Mrs. Hammond tilted her head. “Most odd.” Mrs. Hammond watched him for several seconds before turning back around. “If I were you, dear Patience, I would advise your brother to be wary in his dealings with Mr. Sterling. He’s a most unscrupulous man.”
The words took Patience by surprise. A harsh judgment, and from the vicar’s wife, no less. Patience thought it wise to forgo mentioning the fact that he had shown up on their property, bloodied and unconscious, mere weeks ago. Or that they had spent a quiet moment together, walking at twilight on the moors. “I have heard he has quite the reputation, but he has been nothing but kind to help us ever since the fire. He even assisted us the night of the fire.”
The click of the door resounded above the chatter, and the door swung open. Mrs. Margaret Creighton, dressed in a black mourning gown with a black fichu and thick charcoal shawl, stood in the doorway. Surprised, Patience rushed to her. “Mother! I am so glad you are joining us!”
Her mother’s eyes appeared bright, and for the first time in weeks, color warmed her cheeks. “Well, with such a party brewing in my home, how could I miss it?”
Patience pressed her lips closed, quickly scanning the rest of the party. Was anyone else surprised by her sudden recovery? But everyone milled about, as if nothing unusual had just happened. Her mother brushed past her and took Rawdon’s arm, smiling and laughing as they moved about the room. Even as Patience caught a glimpse of the mother she remembered, a sinking feeling took hold. For months she had been trying to help her mother smile. Trying to help her find a spark of life. She’d succeeded but a handful of times to get her mother to join her at dinner. With Rawdon home, suddenly she recovered? Suddenly she felt like interacting with friends and family?
It didn’t make sense.
“Miss Creighton, are you well?”
Patience snapped from her shock and managed a little laugh to cover her thoughts. “Of course. I am pleased to see her up and about at last.”
Mrs. Hammond leaned closer, her scent of lavender nearly overwhelming. “There is nothing like fine company to bring one from a dark place, Miss Creighton. I believe your brother’s return may be just what your mother needs.”
Patience employed every discipline to ensure that her expression remained stoic. Over the last six months she had tried—and failed—to do what her brother and his new wife appeared to have done in days: bring her mother joy.
Once seated at the table, she found herself settled between Ewan and Mrs. Hammond. But it was not who was next to her that caught her attention.
Directly across from her sat Mr. Sterling. He was talking with Lydia, who was seated to his left.
She stole another glance. Sandy hair fell over his forehead and curled over his high collar. Sideburns hid wind-kissed cheeks, and clear blue eyes shone beneath dark lashes. He was achingly handsome. How she wished he would look in her direction.
She thought back to that first night, when she touched a cloth to his cheek and wiped dirt from his brow. Then to when she folded back his shirt sleeve to tend to his arm wound. The touch—the innocent touch—when he brushed the soot away from her face.
Someone was staring at her. She felt it. She lifted her eyes to see Ewan’s pale brown ones looking at her. He did not look away but grinned, as if caught in a guilty pleasure.
She quickly glanced around the table to see if anyone had noticed his brazen look, which certainly was not in keeping with the professional demeanor of a headmaster. Exactly why had he returned to Rosemere?
22
William lifted a spoon of pea soup to his lips. O’Connell had been right. The soup was delicious. The steam curling from the hot meal heated his face and hands. He’d still not completely warmed from his ride on the moors with Riley and Carlton. He moved his toes within his boots and slacked his posture slightly. He could have relaxed and truly enjoyed the dinner—if it weren’t for the Hammonds.
The words that Mr. Hammond had issued that awful day still rang as true and as loud as if he had said them yesterday. “Isabelle is not for you. She has made her choice. To contact her would only bring about her ruination. Do her a favor and let her be.”
William’s lips formed a hard line, and he could not resist a glance at the man who had stood in the way of everything he had ever wanted. Or thought he had wanted.
