The Headmistress of Rosemere (36 page)

She jiggled her door handle. It would not open fast enough. She thrust it open and slammed the door behind her. Her father’s death. Her mother’s distance. Her brother’s betrayal. The stable burning. Cassandra’s impending departure. Ewan’s ridiculous ploy to make her respond to him favorably in front of others. It was not to be borne.

She fumbled in the dark for a handkerchief, but gave up and fell across her bed. The bedclothes were cold and foreign. How she wanted to be anywhere but here! She would, eventually, have to face the people downstairs and account for her ridiculous behavior of running out like a child.

But no one’s opinion mattered as much as that of William Sterling.

After the initial onslaught of tears subsided, she was left with a few stray tears and a throbbing headache. She sniffed and wiped her face on the sleeve of her forgotten, elegant dress. How foolish she had been. Getting dressed up for a man who would never think twice about her. He’d been nice to her because he wanted to sell them the land. Nothing more.

She lifted her hand to begin removing the pins from her disheveled hair, fighting the urge to burst into tears once more. Once her hair was free and flowed around her shoulders, she curled up in a ball in the still darkness. Perhaps, if fate were on her side, sleep would envelop her.

Then came a soft knock on her door.

She did not respond.

The knock sounded again. “Patience?”

Mother
.

Of all the people who might come to see her, her mother was the one person she could not send away.

She sat up on the bed. “It is not locked.”

The door opened, and her mother slipped through and closed the door behind her. She placed the candle she had been carrying on a bureau, and in the faint light, Patience could imagine that it was her mother the way she used to be, coming to check on her and tuck her in at night. By this light, the graying of her hair was not as noticeable. The wrinkles in her skin not as pronounced.

Patience did not speak. For what would she say?

“It has been months since I have been in this room.”

“You used to hear my prayers each night.” Patience had not intended her words to sound like an accusation, but the look of hurt on her mother’s face indicated that she interpreted them as such.

Her mother sat wordlessly next to her on the bed, and as each moment passed, the discomfort seemed to dissipate.

Her mother stared into the blackness. “When you were born, your father insisted upon naming you Patience.”

Patience swallowed, thinking the statement odd, but in the shadowed room and her darkened state, she simply listened.

“I wanted to name you Mary, after my mother, but your father would not hear of it. He said he wanted to name you with a virtue so that every time you heard it you would be reminded of God’s providence.” She looked at Patience. Her smile seemed weary. “You know your father and his ideas of self-improvement.” She looked down at her hands, as if reliving moments of long ago. “I do not need to remind you that you were not a patient child. Nor a patient youth. You were so eager to see what was around the next corner. To embrace the new instead of enjoying what you have today.”

She took Patience’s hand in her own. “Before your father died, we talked of you. He admired your strength, but we laughed at how you seemed to have completely missed your namesake. And when I see you, Patience, I believe you have begun to understand.”

But Patience did not understand. Her mother’s words did not make sense, and her head ached so that she could not seem to decipher their meaning. She fell back against the bed.

“I have not been there for you, Patience, and I am sorry for it. My heart is so weary.”

As is mine
. The words hovered on Patience’s lips, begging for release, but stayed frozen, unsaid.

“You have been so strong. And I . . . I have . . .” Tears trickled down her mother’s cheeks, communicating more than a thousand words ever could.

Patience sat up and wiped her hair from her own wet face.

Her mother sucked in a breath and then blew it out. “Your father is dead, but just as you have told me so many times, our
lives . . . yours, mine, and Rawdon’s . . . are not over. And I gather, from your words downstairs, that Mr. O’Connell does not fit into the rest of your life.”

Patience moved her head from side to side. “He does not. My opinion cannot be altered.” She closed her mouth. She knew the full reason why he did not fit in her life. There was no room left in her heart. “Is he upset?”

“After you left, he quitted the room in quite a fury. I have not seen him since.”

“Do you think that is the real reason why Rawdon brought him here?”

“I think your brother is concerned for your welfare. As am I.”

“Well, now that Rawdon will own this property, we do not have to worry. The school will continue on as it has been. And if he expands it, it can only be successful. And our family will, no doubt, continue to live here as we have always done.”

Patience expected that fact to bring her more comfort than it did.

Her mother smoothed her hair. “I must correct you. This is where I shall live out the remainder of my years. You, my dear, are meant for other things. Your father had grand plans for this school, and he would be proud of the work you have done here, how you have kept it going with little to no help. How you handled the stable’s burning.”

