The Headmistress of Rosemere (8 page)

Did she disapprove of his decision? Or perhaps doubt his ability? His confidence already shaken, he did not want to appear weak in front of a tenant, especially one who was such a beautiful woman, so he hastened to add, “Until arrangements for a new steward can be made.”

Her frown dissipated. “Well then, I shall look forward to working with you on—”

The door flew open again. This time an older woman with a white smock over her black dress stepped in. She didn’t bother to look in his direction. “Dinner’s going to be late, Miss Creighton. George has gone to Fletcher’s to fetch the—”

“Mary, please.” Miss Creighton jumped to her feet, a flush coloring her cheeks at the sudden intrusion. “We have a guest.”

The woman turned, looked down a hawk nose, her expression pinched, and made no effort to hide an obvious repulsion to the marks on his face.

He adjusted his position uncomfortably under the woman’s scrutiny. Was this woman a servant? A teacher?

The woman drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll come back.”

After she left, William, more amused than offended, said,
“Well, Miss Creighton, ’tis a wonder indeed that you are ever able to complete a thought! This appears to be a busy room.”

She smiled. “Well, with twenty-nine students, five teachers, four servants, and my mother, there is rarely a dull moment.”

He tapped his fingers on his knee before jumping to his feet. “I can see you are busy, Miss Creighton. I’ll not keep you from your duties.”

“But your tea, Mr. Sterling. Surely you will want to warm yourself before going out again into the cold.”

He shook his head. He did want to stay in her company, but he did not wish to be a nuisance. “Perhaps another time. I’ve no wish to detain you, and I have another tenant to visit before darkness falls completely. I’ve only come by to thank you for your kindness and to inform you of Livingstone’s absence.”

Even without the benefit of the tea, William departed from Rosemere with a strange feeling of warmth and a persistent suspicion that there was more to Miss Creighton than what he might have assumed. He reminded himself of the necessity of maintaining focus and keeping his goal steadfastly in front of him, for the last time he allowed his heart and mind to be occupied by a woman, his ruination followed. But even with that sharp reminder, he felt certain that the interesting Miss Creighton would not be far from his thoughts.

6

L
ater that evening, with a candlestick in hand, Patience climbed the staircase to the east wing, as she did every night before the clock struck eight. The candle’s glow cast long, bending shadows on the worn stairs.

Visiting the youngest students at Rosemere was a habit she had started four years ago when young Emma Simmons came to live at the school.

Emma was not yet four years old and would cry lonely, heart-wrenching tears nightly. She was the youngest student ever to live at Rosemere, and during those first difficult weeks, Patience had been the only one who could console her. Over time, visits to the bedchamber of the youngest students had become a nightly ritual. Patience would read a story or verse to the girls and tuck them each into bed with a kiss and a prayer. It was normally a relaxing time, when the day would slow and evening would slip into night. It signaled her last task of the day, and afterward Mary would always have a cup of tea waiting for her.

But tonight, as she drew closer to the sleeping chamber shared by the five girls, her heart felt odd. Restless. Her days flew by at such a blinding pace that she rarely had time to pause and reflect. She barely had time to sort her thoughts.

This day, on the surface, had passed in all normalcy. Lessons were taught, meals were planned, letters had been written. She’d completed her tasks with regular efficiency. Even though those tasks could be difficult, they brought her meaning and purpose. But then, toward the end of the day, she had received their most unusual visitor again, and ever since, her mind seemed slow, her thoughts sluggish.

Mr. William Sterling. What an unusual character he was proving to be. For years they’d lived in close proximity, more strangers than neighbors. In truth, until their meeting after his accident, he’d likely been oblivious to her existence. And her awareness of him was limited to the girlhood whispers she had shared with school-mates about his mysterious reputation and handsome presence.

But in recent years he had rarely crossed her mind, save for the fact that he had been absent from her father’s funeral. And now, not once but twice he had been in her home. And both times he had left behind thoughts of something she had assumed was long buried. What would it be like to have a suitor, especially one as handsome and strong as William Sterling? She could not deny that he was handsome. Despite his wounds, his blue eyes were sharp and alert. His jaw was strong and determined.

And why, after all this time, should a visit from him unnerve her so? Any childhood inclination to think him romantic and exciting should be squelched by a more mature assessment of his less-than-proper behavior, or at least the accompanying rumors.

This afternoon he’d presented himself as well-spoken and self-assured. Not at all gruff and harsh like the man they had found unconscious. And yet, she wondered, who was Isabelle? And why
should he call her name while in such a state? Undoubtedly, she must be far from the type of women who dwelled in Darbury—someone much more fashionable. Elegant.

She made her way down the darkened corridor, her only distraction the quiet chatter of girls behind closed paneled doors and the muted patter of feet on wooden floors. When she opened the door to the youngest students’ room, she heard a circling of “hushes” and the delightful melody of little-girl giggles.

She relaxed. This is what she needed to focus on. This, and not on a silly romantic notion of a stranger.

Patience smiled at her little girls, all gathered by the fire, their stocking feet poking out from the hems of their plain, white muslin gowns. The scent of lavender water from recent baths hung sweetly in the air. Their cheeks, rosy and fresh, glowed with smiles, and their eyes held the glimmer of promised secrets and shared dreams.

Patience stood in the room and propped her hands on her hips. “And what are you girls giggling at, I wonder?”

