Mrs. Martin produced a single candle from the kitchen and set it on the rickety table positioned between the two deep-set windows. “There’s a hook on the wall for your pelisse, and a trunk for your things.”
Cassandra’s gaze fell to the tiny trunk. Sadness and the desire to be alone overwhelmed her. She resisted the urge to shiver. “Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”
As quickly as she had ushered Cassandra to the room, Mrs. Martin departed. Cassandra hurried to close the door to ensure her privacy, desperate to be away from the maids’ listening ears. She set her reticule and gloves atop the bed and rubbed her hands together to generate warmth.
A fresh gust rushed in, flickering the candle’s single yellow flame and whipping at her hair. She wrinkled her nose at a stench she could not quite identify. She supposed now would be a good time to cry. And yet, it was not an act she was prone to. Yes, she had cried when Mrs. Denton died. Other than that, Cassandra could not remember the last time.
But now she was in a situation she’d never quite experienced. Very little had gone according to plan. She had hoped for a gratifying outcome, but now there were more questions than answers. More disappointments than successes. And more loneliness than ever.
Cassandra sniffed and wiped her nose with her handkerchief. She could not give in to emotion. She had no choice but to keep her wits about her. After all, there was still a chance. Mr. Clark’s son was living. His former housekeeper would surely have information. But now she was cold and hungry, her feet hurt, and her head throbbed. She dropped to the bed.
No, crying would not help. When had it ever?
Chapter 6
James pulled the high collar of his caped greatcoat closer to his neck as he returned home from the mill. Night had fallen, bringing the bone-chilling autumn mists that could only come from a day beleaguered with drizzle and fog.
He’d lived at Briarton Park long enough to uncover the property’s mysteries—the hidden dips in the road that might cause his horse to stumble, the secret shadows that concealed tree roots and disguised low-hanging branches. He’d become well acquainted with what lay ahead of him—he’d round a bend near a cluster of trees, cross the arched stone bridge spanning the River Sinet, and then come upon the house.
There should be comfort in returning home—in being among things that were familiar. But as he approached the river, tonight of all nights, melancholy plagued him.
The day had been onerous. He hated to quarrel with Rachel. The attack on Riddy had agitated the workers, and the menacing threats against the other mill owners made him apprehensive for his own family’s safety.
James paused as his horse crested the hill that marked the edge of his property. The clouds that had hounded them with rain earlier that afternoon had thinned for the time being, and the moon’s fragmented light flooded the ancient home with a silver glow. Briarton Park—and the peace and solitude it could potentially afford—had been the dream he and Elizabeth had shared. A quiet life, away from the hustle of Plymouth’s business responsibilities, where his days had been spent overseeing the sales and shipping of the broadcloth that came from several Yorkshire mills.
It had been a profitable and necessary time to fund their purchase of a mill of their own. They’d been patient and made their sacrifices—travel had kept him away from their home, and his long hours had caused tension and disagreements. He had told himself that soon it would all be worth it.
But then the unthinkable happened.
Elizabeth’s death shattered that dream and propelled him into uncharted territory, personally and professionally. He’d done his best to keep their family strong and secure, but he could not lie to himself—their current existence was but a shell of their former plans. Despite his good intentions, disarray reigned. His relationship with his sister was tense, the relationship with his mother-in-law was strained, and his business, the very livelihood they had worked so hard to establish, now faced adversities he could not avoid.
After returning to Briarton’s courtyard, James took his horse to the stables and entered the house through the workers’ entrance. He discarded his greatcoat and hat, shook the remaining moisture from his boots and hair, and took the servants’ stairs, two at a time, to the family wing. The hour was late, and no doubt both girls were asleep, but he needed to see them.
He nudged the nursery door open. A fire blazed in the grate at the room’s far end, casting long, flickering shadows on the two canopied beds positioned beneath the draped windows. A rush of heat met him, warming his face and hands, and immediately the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders relaxed.
As he eased the door open farther, it squeaked, and his older daughter, Maria, sat up. “Papa!”
He held his finger to his lips, nodded toward sleeping Rose, then moved to Maria’s bed. He planted a kiss on the top of her head and sat next to her.
“You’re so late!” she exclaimed as she fussed with the cotton sleeve of her white nightdress. “We tried to wait up for you, but Grandmother insisted we go to bed.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He picked up a book on the table next to her bed. “Ah. Have you been reading?”
“Grandmother was supposed to read with us, but she didn’t feel well this evening. So we read with Matilda.”
He jerked, surprised. “The kitchen maid?”
Maria nodded. “But she doesn’t know how to read, so I read it to her.”
James stiffened and thumbed through the book’s pages of pictures of bunnies and trees. He did not care for the idea that his daughters were reading with the kitchen maid. He and his mother-in-law had made an agreement that she would oversee their education and activities until the new governess they had engaged was available, which was still a few months away. Their agreement did not—under any circumstances—allow for the kitchen maid to be responsible for their care.
“Who was the lady who came by this morning?”
James frowned, pulling his attention away from his thoughts. “Who?”
“The lady who knocked on the door? I saw her from the garden.”
The memory of Shepard’s warning battled with the strange emotion the sight of the woman had incited in him. “She was here to inquire after the man who used to own this house.”
“Why?”
“She was looking for some information.” He patted her hand. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”
Her small shoulders slumped slightly, and she fidgeted with the end of her long plait. “I miss it when people come. People always visited when Mama was alive. Do you remember?”
Yes, he remembered. How could he forget?
“I do.”
Maria sighed. “Grandmother says there isn’t anyone around Briarton Park appropriate for us to visit with.”
He leaned closer. “Now, that just isn’t true.”
She scrunched her brows together. “Then why do we never have visitors or visit anyone else?”
As much as he hated to admit it, he knew exactly to what she was referring. Margaret Towler had been decidedly opposed to the family relocating to Yorkshire, and now she refused to engage with society, claiming it was beneath the station they had enjoyed in Plymouth. James had grown up in the area and was familiar enough with the other mill owners to establish professional relationships, but that left little engagement for his daughters.