quiet.

  Desperate to end the suffocating silence, she blurted out, “How long will you be staying?”

  A flash of confusion darkened his features, then a smile appeared. “Well, that remains to be seen.”

  Patience tried to resume her normal day—or as close to normal as she could manage.

  She led the older girls in their arithmetic exercises, checking sums on slates and nodding in confirmation or pointing out errors. But her attention was diverted.

  She tried to focus on addition, but thoughts of her brother and Ewan dominated. How could Rawdon ask him to return, knowing their history? And furthermore, not even make mention of it?

  She needed to speak with Rawdon privately to ask him what she could not ask in the presence of an audience. She’d not had a moment alone with her brother since his return. She wanted to hear from him why Ewan was here and what his intentions for the school were. And she needed to hear why he had betrayed Cassandra. She had tried to remain calm, tried to give her brother space to readjust, but that was before he brought back a ghost from her past. Without even so much as a warning.

  When she finally finished with lessons, Patience sent her young charges off for quiet study and hurried upstairs. She flew into her room and closed the door.

  Her bedchamber, even though small, was peaceful. She used to imagine that the floral wallpaper was a garden and she was hiding there amid the fairies and pixies. Her furniture, although dark and old, was like a cherished friend. The bed had comforted her when she was ill. The chair next to the window had wrapped its arms around her when she cried. It bore witness to her secret dreams. Her ambitions. Her regrets.

  But all peace vanished when she heard the click of boot heels on the wooden floor above her—a sound she had not heard since Ewan left Rosemere six years ago.

  Surely her heart should feel a sensation besides this unrest. Ewan O’Connell had been her one romance—if such a fickle inclination could be called such.

  She walked to her window and looked down at the spot where Ewan had proposed those many years ago. On that fine August afternoon, the school was hosting a picnic, and she and Ewan had been sitting on a quilt beneath the large elm. She’d been but nineteen. She recalled how the sun filtered through the rustling leaves, dappling his chestnut hair. The conversation was as vivid in her mind as if it were again the day it occurred. He’d been dressed in a tailcoat of light brown linen and speaking of his plans to attend the university. He had always been a dreamer, with ambitions limited only by the constraints of his own mind. As her father’s pupil, he shared many of their beliefs. He was easy to talk to. Familiar. Safe.

  She had never doubted his affection for her. And over time, as his brotherly affection deepened to romantic regard, she relished in his attention. His infatuation had been obvious, and she, a silly young woman, encouraged him. She had not realized the extent of his feelings, however, until that day. She recalled the pain in his eyes when she refused him. And on the yard that day was the last time she saw him. Until today.

  Why had Ewan returned after all these years? Was it really to help her brother? She did not dare to think that he would return for her. The thought of a second chance to have a family stirred her. At one time she had loved him as a brother. Never did she love him as a woman loves a man. But marriage would provide security. It would provide an opportunity for a family. Love might come later. Or it might not come at all. But at least she would not be alone.

  Whatever Ewan’s intentions, he would not have returned without the invitation from her brother. There must be a reason why Rawdon wanted Ewan to return, more than the excuse of needing help running the school.

  It was silly to waste time wondering. She would simply ask Rawdon outright.

  19

  She didn’t bother to rehearse what she would say. Patience stomped down to the main floor, nodded at two students as she passed them in the corridor, and did not slow her pace until she reached the study.

  The paneled door stood ajar, and through the opening, she spied her brother sitting at the desk, quill in hand.

  How much he looked like their father, with his black hair, white cravat, and dark coat, sitting at the desk where their father had so often sat. Haunting memories of the two of them as young children rushed at her. It had been such a different time. Such a happy time. Full of broad dreams and hopeful promise.

  Rawdon did not look up from the letter he was writing when she walked in. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to come here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He lowered his quill and leaned back. The chair creaked beneath his weight. “O’Connell.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, determined to stay rational and controlled. “Why is he here? I do not know what you ar
e doing.” Although her intent was to remain calm, once she opened her mouth, the words flew as if they had wings. “First you abandon Mother and me when we needed you, then you betray Cassandra. How can you be so unfeeling? To Cassandra? And Ewan? How do you expect me to react? Just to stand idly by and—”

  “Stop.”

  “No, I won’t, Rawdon. You need to hear what—”

  “I said stop!”

  Stunned, she snapped her mouth shut. Never before had she heard him shout. Never.

  He yanked at his cravat. “What’s done is done. I’ll not apologize for the decisions I have made, nor do I need to explain them. As for Cassandra, I will not speak of her. And neither will you. Not to me. Not to Lydia. Am I clear?”

  The blood began to pound in Patience’s ears, and suddenly the lazy fire in the hearth seemed much too warm. A million retorts tumbled in her head. But the harshness in his eyes silenced her. She did not like the direction this conversation was taking.

  His cheek twitched. He examined the quill, then threw it down on the desk. “I did not abandon you. I did what I needed to do to keep my promise to Father.”

  At this, she could not remain silent. “I don’t see how.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do not fool yourself. You knew the extent of Father’s debt. I told you. I went to London to speak with one of Father’s financiers.”

  “And while you were there you just happened to get married.”

  “That is not a crime.”

  Tension intensified, making the air even thicker than when the stable fire’s smoke wove its way through the rooms. Rawdon was a good man. An intelligent one. And a lifetime with him had taught her that if she chose to engage him in a debate, she’d likely lose. There was time enough to get all of her questions answered. She needed to focus on why Ewan was here.

  “All that does not explain why Ewan is here.”