The Headmistress of Rosemere (27 page)

“Yes. A textile mill.”

William waited for a smart reply from O’Connell, but none came. “I doubt it will have much effect on you or the school, but the traffic will likely increase along the path that runs alongside the property up to Wainslow Peak. What with the new building you were proposing on the property and the new structure coming to the hill, this area should look different in the coming months.”

“But so close to the school.” Miss Creighton’s words were more of a statement than a question, and he turned to look at her.

“I assure you, Miss Creighton, this will not have the least effect on you or your young charges.” He ignored the twinge in his gut and forced his attention back to her brother. “You undoubtedly know Jonathan Riley from Ambledale. He is my partner in this venture. What with the property so close to the river and in such close proximity to town, it was a logical choice.”

“Yes, very logical.” Rawdon cut his eyes again toward his sister, then looked back at William. “We wish you the best of luck in your new endeavor and wish it every success.”

“Thank you.”

Guilt sliced at William, and he could not bring himself to look
at Miss Creighton, for he had no desire to see what emotion might be in her expression. He’d hoped to share the news of the mill with Rawdon Creighton in a more professional and private manner, but he’d allowed his defenses to be tweaked by the intruder who had made so much of his lack of a formal education.

When would he learn?

23

T
he next afternoon Patience looped her arm through Cassandra’s as they headed back to Rosemere. “Thank you for walking with me.”

“The weather suits me today,” Cassandra said, lifting her face to the pewter sky.

Patience was silent as her footsteps fell in time with her friend’s. Ever since the dinner the evening before, melancholy thoughts weighed on her mind, leaving her jumpy and discontented, and now she needed the lullaby of the wind through the bare branches and shrubs to drown out the doubts and fears that were circulating within her.

But above all, she did not want to think of
him
.

William Sterling was a man of contradictions. His attentions and affectionate smiles made her feel as light and fluttery as a schoolgirl. But his announcement regarding Latham Hill and his own admission of danger on the moors gave her reason to pause. William Sterling was after something. He was searching, reaching
for something . . . but what? She suspected that the answer lay with whatever was happening on Latham Hill. Was his kindness sincere, or was there some other reason? He had so many marks against him. But then again, did any of them even matter?

The women stopped at the crest of Wainslow Peak and stood in comfortable silence, looking out over the land.

Patience had climbed this hill nearly every day of her adult life, weather permitting. She reveled in the quiet peace that could be found at its crest. In late summer, she delighted in the breathtaking purple heather and the broad expanse of the unending sky, where sunlight played on silver clouds and the turtledove and willow warbler could be seen. Even the winter held its own beauty on this harsh terrain. Snow covered all, blanketing the earth with a dusting of diamonds and an unmatched silence. Normally, she used her daily walk to clear her mind, to help her find solace. In years past, she had come here to pray, to talk aloud to the Maker and dream of what her future would hold. But since her father’s death, her visits to this precious spot had diminished. It had been more than a week since she last visited, and that was only to pass by on her way to Eastmore Hall to visit Charlie.

From the top of the hill, she looked down to the south and saw Rosemere and the hazy mist that surrounded the stone house, the smoke puffing from the chimneys. Beyond that to the right was Latham Hill.

Latham Hill
. She could not have been more shocked to learn of Mr. Sterling’s plans for the hill if he had told her he was going to live there himself. She knew she was not well-versed in the ways of the world . . . in the ways that men and women interact. She had been sheltered. Mr. Sterling, by his own account, had been many places, met many people. Whereas she knew her role and her world, he knew of things beyond.

“Remember how we used to climb this hill when we were
children?” exclaimed Cassandra, struggling to keep her hair free from her face in the mounting wind.

Patience felt a slight smile tug at her lips at the recollection. “Father would always get so angry. He wanted us to stay closer to the walls where it was safe. Remember that time we gathered all that heather and tried to dry it in the kitchen? Mary nearly had a fit.” Her smile faded at the memory. “But that was a long time ago.”

Patience moved to a large boulder, brushed the snow from it, and sat down. How different their lives were today. They each faced a future of uncertainty for different reasons. Only recently they had thought their paths were certain. But the ground had shifted beneath both of them. Nothing could be relied on anymore.

“How foolish we used to be, the two of us, always dreaming of great romance and adventure,” Patience said.

Cassandra gazed down at the river. “And did we find it?”

Not even the angry wind could dislodge that question from their minds.

Patience wanted to stand on the crest of the hill and scream. Cry out to God. Beg for intervention. Beg to have her relationship with her brother restored. To have her mother back. To have her hope, her purpose back.

“You did not comment on the dinner last night. Did you have a nice time?”

Cassandra’s question pulled Patience from her thoughts. It was odd that she had not shared the details of the previous evening with her friend, for the two women had always shared their deepest thoughts. But she was having difficulty putting thoughts into words, for she did not understand them herself. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Did Rawdon tell you why he invited Mr. O’Connell to return?” Cassandra asked.

Patience looked down at the snow clinging to the hem of
her skirt. She had avoided telling Cassandra any details, hoping to spare her feelings, but she supposed there was no sense in hiding the truth. “Rawdon intends to expand the school. He wants to operate a boys’ school from the west wing. He thinks it will be profitable. He has asked O’Connell to oversee the school.”

