The Headmistress of Rosemere (13 page)

Now that the immediate danger had passed, he feared what was next.

He knew that other landlords would refuse to take responsibility for such an incident. But his father had set the precedent. Everyone in the county would no doubt recall how his father had rebuilt the Camdon cottage when it burned ten years ago. How would it look if he did not do the same, especially when the building in question was merely a stable?

William scratched his head, then scanned the burning heap. He tried to calculate what it would cost to rebuild the structure, but in his exhausted state he could not begin to factor. He vaguely recalled Mr. Livingstone speaking of repairs to tenant cottages or outbuildings, but he had never paid attention to the sums. All he knew was that whatever the cost, he did not have the funds for it.

And still pay Rafertee.

He’d check the lease in the morning. Surely when his father drew up the paperwork, he’d included terms to clarify responsibilities in such an incident. His father had been steadfast in financial interests and likely freed the Sterling family from any obligations.

But even if that were the case, William could not simply walk away.

How Miss Creighton’s red-rimmed eyes haunted him. The sight of the limp child plagued his thoughts. And this tragedy could be a result of his own foolishness.

No, he could not—would not—walk away.

Lewis lifted the lantern. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

William pushed himself from the post he’d been leaning on. “What is it?”

Lewis motioned for him to follow, and William stepped over some debris and followed the groom around the remains of the stable. Lewis led the way through the smoky mist to a clearing by the river. “Look.”

William’s eyes were still watering with such intensity that making out anything was difficult. “What are we looking at?”

“Here, take the lantern. Lean down.”

William knelt down in the spongy mud, squinted, and then—he saw it. A mess of hoofprints and footprints, in no apparent order. At the sight, his heart pounded, each beat harder than the last. He stood and handed the lantern back to Lewis.

William whispered, “Does anyone else know about these?”

“Doubt it. George is the only one who would likely take notice, and I doubt he would come down this way.”

William tried to rationalize it. “Could be Angus’s hoofprints from a few days ago. My own boot prints. I believe I rode through this clearing.”

“Perhaps, but look.” Lewis leaned down and pointed at the
hoofprints. “Different sizes. Last I checked, all of Angus’s shoes were the same size.”

William felt as if he had swallowed rock after rock. “Are you thinking Rafertee’s men?”

Lewis shrugged. “They were out here on the moors at night a few nights ago, and look what they did to you.”

“But why would they be here? Why not Eastmore’s stables?”

“Eastmore’s stables are more exposed. Closer to the road. Maybe it would be too obvious of a message to outsiders.” Lewis shrugged again. “I’m not sure.”

Dread simmered, then bubbled into anger. William snapped a twig from a nearby tree and slammed it to the ground. He muttered, pressing the twig remnants into the soft, cold mud. “I’ve got to get the rest of that money, and soon.”

“Well, we can’t solve it tonight.” Lewis headed back toward Rosemere. “Let’s get the horses and take what animals we can back with us to Eastmore. We’ll figure it out by the light of day.”

When Patience awoke, sunlight flooded her room.

If it weren’t for the scent of smoke teasing her nostrils, she could almost believe that the horrible night behind her was only a vaporous dream. But then, as she rolled over, her thick hair, which had slipped from her plait, smelled so strongly of smoke she almost gagged.

She rubbed the kinks from her neck and glanced over at the window. When she finally had come up to sleep after the fire, the sun was just below the horizon, the eastern sky a light purple and the rest of the sky still gray. She shivered and wrapped her blanket around herself before crossing to the window to assess the grounds below.

Bright morning light pained her eyes, and even when she pinched them closed, she had no relief from the burning. The fire was gone, but the smoke lingered, woven into the fabric of the air.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she was met with the reality she had hoped was but a nightmare. The stable, or what had been the stable, was a charred heap of scorched timber. Smoke and fog still rose from the ashes and debris. The snow was absent around the remnants, a stark contrast to the rest of the white landscape. Patience arched her neck, looking to see if anyone was about. But the grounds were empty. She shivered and pulled the curtains tight. Even in her solitude, a flush rose to her cheeks when she realized what she had done.

She was not looking to see if
anyone
was about.

She was looking to see if
he
was about.

Patience tightened the blanket around her shoulders and turned away. The memory of the roughness of William Sterling’s thumb on her cheek as he brushed soot away brought the oddest quiver to her stomach.

Shame on her. She should have been aware of how close she was. Of perhaps sending a message she had not intended to send. Such an intimate act to one who was practically a stranger was an impropriety.

Or was it?

Heaven help her, she did not understand the effect William Sterling had on her. Under normal circumstances, she was calm. Collected. Rational to a fault. Around him, she was unsure of herself, for his very presence made her question everything she thought she knew. Thought she wanted.

With his tawny hair and clear eyes, he was handsome, to be sure, but it was the memory of the corded muscles in his forearms that twitched as she cleaned his wound that refused to leave her. She turned to pull a clean robe from the wardrobe, and when she
did, she caught her reflection in her small mirror. Her hair hung wild and tangled about her pale face, and sure enough, black soot was still smudged across her cheek.

She lifted her fingertips to the black residue.

So his touch had been intended to be helpful, not forward.

She tried to wipe it off. But it would not budge.

The last time a man had touched her had been many years ago. Ewan O’Connell.

