He stared at the empty spot until the footsteps subsided, trying to make sense of the words they had just flung at one another.
No, he had not won that battle. He’d not even come close. He might have even made it worse. But how was one to handle such a situation?
After being alone with his thoughts for several minutes, he heard light footsteps approaching. He turned to see his mother-in-law, Mrs. Margaret Towler. An air of condescension accompanied her every movement, and she smoothed a rare wayward silver curl from her brow with a long, bony finger.
“That young woman has a dangerous attitude about her.” Her voice was calm. Dignified. Measured. “And thanks to her unconscionable clamoring, every last maid in the house knows of it. Best to tame that audaciousness while there is still time to do so.”
This woman’s similarity to her late daughter was evident. They both had tall frames, narrow faces, and straight noses. But their similarities ended with their physical attributes.
Mrs. Towler clicked her tongue with assumed authority. “If not controlled, she’ll bring about her own ruin, not to mention that of the rest of the family.”
James knew she spoke the truth, but he’d not speak critically of Rachel to another—especially to a woman who was already disposed to dislike her.
The layered ebony bombazine of her mourning gown rustled as she stepped closer to the fire in the broad hearth, her thin hands clasped firmly before her. “You must be strong and firm, James. It’s the only way to handle such a child.”
He stifled a huff. What could Margaret Towler possibly know about handling a girl like Rachel? Elizabeth, Mrs. Towler’s only child, had been reserved to a fault and eager to please those around her. Nothing like his spirited sister.
Mrs. Towler reached to straighten a porcelain figurine on the stone mantel, and only once it was angled properly did she resume speaking. “You’re right to forbid contact with that rogue. These past years have been difficult on Rachel—first Elizabeth’s passing, then the relocation, and now this. He’s playing to her vulnerabilities. I would speak with her, but you know her nature. She would only heed Elizabeth’s word.”
James did not look away from the fire. He and his mother-in-law disagreed on so much, but where Elizabeth was concerned, they’d both sing her praises. Elizabeth had been the one to navigate their family through every situation.
But her unexpected death upended everything.
In one single night a fever swooped in, as diabolic as any incubus, and claimed her. He’d found himself the widowed father of two small daughters, sole guardian to a feisty adolescent, and honor bound to provide for his mother-in-law without a clue as to how to proceed on any front.
He crossed to look out over the pristine grounds through the parlor window. A glittery morning frost settled over the gardens that formed the front lawn of Briarton Park, capping the ash trees and the manicured hedges. A small bit of blue sky fought its way through the rolling pewter clouds, and bare branches in the nearby copse of trees swayed in the menacing wind.
But something caught his eye—a willowy figure in a pelisse of dusky plum traversed the neatly paved path approaching the house. He retrieved his watch fob and popped it open, then frowned. It was too early for callers. “Who’s that woman?”
Mrs. Towler joined him at the window, bringing with her a heavy scent of rosewater and hyacinth. “No doubt one of the parish women collecting for the poor again. According to Mrs. Helock, they’ve been here twice already this week.” She shook her graying head and scowled. “I do wish that vicar would monitor such actions more closely. I’ll tell Mrs. Helock to send her on her way.”
His mother-in-law’s footsteps padded in retreat, but James did not move.
He’d never seen the woman before. Surely he would have remembered. She wore no bonnet, leaving her chestnut locks free to flutter about her face. Her movements suggested a measure of demureness and grace—the sort that resulted from a gentle upbringing. No, she could not be a village woman.
When he snapped from his momentary trance, he could almost laugh at noticing such details. Had he not spent the bulk of the morning discouraging his sister from entangling herself in infatuation and fancy? He’d be wise to take the same advice and avoid such thoughts altogether. His responsibilities were with his family and his business, and he had no reason to contemplate implausible associations.
But even as he considered this, the inexplicable sense stole over him that this woman, with her wild hair and delicate movements, was not here by accident.
And whether he was avoiding the task at hand or merely seeking a diversion, he was determined to unearth what would bring such a creature to Briarton Park.
Chapter 2
Be brave, Cassandra.
She pinned her attention on the iron gate just before her—the last physical barrier separating her from Briarton Park. It had been nearly five days of arduous travel since she departed the tiny village of Lamby, and now that she’d almost arrived at her destination, her resolve wavered.
“What have I told you?” The late Mrs. Denton’s words haunted her as Cassandra placed a gloved hand on the gate. “Emotions will cloud your judgment and weaken your ability to react rationally.”
She paused long enough to rub her thumb over the small bit of rust bleeding through the intricately formed, beautiful black ironwork. If the gate alone boasted such elegance, she could only imagine the magnificence of the country house waiting beyond the road’s bend. Cassandra leaned into the gate and it swung open, creaking in the morning stillness, giving a bleak voice to the noisy qualms and foreboding misgivings that had been her constant traveling companions.
Once inside the grounds, she ran her other hand down the front of the worn violet wool traveling pelisse one of the teachers had gifted her prior to the journey. The deeply set wrinkles and the mud spattered on the hem bore testament to the long days of travel. She’d departed Lamby with all her earthly possessions—her money, both her earnings from teaching and the remaining amount from the letter; the letter of recommendation Mrs. Denton had written on her behalf before she died; a small dagger the school’s manservant had given her for protection; and her few items of clothing.
And, of course, the letter from Mr. Clark.
With the exception of the money and letters, which had been safely stowed in her reticule, and the dagger, which was carefully tucked in her boot, she’d left the other items at the Green Ox Inn in the village of Anston, where she’d spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night.
A chilly gust swept down from the fading ancient ash trees lining the walk, bringing with it a shower of russet-colored leaves and the whisper that this place might hold the key to her past.
And, more importantly, her future.
Forcing her hesitance to remain at bay, she placed one foot in front of the other. For what choice did she have? Mrs. Denton was dead. The school had been sold to the master of a boys’ school, and female teachers were no longer required. She had nothing, no connections, save for the hope that Mr. Clark’s letter might uncover information about her family and ultimately a situation where she might belong.
She’d responded to the letter the day after she received it, when the sting of Mrs. Denton’s betrayal still pricked her heart and grief dominated her emotions. Nearly a fortnight had passed since then, and she’d received no response. Had she been more prudent, she’d have waited for a reply before embarking on such a grueling journey, but with circumstances as they were, she had no time to waste, and every passing day was a day lost.