When they were all situated, Mrs. Hutton lifted a fat orange cat to her lap. “So now. Tell me what this visit is really all about.”
After sharing brief details about her past and the letter, Cassandra retrieved the missive from her reticule, extended it to Mrs. Hutton, and waited for her to read it.
When Mrs. Hutton was done with the letter she lowered it, removed her spectacles from the bridge of her wide nose, and returned it to Cassandra. “I can confirm that that is, indeed, Mr. Clark’s penmanship. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
Optimism flared, and Cassandra leaned forward. “Do you have any idea what he could mean or to what he could be referring? This was the first I’d ever heard from him. It’s really quite cryptic.”
Mrs. Hutton’s gaze alighted on each of her visitors. The displeasure she’d displayed at their arrival seemed to have intensified. “I was indeed the housekeeper to the Clark family for nearly three decades, but one of the first priorities of such an occupation is discretion. I tended to the running of the house. Their private lives were their own concern.”
“Goodness, Mrs. Hutton. We aren’t askin’ after any deep, dark secrets.” Mrs. Pearson laughed, her hand flying to her chest. “The child merely seeks family information.”
But Mrs. Hutton’s mood did not lighten. “Just so I’m clear on what you are asking, you are in search of information about your parents? That is what all this is about?”
Cassandra nodded. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“And you think Mr. Clark knows who your parents are?”
Cassandra glanced toward Mrs. Pearson, as if searching for reassurance. “Does not the letter suggest as much?”
Mrs. Hutton fixed her stare pointedly on Cassandra. Her tone sharpened. “Do you think Mr. Clark is your father?”
Cassandra’s throat went dry, and she shifted uncomfortably.
It was a condemning, weighted question—one she could not answer without more certainty.
Mrs. Hutton stood abruptly and set the cat on the floor. “If you’ve come to me for information about Mr. Robert Clark, then you’ve come to the wrong place. I suggest you call on their son. But a word of caution, Miss Hale. I can only assume someone went through a great deal to keep your parentage a secret. Perhaps the secrecy is a gift.”
* * *
As Cassandra, Mr. North, and Mrs. Pearson walked away from the thatched cottage at the conclusion of the awkward visit, Mrs. Pearson looped her arm through Cassandra’s. “La, I told you she wasn’t the friendliest sort. I’m sorry she didn’t shed light on the subject for ye.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Pearson.” Cassandra gave a little shrug as she traversed the cobbled road. “I had hoped for easy answers, but that was unrealistic.”
Mrs. Pearson’s thin face lit up. “I’ve an idea, Mr. North. Perhaps you should check the birth records an’ see if any Hales were born in the area. Or death records, for th’ matter. I can’t recall any parishioners by the name of Hale, but perhaps history will. How old are you, child? When were you born?”
“Four and twenty. I was born in November of 1787.”
“Excellent thought, Mrs. Pearson,” added Mr. North. “I’ll review them later today.”
They walked in silence on the high street, passing tidy shops and small clusters of people. It was late in the day now, and even though it was a couple of hours from nightfall, the dark canopy of clouds and the bitter blasts of wind made the hour seem much later than it was.
As they prepared to bid their farewells outside of the church’s graveyard, Mrs. Pearson reached out to grab Cassandra’s gloved hands in her own. “Don’t give up hope, dear. There are still avenues to explore with this search of yours.”
Before Cassandra could respond, Mr. North leaned closer, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “And I, for one, refuse to give up hope. It’s a mystery to solve, isn’t it? I think Mrs. Hutton was right about Peter Clark. I will write to him yet today and see if we can have an interview with him.”
“We?” Cassandra asked with a little laugh. “I’ve already taken up enough of your time already.”
“I meant you, of course, but I’m invested now. Besides, you’ll require a proper introduction, and given the topic it could be an uncomfortable conversation. He does have a certain reputation for brashness. But fear not. People are usually on their best behavior around me.”
Something across the high street caught Cassandra’s eye. Near the baker’s shop, a large man with white hair and a black cloak stood partially behind the building’s corner.
Though the day’s light had grown dim, there was no mistaking what she saw. He was staring. At her.
Once the man realized she noticed him, he quickly withdrew around the corner.
Cassandra’s blood ran cold.
Mr. North’s question drew her back to the conversation. “Is something amiss, Miss Hale?”
“N-no,” she stammered, shaking her head. “I thought I saw something, but I was mistaken.”
“What did you see?” He leaned against the gate and angled his head to see what she had been looking at.
“It was nothing, really.” She toyed with the strings of her reticule. “I thought I saw a man in the shadows there. But clearly no one is there.”
“It’s the graveyard.” Mr. North nodded toward the stones behind them. “It plays tricks on one’s mind. Ghosts and mists and thunder and such.”
Bemused, she grinned at her own foolishness. “How odd to hear a vicar speak of ghosts.”
“A vicar, yes, but a man first, and a superstitious one at that.”
They bid their farewells and made plans to speak the next day, and she departed. Mr. North and Mrs. Pearson both held such optimism about the day’s visit, but Cassandra wanted to get back to her room to ponder what she had experienced.
The truth was, she was no further along in her search than when she first arrived. If anything, discouragement was setting in, and the weight of it overwhelmed her.
A cold wind fluttered the folds of her pelisse as she walked back across the high street to the boardinghouse. She cast a glance in the direction where the man had been standing.
No one was there except for a few women crossing the high street to the haberdashery.
She had allowed herself to imagine something that was simply not true. Perhaps Mr. North was right—her mind was playing tricks on her.
Chapter 13
Cassandra adjusted the collar of her Prussian-blue spencer and settled on the hard wooden pew. She leaned over to Betsy, seated to her left. “Is it always this cold in here?”
Betsy nodded. “It’ll get colder. Just wait until winter really arrives.”
Cassandra rubbed her gloved hands together quickly to generate heat as they waited for the sermon to start and glanced around with piqued curiosity. The only church she had ever attended was the one in Lamby, where Frederick’s father had been the vicar. Every Sunday the girls from school would line the four pews at the very back on the right, and the occupants of the nearby boys’ school would fill the pews on the left.
“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Betsy whispered.