He let his gaze drift slightly to the left to land on Mrs. Hammond, who had been equally vocal about her disapproval of the union. He’d barely been able to stomach her triumphant expression that fateful day. How vividly it had burned itself to his memory. He’d reconciled his feelings for Isabelle. He’d made peace with them. Accepted that she was gone. But his anger toward the Hammonds was different. He did not want to forgive them, as Lewis had prompted on more than one occasion. How much easier it was to blame another than take any ownership of his own missteps.
He took another spoonful of soup and looked across the table at Miss Creighton. She was a much more pleasant subject to linger on. After Isabelle, he swore he would never love again—a vow he’d had little trouble keeping. Or so he had thought. But the lightness of Miss Creighton’s touch he could not forget. And the sincere expression in her eyes captivated him. Left him longing to know more about her. Nay, he wanted to know everything about her.
Of course, while at the parties in London, he’d flirted and even kindled a brief romance, but his intentions had never been on anything other than enjoying himself. With discreet glances, he studied Miss Creighton. He strained to hear her voice above all others present. She was so unlike any of the women he had known in London. She wasn’t silly. Frivolous women who targeted him as a wealthy husband could be amusing, but in the end proved shallow and disappointing. There was something about Miss Creighton. Her passion for those around her intrigued him.
She glanced up at him, almost startling him with the intensity of her eyes in the candlelit room.
He smiled and nodded.
She smiled and nodded.
And in that moment, William forgot all about the Hammonds.
William was far from an expert on women, and certainly no expert on the likes of Miss Creighton, but something about her was not quite right this evening. Her expression, which normally exuded confidence and control, seemed almost sad.
He should look away. He was staring.
O’Connell, who was seated next to Miss Creighton, leaned in close to her. Too close. He watched for her reaction. He wanted to see her pull away from him. But instead, she gave a smile and said a few words. O’Connell seemed pleased with whatever she had said, for a beaming smile lit his face.
Like a lightning strike, a sensation jolted William. His nostrils flared.
And then his thought from earlier was confirmed: he was jealous.
Mrs. Hammond, who seemed equally as fervent in her fondness for the odd Mr. O’Connell as she was in her dislike for William, leaned forward and turned her head toward O’Connell. “Tell us, Mr. O’Connell, how was your time in London? We’ve so much to catch up on.”
“Very educational, ma’am.” O’Connell leaned back in his chair. “Such a different world in a town the size of London.”
“And tell us of your post there.”
“I taught Latin and French at a boarding school for young men.”
Mr. Hammond chimed in, “Did not leave the realm of education, I see.”
“No, for I fear it is in my blood. My profession chose me instead of I it.”
Mrs. Hammond put down her fork. “And how long will you stay in Darbury?’
“As long as my services are required at Rosemere. I owe a great deal to the Creighton family and am honored to be of service.”
Every word was perfect. What must it be like? William felt more out of place than ever. He was an impulsive gambler in the midst of men who valued education and religion. He glanced up at Miss Creighton. That, no doubt, was the type of man she would be drawn to as well. One with high moral ideals and principles. Miss Creighton would naturally prefer a suitor whose
occupation was closely aligned with her own interests. For what occupation did he have to offer? Gentleman turned gambler turned horse breeder? Turned mill owner? Such inconsistent and less than noble pursuits darkened his credibility. He was trying, but breeding horses and being a pinchpenny would never dig him out from the mess he had made for himself.
And then someone said his name. It was O’Connell. “And you, Mr. Sterling. I must tell you, your reputation precedes you.”
William settled his napkin next to his plate and chuckled. “I do not like the sounds of that.”
“Never fear, Mr. Sterling, for I am speaking of your reputation as a horseman. I heard you were dealt a shocking blow at Newmarket.”
William studied O’Connell, wondering if the fact that he brought up his dealings at the track was merely conversational or if he meant to imply more. “Yes. My horse suffered a tendon injury.”