Patience looked up. Her mother had not mentioned anything to her about the school in ages. Nothing of the work she had done. A welcome warmth spread from her middle to her limbs, momentarily pushing out the cold and dread.

“But this was your father’s dream, Patience, and you have contributed to it. Do not let it blind you. Do not sacrifice your personal happiness for someone else’s dream.”

“But it is my dream, it is—”

“I am simply saying not to fool yourself into thinking that there is nothing else for you.”

Overwhelmed by the glimpse of the mother she had missed for so long, Patience put her arms around her mother. “I have missed you so.”

Her mother seemed to understand, for she kissed Patience on the forehead. “I know, dear. My heart has been heavy. But you said something that stuck with me. Father would not want me to continue in this way. I see you working, fighting. Rawdon is dealing with the loss in his own way. And I want to live again.”

As dawn broke over the moors the following morning, Patience stood outside, her shawl pulled tight around her. The drizzle from the gray canopy of clouds dampened her shoulders and face and hair. Emotion tightened her throat and tears threatened to spill.

Standing next to the carriage, Patience took Cassandra’s gloved hands in hers. “Promise me you will write as soon as you are settled.”

Cassandra sniffled, her smile trembling only slightly. “The minute I arrive.”

She wanted to say anything to convince her friend to stay, but Patience knew all too well that once her friend had made up her mind, she was unwavering. “Are you sure you will not say good-bye to Mother?”

Cassandra squeezed Patience’s hand. “It is better this way. I have said my good-byes to the other teachers, but I think, in light of my reasons for leaving, the less said, the better.”

Cassandra stepped toward the open carriage door, but then stopped and turned. “Do not dislike the new Mrs. Creighton on my account. And, Patience, there are two men who are both in love
with you. Do not let your anger blind you to what may be waiting for you.”

And with that, Cassandra accepted George’s hand and stepped into the carriage. Patience watched her through the tiny carriage window as she settled into her space and turned to wave a farewell.

Patience smiled back and waved, but inside, her heart was grieving. Crying. The carriage rumbled down the drive and disappeared through the iron gates.

She shivered. The dampness permeated her plain dress, and she brushed a lock of hair, still in a curl from last night’s festivities, away from her face. She turned back to Rosemere and studied it with a sigh.

With the exception of Cassandra, everything and everyone she loved was tucked safely inside these walls. Her girls. Her staff. Her family.

But her heart did not find peace. For there was something missing.

Had she never met William Sterling, she might never have noticed. Ever since that day when he lay motionless and still in George’s bed, she had felt a stirring in her heart. Every emotion concerning him was heightened, and now that she had rejected another, she understood why. She was in love with William Sterling.

With most of the house still asleep and the early-morning darkness blanketing the grounds with its silence, Patience retrieved a lantern, her bonnet, and a crimson cloak and went for a walk before the weather grew too intense.

The freshness of the morning air beckoned her. It was as if it carried with it the wind of change, a promise of a new beginning, and by simply being out in it she would find clarity of thought. The
rain had turned to snow and fell in uneven patterns, gathering like a velvet carpet on the frozen ground. The air invigorated her. The wind stung her eyes. As uncomfortable as it was, the sensations made her feel alive. With a sigh, Patience climbed Wainslow Peak’s smooth incline. The wind was strong here but carried with it the spicy, earthy scent of the frozen moors. It felt comforting. Like she belonged.

She could finally breathe. She filled her lungs. Today all would start anew. Whether Mr. O’Connell would stay after his display the previous evening, she did not know, but regardless, she could start fresh, throw herself into her work. Maybe even embrace the idea of a school for young men. Develop a relationship with a sister-in-law who could become a dear friend. And for all the practicality in her plan, perhaps she could leave room in her heart and mind for a little dream.

William was up before the sunrise. How could he sleep?

The dinner at Rosemere, which at first held such promise, quickly fizzled. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed when he heard O’Connell’s proposal and beheld the humiliated expression on Miss Creighton’s face. Even now, he could not shake the memory of it. He’d wanted to confront O’Connell, but the man disappeared shortly after Miss Creighton left the room. The other guests departed immediately after dinner.

After a sleepless night in bed, he rose early, before the dawn. Without a formal staff, there was always work to be done. He lit a lantern and headed for the stable.