“Where will you live?”

“Rawdon intends to build a cottage on the school grounds.”

“Oh.” Cassandra’s voice fell in wistful thought. “And what of the girls’ school? Surely you will remain as headmistress after you have worked so hard?”

Patience shrugged. “I do not know. Rawdon thinks I should marry and settle down.”

“And whom does he think you should marry?”

Patience managed a little laugh. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

Her friend nudged her arm. “And what do you think?”

Patience considered what she did think. The primary reason that Rawdon had brought Ewan back to Rosemere was to run the boys’ school. But Ewan’s behavior last night suggested that he was interested in more than merely employment. She shuddered at the memory of how close he sat to her and the way he tried to belittle Mr. Sterling.

For the first time in her life, Patience did not want to return to Rosemere. She looked down at it. It looked cold. Foreboding. Not the warm solace she once enjoyed. For within its walls were people who seemed to be strangers. Oh, the irony! People she loved, but who threatened her hopes for her future. People she would lay her life down for, but with whom she could not find peace. Everything was changing. Everything was different.

She looked over her shoulder at Eastmore Hall. Somewhere inside that massive home was William Sterling. He stood almost as a symbol in her mind. Of what, she was not certain. How she tried
to suppress the flutter that danced within her heart at the thought of his clear blue eyes on the previous night.

Silly schoolgirl notion.

Patience adjusted the bonnet’s bow beneath her chin. “We are still young enough to find adventure and romance, Cassandra.”

Cassandra looked out over the land for a long time, then said, “I fear my heart will not. Cannot.”

Patience waited, giving her friend the space and time to speak of the pain that weighed on her heart. But Cassandra did not say more. She did not need to. In the days since Rawdon’s arrival, Cassandra had spoken naught of the betrayal. Today, her comfort was found on the moors, with no one to hear with the exception of her best friend and the short-eared owl watching from a tree.

The wind was exceptionally raw on the walk home from church a few days later, or perhaps it was the sour mood Patience was in that made it feel so. The icy mud and wet earth soaked through her kid boots as they returned to Rosemere, biting her toes and marring the hem of her gray mourning gown. Frustrated, she lifted her skirts a little more than what was proper. She only had one other half-mourning gown, and if this one was ruined, she hadn’t the funds to have another one made. Or perhaps it was easier to focus on the frustration with her cold toes than other frustrations brewing within her.

Part of her had expected—had hoped—to see Mr. Sterling at church. Although she was not sure why, for it was not his habit to attend. But something in her still fell when his family pew was vacant.

In front of her, the girls walked in two pristine lines. Even before the carriage burned in the fire, they never took it to church.
Her father had believed walking to be the best exercise for the constitution. So they walked. But it was her brother, and not the girls, who caught her eye. She watched her brother’s beautiful bride, hanging on his arm, barely seeming to notice the cold or the mud. Happiness beamed from her bright blue eyes, and she chattered on, making him smile.

The sight pained her, for even without looking at Cassandra, Patience knew that her dear friend was taking in the same sight. How much worse it must be for her. Of course, Patience had never loved in such a fashion and likely never would. But Cassandra knew the joy of returned affection. How it must hurt to see such a display.

Patience sighed. At least she would have the entire afternoon to herself to sort her thoughts. She had long enjoyed Sundays, but not for the reason her father intended. For her, it was a day free of work. Free of teaching. Patience knew she ought to find peace and draw close to God through worship. But that had never been a simple task. She believed in God, of course she did, but she had never had a relationship with God like her father’s.

Once in Rosemere, Patience hurried to the study, her pace quickening to that of almost a run, as if to outpace her own thoughts. Once inside, she finally drew a deep breath. This room was always cold. As it was Sunday, no fire blazed in the room’s grate. The old paned windows looked out over the grounds, allowing an abundance of afternoon light. She prepared to answer letters, but as she opened the writing box, the door opened.

“I hope I am not disturbing you.” The Scottish brogue tinted the baritone.

Patience did not look up. She did not want to look up. She did not want to see Ewan. She resisted as long as she could. She wanted to hold on to the silence. Hold on to the solitude.

But they were already gone.

“You are not intruding, sir,” Patience lied, sitting up straight,
hoping her smile did not appear as insincere as it felt. “I am merely responding to letters.”

He sat down in the chair opposite the desk and looked around the room, as if relishing memories of a time long forgotten. “How many hours did I spend in this room? Your father was a brilliant man. I am sure you miss him immensely.”

The word
immensely
hardly seemed strong enough to describe the pain and emptiness that remained since her father’s passing. But she did not have the luxury to dwell on that pain—or even recognize that pain—and it was probably best that way.

“I am so sorry I was unable to attend his funeral. I was away from home when your brother sent word. Otherwise I would have been here.”

For the first time, Patience allowed herself to look at Ewan. Really look at him. The fine cut of his coat and detail on his waistcoat suggested that he had been doing well for himself. His hair was darker—no longer the copper hue of his youth, but closer to a nut brown—and the ends curled over his stiff collar. Not a handsome man, with pale brown eyes far too large for his narrow face, but his appearance had improved with maturity.