The Headmistress of Rosemere (18 page)

With Rawdon here, the burden would be shared. Her mother might finally smile. No longer would she have to sort through the daily struggles on her own—a most welcome relief. She no longer cared to know the reason for his absence. What mattered was that he was
here
.

Once outside, her steps slowed at the sight of him, her smile faded. Rawdon stood next to the carriage, his rigid stance suggesting irritation, from his fists bunched on his hips to the firm set of his jaw. His eyes were fixed firmly on the stable’s charred remains. The shock of the scene had almost worn off of her, but he was seeing it for the first time.

Patience stepped next to him and placed her hand on his arm.
He flinched at her touch but did not look at her. “How did this happen?” The brusqueness in his question cut deep.

His question was rhetorical, she knew. And she was glad. For how could she begin to explain what she did not understand herself? But the sharpness of his tone chilled her more than the churning air.

His nostrils flared, and his eyes did not waver from the charred heap. “Stables do not simply catch fire, Patience. Something must have happened.”

Rawdon’s words sounded more like an accusation than a statement. He muttered under his breath and swiped his hat from his head.

Six months had passed since Patience last saw him, but in that time he had not changed. Hair as black as her own curled over his collar, and green eyes, paler and more narrow than hers, were watchful.

He finally looked at her, as if resolving to change the subject, but his question seemed void of sincerity. “Are you well?”

Patience had hoped to find comfort in his expression, but his curtness offered little reassurance. She nodded and rubbed her arm.

“And Mother?”

Patience froze. Had she been a better sister, she would have prepared him in her letters. She should have given him some notice of their mother’s altered state, of her depressed mind. But the few letters she had sent him focused on the needs of the school. What good would it have done to burden him with the information before this point? “You will find her much altered.”

“How?”

The inflection made her defenses rise. A clever retort toyed on her tongue, but she pressed her lips closed. Arguing with her brother, especially this early after his arrival, could only bring about trouble. “Father’s death has been difficult for her.”

“As it has been on all of us.”

Undoubtedly, her brother had been hurt by their father’s death. But to deal with his grief, he had left Darbury—escaped to London, where every object and task did not hold memories. Patience had been left alone to deal not only with the grief of losing her father but the added grief of losing her mother to melancholy thoughts.

She forced a smile, and even though she was angry with him, she harbored an empathetic happiness for her friend, Cassandra, who would be so pleased to see her beau. “Come inside. Mary has kept your room ready for your return. We’ve been expecting you ever since the fire, and I am sure that Cassandra—”

“Wait.”

A hint of light that she remembered touched his pale eyes, and a smile twitched at his lips. “Before we go inside, there is something I must tell you.”

Taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor, Patience frowned. “What is it?”

Sudden enthusiasm lit his face. “Well, perhaps I should say there is someone I would like to introduce.”

With a small jump in his step, Rawdon stepped toward the carriage and unlatched the black door. Face beaming, he reached inside. Patience sucked in her breath in shock as a dainty pink glove settled in his outstretched hand. Seconds ticked by as a petite blond woman stepped from the carriage, dressed immaculately in a pelisse of rose wool trimmed in rabbit fur. A jaunty cap sat atop smooth blond hair. The woman curled her arm possessively around Rawdon’s.

Patience struggled to comprehend what she was seeing and knew her mouth had dropped open at the display, but she had little desire to close it. The woman giggled and turned brilliant blue eyes on Patience.

Patience snapped her mouth shut and looked to her brother, awaiting an explanation. She did not have to wait long.

Rawdon placed his hand on the small of the woman’s back. “Patience, I would like to introduce my wife, Mrs. Lydia Creighton.”

Patience almost laughed.

Surely he was in jest. She stared, eyebrows raised, while her brother continued the introduction.

“And, my dear, this is my sister, Miss Patience Creighton.”

The young woman—who could really not be more than a child of eighteen or nineteen—rushed to Patience, grabbed her hand, and squeezed. Her eyes gleamed from behind long lashes, and her cheeks flushed pink in the cold.

Dread washed over her as she realized that Rawdon was quite serious.

Lydia’s words came in such a rush that Patience barely had a chance to comprehend them. “Oh, how I have longed to meet you! I have been asking Rawdon for weeks to come and pay a visit, but you know men. So slow about such things.”

Patience drew her hand away and settled it back by her side, ignoring the hurt look on her new sister-in-law’s face. She narrowed her gaze on Rawdon. “For weeks? How long have you been married?”

Lydia stepped back next to her husband like a fragile kitten that had been scolded, as if sensing she had spoken too much too quickly.

Rawdon wrapped his arm around Lydia’s shoulders and answered on her behalf. “Three months.”

No wonder he had been too busy to respond to her pleas for help.

Rawdon lowered his voice, his expression serious, his words thick with innuendo. “I knew you of all people would be pleased.”

“Pleased?” Patience wanted to give him every piece of her mind,
but the tiny woman next to him looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. “How did this happen?”

“It happened rather quickly.” He turned away from her and tucked his new wife’s hand in the crook of his arm. “I will fill you in on the details at another time, but for now I would appreciate it if you would welcome Lydia into our home as a sister.”