Mrs. Hammond, her words containing a thinly veiled accusation, said, “Why, Mr. O’Connell, I never suspected you to be one to follow horse racing.”
O’Connell nodded and cast a quick glance over at Miss Creighton. “My employer took a fancy to the sport. I was privy to many of his conversations and recognized your name when I heard it.”
“Yes, that horse’s racing days are over. As are mine.” The less said about his racing ventures, especially in front of the vicar and his wife, the better.
Miss Creighton leaned forward. “I saw the horse when I was out at the Eastmore stables to visit dear Charlie, our stable boy who has been staying there since the fire. A beautiful animal the color of coal. And he’s to be a papa soon, is he not?”
William stared at her and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Had she, in a way, defended him?
Her words infused him with confidence, but before he could verbalize his thought, the door opened, and a woman dressed in a dark dress curtsied and hurried over to Miss Creighton. She whispered to her, and Miss Creighton stood. “Please excuse me.”
All eyes were on her, and a rush of whispers circled the table.
But William kept his focus straight ahead, acutely aware of how O’Connell’s eyes followed her form from the room. The man was clearly more intimately connected with the Creighton family than he. Was he her beau? Did they have an understanding?
And if so, why did the thought irk him so?
Lydia Creighton lowered her fork. “Where is she going?”
“No doubt to tend to the girls,” Margaret Creighton said. “They quite depend upon her. She has such a way with the children.”
It was the first time William had heard her speak since she arrived in the dining room.
Rawdon wiped his mouth and put his napkin next to his plate. “That is the benefit of having her so committed to the school. A male headmaster could never understand the workings of a female mind, regardless of their age.”
A chuckle circled the table—the type that seemed to have much meaning to everyone at the table except for William.
He felt a need to defend Miss Creighton. Even as an outsider, he was aware of how much she had done for the school. How could they not see it? Her strength. Her selflessness. He repeated his sentiment from earlier. “You would have been impressed with your sister’s presence of mind during the fire.”
The other conversations stopped. All eyes turned toward him. As usual, he spoke before he thought. He shrugged. “No man could have handled the situation better.”
“Be that as it may, she has played her part,” Rawdon said. “No doubt she will be grateful for O’Connell to take over the bulk of the responsibility.”
William interpreted Creighton’s words as a challenge.
The emergency with Emma kept Patience away from dinner longer than she had anticipated. The girls had been asleep for quite some time when Emma awoke with a nightmare and could not be quieted, just as she had every night since the fire. Patience held the child and stroked her hair until she once again slumbered. She pressed a kiss to Emma’s forehead and then left the sleeping girls, pulling the door closed behind her. In the corridor, there was silence, a calm.
At least dinner had to be over. She hated to see Emma in such a state, but the escape from the dreadful discomfort of being so close to Ewan had been a relief.
She would do her best to avoid the amorous Mr. O’Connell. He sat too close to her. Leaned in too close when he spoke with her with far too much familiarity. At one time in the past, they had been close, but time had distanced them. She wished he would respect that change.
She paused at a small landing atop the east-wing stairs. A small mirror hung at the end, and she paused to check her reflection.
A strand had pulled loose from her intricately twisted hair, and she tried to smooth it back and then sighed. She could not help but compare herself to her sister-in-law, whose personal maid had woven satin ribbon into her hair. Dressed in a gown of pale green satin trimmed in dark green velvet, Lydia looked as if she were attending a ball instead of a simple neighborhood gathering. Compared to the lovely Lydia, Patience was certain she was hardly noticed in her sensible gown of somber blue.
She thought of William Sterling, whose blue eyes challenged her practicality. How her heart jumped at the recollection. The marks on his face were gone. Their interactions were growing less awkward. Less like a relationship between a tenant and landlord and almost more like that of friends. He’d looked at her as if he had something to say to her, his eyes communicative and his countenance cheery. But that, in itself, was odd. Why did the master of such an estate humble himself to attend their family gathering? Did he, too, share her feelings? How her heart raced at the idea.
