They were nearing the edge of Briarton’s property, and he still had so many questions. “Did you see Standish leave?”
“I saw him head toward the inn, but I did not see him depart. He said there was a carriage waiting.”
Disappointment stung. James wanted to know for certain that this man was miles away from his sister and that he could never do her harm.
This entire evening—this entire day, actually—had been strange, but this was perhaps the strangest way to end it. They walked over the bridge in silence and drew to a stop at the foot of the bridge as it opened up to the high street.
She turned to him, and it struck him as the first time she had fully met his gaze, and even in the dark he could make out the charming slope of her nose. “You should be proud of your sister, Mr. Warrington. She made an error in judgment, and I know you must be frustrated, but she rectified it before permanent damage could be done. We all learn as we grow, and she, in the end, acted with bravery instead of cowering to a man’s will.”
He had not thought of the night’s events in that manner. He considered her actions selfish. Foolish even. But brave?
As they prepared to part, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to bid her farewell. He was curious—genuinely curious—as to what else she would have to say on the matter. She’d witnessed his family at their worst. In spite of it all, he could appreciate her unique view on her surroundings. “How long do you intend to stay in Anston?”
“I’ll stay here as long as necessary to find out what I can about my family, as I told you this morning. At your suggestion I did meet with the vicar and his housekeeper earlier today, and he seems to think he will be able to help me.”
“And what then?”
“I’m not sure.” She gave a little shrug. “I’ll go wherever I secure a teaching position, most likely.”
“Well, my family is in your debt. If there is ever anything I can do for you while you are in Anston, all you must do is ask.”
She finally offered the subtlest of smiles. “There is no need for gratitude, Mr. Warrington. I’m happy to have been a help to your sister. And if I ever do need assistance, I will ask.”
She curtsied, and then, after a cautious glance to her right and to her left, her cloak-covered figure retreated across the mist-laden road, passed the now-quiet inn, and disappeared into the shadows of the alley.
All was silent, yet he thought he could discern the scraping of wood against wood as the door opened and closed.
As he stood there, alone, a familiar feeling of emptiness plagued him—the loneliness that had been his companion since Elizabeth’s death. And as he walked back through the silence, he was painfully aware of what had just occurred. He was intrigued by her.
He’d experienced a similar feeling about a woman only once before. The day he’d met Elizabeth.
And the realization of that fact alarmed him.
Chapter 10
Cassandra reentered her chamber at Mrs. Martin’s boardinghouse the same way she had left—through the alley door of the darkened kitchen. She found her room just as she had left it—dark and frigid, with only the faintest bit of moonlight filtering through the window. The rag plugging the hole in the windowpane had fallen, and a frosty chill cloaked everything. Even the blankets atop her bed were cold to the touch.
She lifted the corner of the curtain, just as she had a few hours ago, to see if she could glimpse Mr. Warrington. But she didn’t have the proper angle to see the bridge’s end.
Without removing her cloak or the dagger from her boot, she dropped down atop her bed. As she did, the ropes supporting it creaked. One press of her hand against the cotton mattress ticking confirmed the flatness of the chaff inside. She groaned at the discomfort of it and reached for her pocket watch, which she had left on the rickety bedside table, and squinted to see in the faint light. The hour was almost two.
She sighed, gripped the metal timepiece between her fingers, and relaxed her head on the pillow, which was every bit as rough as the mattress. She might get a couple of precious hours of sleep before she had to awaken. But even though her body cried for rest, she was haunted by the pain in Rachel’s expression.
No, she did not know the details of what had transpired between Rachel and the young man, but she was confident that despite the mother-in-law’s overly strict criticism, Rachel was in a good home and the situation would right itself with time. But it was the reminder of Cassandra’s own turbulent past, conjured by the similarities to her own dalliance, that resounded.
It had been a long time since she’d really thought about Frederick and pondered how different her life could have been if they had indeed eloped.
It had been cold that night, too, when Mrs. Denton disrupted their clandestine departure. She’d been absolute in her demand for Cassandra to return, and Cassandra had acquiesced out of both respect and fear. After that moment they’d never spoken of it again.
Mrs. Denton might not have been her mother, but she’d taught her more than anyone else and had undoubtedly been the most influential person in Cassandra’s life. But the recent betrayal of the letter—the blatant deceit—was unforgivable. Unconscionable. Agonizing beyond belief.
One action, one opinion, one lie did not define a life. But sometimes it could alter the course of an entire existence.
A solitary tear, hot as fire, slid down her cold cheek. Now more than ever she was homesick for what was familiar. Just how much of her reality had been part of Mrs. Denton’s lie she did not know, but she yearned for the predictability her life had once boasted. She wished she could go to her trusted advisor like she had so many times over the course of her life for wisdom and guidance. But that counselor would never return, and even worse, she’d taken with her the peace Cassandra had previously relied upon.
Shivering still, she tightened the blanket around her and rested her head against the coarse pillow. There could be no changing the past—no changing the shock and pain, which would shape her, undoubtedly, for years to come. She could question past actions, but to what end? The only thing she could do now was be wiser, more discerning, and act not out of comfort and predictability but out of self-preservation. She had to be smarter. Shrewder. And braver.
* * *
It was not the bright white light of dawn that woke Cassandra the next morning. Nor was it the nipping, stubborn stream of air that curled relentlessly through the window’s cracked pane. The shuffle of feet over a stone floor and animated feminine chatter pulled her from slumber.
Cassandra sat up, blinked away the sleep, and took stock of her surroundings. She was still fully clothed. She even wore her boots and cloak. Her pocket watch had slid from her grip during sleep and was on the bed next to her pillow.
Then the events of the past night rushed her.
Rachel.
Mr. Warrington.
A midnight intervention and the rude Mrs. Towler.
Cassandra stood, stretched her arms above her head, being careful not to hit the low ceiling, stepped to the window, and pulled the thin covering away. Outside, the inn was visible. Carriages, horses, and men all moved about in the morning’s low-hanging fog.
A bout of laughter from the kitchen captured her attention as the scents of ham and bread met her senses. Her stomach grumbled. She’d forgone the previous night’s evening meal. If she was to be effective today in the meeting Mr. North had promised, she’d need her wits about her.