Henny clasped a hand over her mouth and giggled, her brown eyes bright. “Emma said that Delilah ate one of Mr. George’s gloves.”

The girls covered their mouths and dissolved into laughter.

Emma drew her knees up to her chest. “She did! She did! And Mr. George was so cross with Delilah.” She clapped her hands over her face. “Poor Mr. George.”

Patience could not help but smile at the child’s account of the goat. She could not quite understand why the stubborn goat was such a source of amusement for the girls, for the animal was always raising havoc for George and Charlie. But the wilder the goat’s antics, the broader their amusement.

Patience took her seat in a straight-back wooden chair next to the fire, and the girls gathered around her. Emma. Georgiana. Charlotte. Louisa. Henny.

Once they were settled, Patience clasped her hands in her lap. “And what shall I read to you tonight?”

“The Mrs. Teachum book!” cried Louisa, leaning forward, her dark eyes wide with anticipation. The other girls agreed, so Patience sifted through a basket next to her chair of worn novels and pulled a copy of
The Governess
. She had read this book to the girls so many times she was certain they would tire of it, but instead, they clamored for it. But it was no surprise that the girls would love the story of the adventures of nine young girls at a school much like Rosemere.

Patience opened to the story “An Account of a Fray, Begun and Carried on for the Sake of an Apple: In Which Are Shown the Sad Effects of Rage and Anger.”

Patience read with animated voice and dramatic inflection, and the girls, as usual, reacted to the argument the students were having over apples and the ensuing altercation.

At the end, when the students in the story were reprimanded for their anger and maliciousness, her own students grew somber. Patience closed the book and placed it on her lap. “And what of these young ladies? What can you learn from their misfortune?”

“Do not argue,” piped Henny.

Charlotte said, “Be nice.”

Patience nodded. “You are so right. We must be kind to those around us, even when they do something to hurt or upset us.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You girls have a special bond with one another. There will be times when you will be frustrated with one another, like the girls in the story with the apple. But you must control your temper.” She turned to Louisa. “If you are upset with one of the other girls, what should you do?”

“Forgive them.”

“You are correct.” She looked at their faces, so sweet and
innocent. “And what if it is hard to forgive someone? What should you do?”

“Pray to God for help.” Louisa’s timid answer warmed her.

They were learning the truths that were so important. Her father would have been proud.

“Oh, you girls are all kind, and I know I can trust you not to argue and fight like the girls in the book. Always remember, we all get angry. What is important is that you handle your anger appropriately. Now, to bed with you.”

The girls scurried up into their beds, and Patience stoked the fire before pulling extra quilts from the wardrobe. Before leaving, she pressed a kiss on each girl’s forehead, heard their prayers, and tucked an extra quilt around each one to guard against the cold February night.

The last child was Emma. The other four girls came from sound families and spent holidays in their own loving homes, but Emma was different.

Patience tucked the quilt around the girl’s tiny frame. Emma motioned for her to lean closer. “Do you think that man’s eye is better yet?” she whispered.

Patience sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning close so as not to disturb the other girls. “It will probably take a few more days to heal.”

Emma frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the response. “Naughty horse.”

Patience smoothed the child’s hair from her face. “I sincerely doubt the horse intended to throw Mr. Sterling.”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “Do you think it hurts him?”

“I am sure it is not pleasant, but he is on the mend. He told me as much himself.” She pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead, offered a smile, and took up her candlestick. “How thoughtful of you to be concerned for the welfare of others. Sweet dreams, my darlings.”

Patience pulled the door closed behind her. Once again, Rosemere was as silent as the grave.

And her mind was free to roam.

William slumped in his chair, a goblet of claret balanced in his hand.

Night had fallen. Darkness—and a bone-chilling cold—blanketed Eastmore Hall’s paneled library. The dying glow from the fire played on the goblet’s intricate cuts and angles. He nudged his booted foot closer to the fire and stared unblinking into the weak flame.

He touched his healing lip, then rubbed a hand across his sideburn and over his chin. He was distracted. Why could he think of little else besides Miss Creighton? Of the curve of her neck, the slope of her nose? His conversation with the blue-eyed little girl at the school kept coming back to him, and the memory of the hall’s warmth toyed with his mind.

He had not wanted to leave Rosemere.

The realization shocked him as much as it confused him. He would have been quite content to stay in Miss Creighton’s company for as long as the day and the evening would allow. But she had obvious responsibilities that were far more important than humoring a man that she no doubt regarded as little more than her landlord. His attempt to offer simple gratitude for a kind gesture had resulted in more questions he could not readily answer.

Eastmore Hall had once been welcoming and inviting, much like Rosemere. His mother had seen to that. But since her death, and then that of his father, the estate property had been on a sharp decline.

William pulled his brother’s letter from his waistcoat, unfolded it, and strained to read it in the dim light. The letter was
short but good-natured. Graham, a captain in His Majesty’s navy and away most of the time, asked William to watch over his wife and daughter. They lived but a short ride away, at Winterwood Manor, just on the other side of Sterling Wood. He would ride out to Winterwood soon to check on Amelia and little Lucy, for he owed his brother that much and more. Life had taken the brothers in opposite directions. Graham had enjoyed much success. But William, despite his privilege and opportunity, had floundered. It was Graham who had started William on the path to confronting his wrongs and failures instead of hiding them.