She removed her cloak and quickly changed yesterday’s gown to a lighter gown of soft peacock-blue twill with long sleeves and a Vandyke hem. After letting down her hair, brushing the long tresses, and pinning them tidily against the back of her head, she checked her reflection in the cracked looking glass on the wall. The shadows under her eyes bore the only visible evidence to the previous night’s events.
She pinched her cheeks for color.
This would have to do.
Mr. North had indicated that several seamstresses lived here. From what she could hear, they sounded chatty. Happy.
When she entered the kitchen, all attention turned to her. Six women, all of whom were plainly dressed and appeared to be about her age, stared in her direction.
Silence engulfed the chamber.
Cassandra forced a smile and gave a nod in the direction of the others.
A woman whom she recognized as one of the maids stood next to the fire and pointed toward the table with the spoon in her hand. “Sit there. We’ll bring ’bout your plate.”
Cassandra took the closest open seat and sat down.
The whispers started once again in the room, and Cassandra was reminded of her first day at the new school nearly nineteen years prior. She generally considered herself confident and self-assured. Had not Mrs. Denton taught her to be such? But as she sat here, the object of conspicuous scrutiny, her confidence wavered.
A tawny-haired girl from the end of the table stood, picked up her plate, moved toward Cassandra, and dropped into the chair next to her. “So, you are the vicar’s friend, eh?”
“Mr. N-North?” Cassandra stammered at the odd line.
“Of course! He’s the only vicar around here.” The girl laughed at her own little jest before she took a bite of the salted pork on her plate. “I heard he recommended you to Mrs. Martin.”
Cassandra tried to read the inflection in the woman’s cheery tone and carefully chose her words. “I met Mr. North yesterday. I needed some assistance, and he was very kind to help me.”
“Ah yes. Kind indeed. But then again, he has to be, hasn’t he? He’s the vicar. Besides him, most other people are suspicious about newcomers.” A twinkle sparkled in her pale green eyes. “My name is Betsy Tilken.”
“I’m Cassandra Hale.”
A giggle emerged from the other end of the table, and Cassandra looked up to see that the women were staring at her slyly, as if a jest had just been made at her expense.
Fresh self-consciousness wound its way through her. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Don’t mind them.” With a toss of her frizzy locks, Betsy glanced over her shoulder at the other women and lowed her otherwise high-pitched voice. “Like I said, many people are suspicious about newcomers. But not me. Where are you from then?”
“Lamby. A village outside of London.”
“London, eh? I’ve never been to London. Heard it is a wonder to behold. Anston must be a sight different.”
“I rarely had cause to venture into the main parts of London. Lamby was quite small. This reminds me of it, actually.”
“So, what brings you here? Not many people come to Anston for no purpose.”
Mr. North’s warning about sharing too many details flamed in her mind. “Family affairs.”
“Ah.” Betsy raised a playful brow. “Family affairs, is it?”
A distant bell rang, and all the women at the table shuffled up. Betsy grabbed a piece of bread from the table and stood. “Well then, Cassandra Hale, that’s my call. I must be going. Tomorrow is Sunday, and Mrs. Martin requires us all to attend church. Even you, I reckon. The girls and I walk over together. You should join us. I will wait for you in the morning, if you like.”
Perhaps it was the friendliness in her tone, or simply that she offered a sincere smile that eased Cassandra’s tension. “Of course, Miss Tilken. I should like that.”
“No, no. Not Miss Tilken. Nobody calls me that. Betsy’s fine.”
“And please, call me Cassandra.”
As the room cleared and once again fell silent, Cassandra looked to her plate. She scarfed down the bread and salted pork she found there. She wanted to spend a little time before meeting the vicar and his housekeeper to plan her questions.
This was the time for her to find answers.
This was the time for her to finally seek what had never been divulged to her.
As dramatic as it seemed, this conversation could affect the future course of her life, and she was ready for it.
Chapter 11
The quietude was unnerving.
James sat at the breakfast table. Rachel sat across from him. They were alone in the chamber, and all was still save for the morning fire popping in the grate and the tap of the rain on the windowpanes. Neither of them had as of yet acknowledged the previous night’s happenings, but even so, a melancholy cloak shrouded them. Her capricious actions needed to be addressed.
In that moment, perhaps more than in any other, Rachel’s appearance garnered his attention. Even though they were half brother and sister, they bore little likeness to each other, apart from sharing their father’s steely gray eyes. Whereas he had his mother’s sand-colored hair and square jaw, she boasted her mother’s tightly curled tresses and round face.
But this morning, that usually wild mass of disorderly curls was tamed neatly at the base of her neck. Despite the pallor of her skin, a delicate flush had replaced the childish ruddiness of her cheeks. Even her posture was different. No longer was she hunched over with her arms folded across her chest and her lips fixed firmly in an ever-present pout. She sat straight. She was still. Restrained. And unusually reserved.
When had this change from rowdy child to willful young woman occurred? When had she become the young lady before him?
She pushed her food around on her plate with her spoon without gazing in his direction. “You’re staring at me. I know you’re angry. You might as well say it.”
James had to remain imperturbable. “No, Rachel. I’m not angry.”
“Not angry?” she scoffed, still refusing to look at him. “I don’t believe you.”
He didn’t want to argue. They’d already exhausted the subject of Mr. Standish. What mattered now was reestablishing peace in their home. Clearly she regarded him as the enemy—as if he alone was the very hurdle to happiness and freedom.
He had to make her see otherwise.
“Do you know why I insisted that you come and live with me when Father died?” James leaned back in his chair.
She raised a thin brow at the question, then shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. “I suppose you had to.”
“No, I did not have to. You were seven. Your mother’s sister wanted you to come and live with her. But I fought her. I actually petitioned the courts, although I don’t expect you remember any of that now.”
She sat motionless, eyes diverted.
He forged ahead. “Maria and Rose were not even born, but Elizabeth and I felt it was important that family stay together.”
“Well, things were different then, weren’t they?”
James sensed the hurt in his sister’s words. Elizabeth and Rachel had been very close, and given the fact that Elizabeth had been the only real maternal influence in Rachel’s life, the resulting chasm was evident. “No, it’s not the same, but you’re missing the point. We must look out for one another, you and I. We’re family.”