Our home?

Patience pressed her lips together. This had not been his home for months. Six months, to be exact.

But then the reality of the situation settled in. With her father gone, this school, including the name that bore responsibility for the lease, belonged to him. Even though she was the one who’d assumed the role as headmistress, Rawdon would likely expect to be in charge. She looked at the woman next to him, whose eyes, now brimming with tears, suggested that her reception from her sister-in-law had not been what she had expected.

Patience barely noticed that George had approached to carry in their trunks. Hurt slowly replaced shock. Had he thought her not important enough to share such important news? Did an entire childhood of sharing dreams and goals not warrant a simple letter to inform her of his nuptials? True, they had not been as close in recent years, but what of their mother? Why would he not tell her?

Patience found her voice, and with the servants coming to take the trunks, she did not want to cause a scene. “How long will you be staying?”

Rawdon glanced at his wife. “As long as necessary. And if my Lydia here takes a liking to it, we will make this our home.”

Patience swallowed and looked again at his wife, trying to recall her manners through the foggy haze in her mind. “I apologize for my reception, Mrs. Creighton. You must imagine, this is sudden news.” Employing every ounce of discipline, Patience tried
to smile and extended her hand toward her sister-in-law. “Welcome to Rosemere.”

Lydia seemed to relax at the words, and Patience froze as a thought commandeered her mind.

Cassandra
.

Alone in Miss Creighton’s study, William sat down.

Then stood.

Then sat again.

The fire crackled, and from somewhere in the school he heard the melodic cadence of children reciting a verse. Then the pings of a pianoforte.

He stood and crossed to the window to look out at the curved drive below. A black carriage with four matching bays filled the drive. One of the horses pawed the earth and whinnied, and the driver was tossing trunks down from the top.

Next to it stood Miss Creighton, the wind whipping long strands of black hair about her face as she talked to a tall man. It had been years since he last saw Rawdon Creighton, but there could be no mistaking the man’s identity. Hair every bit as black as Miss Creighton’s, he was the spitting image of his father, with a long, narrow face and a tall, lanky form. He failed to recognize the blond woman on his arm, however. Miss Creighton had not mentioned that her brother had taken a wife, but he could hardly doubt that role with the possessive hold she had on Rawdon Creighton’s arm.

William made up his mind to leave, to politely excuse himself, but as he turned away from the window and passed by the desk, something caught his eye.

In a shallow box on the desk’s corner was a small velvet pouch
drawn tight with a silver cord. The item gave him reason to pause. It looked so familiar.

He hesitated.

Could it be the same one that had been in his possession so many years ago?

Rational thought denied the idea that an item, so long ago parted with, would make an appearance on the desk of a headmistress. William studied it again. It couldn’t possibly be the same pouch . . . or could it?

He reprimanded himself for the foolish inclination and took several determined steps toward the door. But then he stopped and turned. The silver cord of the pouch gleamed in the late-afternoon light.

It couldn’t be. Could it?

Temptation called too loudly. William cast a glance toward the open door to make sure he was alone and then stepped back toward the desk. As soon as the soft fabric touched his fingers, a million ghostly memories were released from their confines. He opened the pouch and tipped it upside down, and was not surprised when an amethyst brooch slid into his palm.

His mother’s brooch
.

He flipped it over. There, engraved in the setting, were his mother’s initials—EAS. He ran his thumb over the scalloped edge.

But how did it get here?

Blood pounded in his ears, making it difficult to decipher his own thoughts. Yes, the piece had been his mother’s, but after her death he had given it to Isabelle—on the day he proposed, the last day he saw her.

He’d forgotten about the brooch. But here it was in a box atop a headmistress’s desk.

His tailcoat felt too tight, his cravat, like a noose.

As the fog of frustration cleared around him, questions
bombarded him. He curved his fingers around the trinket. The gold grew warm in his hand. He could demand answers of Miss Creighton. But he had the burning suspicion that she was not the person with whom he needed to speak.

He knew full well who—the man he had avoided since the day that man refused to tell him where Isabelle had gone. That man was Isabelle’s uncle, the vicar, Mr. Thomas Hammond.

William looked back out to the front drive. Miss Creighton, her brother, and the mystery woman were headed toward the door. He hesitated and then returned the brooch to the pouch and stuffed it in his pocket.

He hurried from the room and met Miss Creighton as she reentered the school. He mumbled a good-bye, murmured a greeting to Creighton, and did not wait for an introduction to the woman. For whatever link this school had to Isabelle’s disappearance, he needed to think, and he needed to be far from here.

Far, far from Rosemere.

15

P
atience drew a steadying breath. Two tasks lay head of her, neither of which would be pleasant.

First, she needed to talk to her mother, who would either be pleased at her prodigal son’s return or angry at him for marrying without any word.

Second, she would speak with Cassandra. This task was even more harrowing than the first, for how could she begin to tell her dearest friend that her beloved had married another?

Patience drew yet another deep breath before opening her mother’s door. She forced brightness to her expression and lightness to her voice. “Mother, I have a surprise for you!”