She pinched her cheeks for color and hurried down the stairs. Voices came from the parlor, and as she drew closer, she recognized her brother’s voice.
“On that matter you will have to ask my sister, Sterling.”
Patience reentered the room. “Ask me what?”
The gentlemen all stood. Rawdon and Ewan flanked the fireplace, the warm light playing off their faces and dark coats. Mr. Sterling stood next to the window in the darkness of a corner. Patience cast a quick glance to the rest of the party. Across the room, her mother, Lydia, and the Hammonds were gathered around a silhouette screen, and Lydia was creating a silhouette of Mrs. Hammond. She turned back to the men.
Rawdon leaned forward. “He was asking about the school.”
“Oh.” Patience sat in a chair and pivoted a bit in order to see Mr. Sterling. “And what would you like to know?”
Rawdon folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Sterling was asking about how the studies in a girls’ school differ from that for young men.”
“Well”—she turned to Mr. Sterling and smiled, pleased with his interest in her work—“our girls study many of the same subjects that one would find in a boys’ academic establishment. Sums, literature, science. And of course they are instructed in the proper use of the English language, Latin, and French.”
Mr. Sterling nodded in her direction, his eyes locked on hers. “Impressive.”
“Impressive? Why?” She was enjoying the banter. She noted the directness of his gaze, the sincerity in his expression, as if they were the only two in the room.
He shrugged. “Not the typical subjects I imagined in a girls’ school.”
Patience smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt. She felt giddy speaking with him, like a schoolgirl herself. And yet she also felt brave around him, encouraged by his interest in her and the observations he had shared with her on the moors. “Why should their minds be suppressed, just because they are the fairer sex? My father believed that a woman’s mind was every bit as valuable as a man’s and should be exercised as such. I, for one, am grateful for his vision.”
Ewan grinned, perhaps a bit too smugly, a bit too possessively. “Well put, Miss Creighton. It is refreshing to see that you take your responsibilities with such steadfastness.”
“Of course I do. These girls have been entrusted to us. How could we do an
y less by them?”
The room fell silent after her passionate speech, and she silently reprimanded herself for not having been more guarded, wondering if she had overstepped her bounds. She pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands. But what surprised her most was how much she cared about what Mr. Sterling thought of what she had said. She stole a glimpse up at him and was unsettled seeing his eyes so directly focused on her. His expression was warm, his eyes, kind.
And he was smiling at her.
“And where was your education, Mr. Sterling?” Mr. O’Connell asked.
William was forced to tear his attentions away from Miss Creighton. Her passion for those around her was contagious. But then, when O’Connell repeated his name, he shifted his weight, growing increasingly annoyed with anything that came out of the man’s mouth. William sensed where he was going with his line of questioning—and he didn’t like it. “I had a tutor. A man by the name of Mr. Grange.”
“A tutor. Ah, so you were educated at home, then?”
He felt all eyes on him, including those of Miss Creighton. “Yes.”
O’Connell seemed almost amused, an air of superiority in his tone. “And do you find that being educated at home is best?”
William narrowed his eyes. He knew what this man was doing. Even though their stations, their ranks, were beneath his, he was in a room of highly educated men. If O’Connell could not be superior with status, he was trying to do it on intellect. “My father was of the opinion that I could learn more about running an estate like Eastmore Hall by staying on the premises. I’m afraid I gave Mr. Grange a devil of a time. I preferred being out of doors. Mr. Grange would have preferred I stay in the schoolroom. But I am well prepared for my life’s work.”
A smirk touched O’Connell’s face. “And, out of curiosity, what is your life’s work?”
William tensed. His life’s work? He’d opened himself up to that question with his last statement, and now he was not sure how to respond. What work had he really done in his life? A more accurate depiction would be to say that all the man had taught him had prepared him for the life he was reaching for. But he would save such details for another time. “Horse breeding.”
The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors) Page 18