Ewan had been the romance of her youth. She had been but nineteen, and he was her father’s protégé and lived with them in Rosemere. Ewan made her an offer of marriage, but she, silly and young, refused him, waiting for someone more handsome. More exciting. More romantic.

But that someone never came.

She wiped her cheek harder, unshed tears itching her eyes. She could not allow such silly thoughts of William Sterling to permeate her mind.

Thoughts of his hair, which she could not quite decide if it was light brown or dark blond.

Or thoughts of his tone, which she could not quite discern if it was flirtatious or sincere.

For he was a wealthy landowner, used to fine things, fast horses, and fancy women. She was a mere spinster headmistress of a modest girls’ school.

She called for Mary to come help her dress and did her best to bury her thoughts in the busyness of the day ahead. After donning a high-waisted, long-sleeved gown of charcoal muslin with black ribbon around the hem of her sleeves, she hurried to check on Emma.

At Emma’s bedchamber, she slowly opened the door and poked her head inside. Sunlight filtered through the room’s only narrow window onto Cassandra, who sat in a chair, leaning
forward against the bed, her russet head cradled in the crook of her arm. Both slept.

Patience tiptoed over the planked floor, but as she stepped on an uneven floorboard, a creak echoed from the plastered walls. Cassandra jerked upright, sleep marks creasing her face. Her nose wrinkled in sleepy confusion, and her hair hung limp about her face.

Patience held her finger up to her lips and stepped closer to look down at the sleeping child. Emma’s tangled hair spread out on the white pillow, the dark hue of each strand contrasting sharply with the stark linen fabric. Traces of soot still colored Emma’s forehead, and her long black lashes fanned out on her olive skin. Her lips were parted in easy slumber.

Patience whispered, “How is she?”

Cassandra yawned, leaned forward, and smoothed the blanket. “She has not woken, although she had a few coughing fits and has moaned in her sleep.”

Patience placed her hand on the child’s forehead. “She does not feel feverish.”

Her stomach churned at the thought of the pain the child had experienced. “I need to check on Mother, but then I’ll be back to sit with her.”

She squeezed Cassandra’s shoulder and left the room as quietly as the uneven floor would allow. She trudged back to the west wing and then to her mother’s room. She found Margaret Creighton sitting up in bed, graying hair in disarray and blankets strewn about.

“Mother, have you not slept?”

Her mother fussed with an embroidered handkerchief. “How could I after such tragedy has befallen Rosemere?” She pressed the fabric to her nose. “And where have you been?”

“Well”—Patience hesitated—“I just came from Emma’s room. And before that, I was sleeping.”

Her mother huffed. “I see you have tended to the needs of everyone else. Just like your father would have done.” Her words seemed hurled as an accusation instead of offered as a compliment. “How quickly I am forgotten.”

Patience ignored her mother’s jab and for once let the chamber curtains remain closed.

“Let me call for tea. I am sure that after—”

But she stopped, silenced by the tears sliding down her mother’s cheeks.

Patience had grown accustomed to her mother’s emotional outbursts. Even though they were increasingly frequent, they were never easy. “Please calm yourself. I know this has been difficult, but I assure you, I—”

Her mother’s nightcap slid to the side. “Difficult? Difficult? Your father devoted his entire life to this school. Poured every ounce of his soul into it. To say it is difficult is an understatement indeed.”

Patience feared anything she would say would only further anger her mother. Yet remaining silent was not an option. “Of course he would have been upset, but I am certain he would realize that the stable is just that, a stable. It can easily be rebuilt.”

“Do not preach at me, Patience. I am fully aware of how serious this could have been.”

At the sharpness in Margaret Creighton’s tone, Patience pressed her lips together and clasped her hands behind her. How was it possible to comfort someone who did not wish to be comforted?

Patience shifted the conversation. “Mr. Sterling said he would be by soon, and he will—”

“You know how I feel about William Sterling,” her mother snapped. “I’ve told you so time and time again. Why, he didn’t even attend your father’s funeral. And he and his steward have neglected us. I don’t trust that man.”

Patience bit her lip to prevent the retort that would surely spill forth if she did not. Why did she feel the need to defend William Sterling? To tell her mother that it was he who saved Emma? Was it that she herself believed him to be a kind man, in his heart a decent man, or was it to spite her mother’s negativity?

But after her mother’s outburst, Patience could not help but wonder why Mr. Sterling’s visits had suddenly started now. Was it because of what she knew about his injury on the moors? He indicated that he wanted to keep it quiet. Did he think that if he helped her she would keep his secret?

Her mother’s rant continued. “How could a stable, in the middle of the night, simply burst into flames?” She wagged a finger in Patience’s direction. “Something is amiss.”

Patience had barely allowed her thoughts to go to the possibility of foul play. It seemed unlikely that one of the girls had been involved, and who would want to harm a girls’ school?

Patience took her mother’s hand. “You are upset.” She drew a sharp breath before forcing herself to voice the words she knew her mother wanted to hear. “I will write to Rawdon again. He will be here. He will sort this out.”

Patience had been correct in her assumption. Her mother relaxed at the mention of Rawdon’s name.

“You are right. He will know the best course. He’s always been such a clever man. So like his father. He will be able to help us through these dark times.”