He studied the expression in her golden eyes, in the downcast set of her lips. For the first time since he’d met her, her customary poise and tenacity waned. Whatever had transpired in the study had affected her. “Of course. I’ll call the carriage. And do not bother to argue, Miss Hale. This time I will not take no for an answer.”
He half expected her to refuse—to insist on walking as she had so emphatically done in the past. But there was a sense of exhaustion, almost defeat, in her disposition. “Thank you, Mr. Warrington. I’d be grateful.”
He left her alone in the great hall to make arrangements for the carriage, and when he returned, he found her standing in front of the portrait of Mr. Clark.
He did not want to interrupt her. Her attention seemed quite focused on a rather somber piece of artwork.
“Do you think we share a likeness?”
The personal nature of the question took him aback.
When he did not respond, she adjusted the plum pelisse in her arms and looked back to the somber expression, captured in time. “I know you heard Mr. Longham say that this man was my father. He said I resemble him.”
James moved closer to her and gazed up at the portrait. No fire burned in the fireplace, but even in evening’s dull gray light, he could see it.
Yes, there was a resemblance. But whereas his umber eyes appeared stern, her hazel eyes were soft, full of emotion, and feathered with dark lashes. The cleft in the man’s chin was severe, but the cleft in Miss Hale’s chin was so slight he’d not even noticed it at first. “Perhaps. But I’m hardly an expert on such things.”
She crossed in front of him to the other side of the mantel to the portrait of Mrs. Clark.
Once again, he stepped next to her to assess the painting of the titian-haired woman with a decidedly full face and pale, almost sallow complexion. “I don’t think your resemblance to her is as strong.”
At first Miss Hale did not respond. Then her voice was barely above a whisper. “She’s not my mother.”
He sobered.
Suddenly it all made sense.
Miss Hale was Mr. Clark’s illegitimate child.
The sound of the carriage crunching over the drive in front of the house as it came around from the carriage house drew their attention. She donned her pelisse and fastened the buttons with shaky movements, then they moved through the foyer and door. Her eyes did not meet his as she spoke. “I fear I have trespassed upon your kindness once again, Mr. Warrington.”
He followed her out, wishing he could offer a compelling reason for her to stay.
She climbed into the carriage, and before long, the conveyance had departed down the drive.
He stood still, out in the brisk night air. As the carriage disappeared around the bend at the copse of trees, he felt her absence keenly.
And that surprised him.
It was ridiculous, really. He hardly knew this woman. A week ago he didn’t even know she existed. But she’d swept in from Lamby, and her very presence was awakening a part of him that had been locked in grief. What surprised him the most was the blossoming realization that he wanted to care about someone again. To help heal the broken places and be loved in return. And their fleeting yet usually poignant interactions were starting to fill those cracks or, at the very least, make him aware of how desperately he wanted to feel whole. It was not reasonable for him to think that this woman might be that person, but the very fact that she was awakening such a sense in him was alarming indeed.
* * *
Cassandra swayed with each movement of the Briarton carriage as it jostled over the stone bridge leading back to Anston.
Darkness had fallen over the Briarton Park grounds. Faint wisps of faded light slid through the carriage windows, falling across her gloved hands and lap.
So much had been confirmed to her in a single, tidy conversation with Mr. Longham.
Yes, Mr. Clark was her father.
Yes, she was illegitimate.
Yes, he knew her mother’s name, but he did not know her whereabouts.
Yes, she had a brother—one living relative.
This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Answers. Names. Details.
Then why did her heart still ache?
She expelled a shuddery breath and leaned her head back on the seat. After all the time she’d spent thinking about this very moment, she’d not been prepared for the discomforting feelings that accompanied it.
The carriage wheel hit a rut, lurching Cassandra forward. She cried out and caught herself with her hands on the opposite bench.
There had been no one to catch her or prevent her from falling. No one to witness her awkward attempt to right herself.
She was alone.
Completely alone.
She scrambled back to her seat and bit her lip, fighting back tears.
Yes, they were answers, but oh, how they pushed so many other questions to the forefront.
And more waiting for even more answers that may or may not come.
She tried to encourage herself. After all, Mr. Longham had mentioned an inheritance—land. An income was associated with it, but he’d also said her half brother would likely contest it. She was certainly not versed in matters of the law and wills, but she’d heard stories. It could be years.
That was why it was just as important as ever that she find a way to support herself. If she’d had even a glimmer of hope that Mr. Warrington would consider her as a governess for his daughters, it now dimmed. He knew she was illegitimate, which would almost certainly disqualify her from such a close role to his children.
The carriage slowed to a stop as it arrived at the boardinghouse. Firelight gleamed from inside the front windows, but it was hardly a warm, welcoming home.
For what was home now?
Chapter 19
Determined to keep her hands busy and her heart calm in light of Mr. Longham’s revelations, Cassandra rose early the next morning and planned a day of tasks. Once the other boarders departed for their occupations, Cassandra had the large copper tub brought to her chamber and a hot bath poured, and then she washed her hair. She cleaned her gowns, cloak, and pelisse as best she could. She organized her belongings. She did whatever she could think of to prevent her mind from wandering back to Briarton Park.
How she wished she would receive word from Mr. Longham. He’d said it would be days before she received any letter from him or his office, yet she yearned for any new bit of information. But even as life-changing news dominated her thoughts, another topic battled for her attention: Mr. Warrington.
She was not an overly romantic woman. Frederick had crushed any such inclinations. But the expression in Mr. Warrington’s eyes had caught her unaware. Perhaps it was that he did not jump to a conclusion or project a judgment. Nor did he dismiss her as insignificant. He’d been concerned. Kind. She had wanted to lean into it. Find solace in the warmth and gentleness.
She sniffed and straightened her brush and comb atop the small bedside table. She knew the danger to which that feeling could lead.
After all, Frederick had been gentle and kind too.
Later in the morning, as she sat next to the fire in the kitchen brushing her still-damp hair, Mrs. Martin swept in. As usual, the older woman’s hair was tidy and neat and her gown of crimson muslin was freshly pressed, but her expression revealed her annoyance. “You’ve a gentleman caller in the parlor. I’ve told you before that I don’t approve of gentlemen callers.”