Armed with more questions than answers, she tightened her grip on her reticule and continued down the path, noting the deep ruts and hoofprints that suggested the road had recently been traveled. She rounded yet another bend, and the sight that met her stopped her completely.
Briarton Park.
She’d expected it to be large, stately, but this . . . this might be a castle.
The stately home rose three stories above the polished grounds, with symmetrical gables at each end and pale gray sandstone chimneys randomly dispersed over the slate roof. Even the fading ivy clinging to the facade added to the home’s imposing grandeur. Not even the vicar’s house at the end of the lane in Lamby could compare in scope.
Summoning courage, she followed the graveled path to another iron gate in a sturdy stone wall that separated the formal grounds from the more wooded area. She stepped through, noting how the road continued parallel to the house before it split into two on the other side at an orchard’s edge.
It was there she noticed a flash of indigo amid the orchard’s subdued grays and beiges. A girl of seven, or perhaps eight, perched in the branches of one of the apple trees. Ebony hair lashed about her small, pale face, and she appeared to be watching her.
They were too far apart to speak, so Cassandra lifted her hand in greeting.
Instead of responding, the girl dropped from the tree and disappeared behind the wall. Almost simultaneously, the tortured cry of a poorly played pianoforte wailed from somewhere within the house.
With her curiosity growing, Cassandra made her way to the paneled door, richly ornate with delicately carved vines and leaves. She lifted the round metal knocker and tapped it against the wood. It echoed, deep and hollow, in the morning’s quiet.
The music from inside did not stop, nor did she hear any other movement. She knocked again, eased away from the door, and waited.
At length a stout-looking footman opened the door, dressed neatly in emerald-green and tan livery.
She tightened her grip on her reticule and forced confidence to her voice. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Robert Clark, please.”
The footman, with a shock of black hair and a deeply clefted chin, only stared. Had he not heard her?
Before she could repeat herself, a portly woman, clad in crisp black with a severe, disapproving expression, stepped in front of the servant. “I’ll see to this, John.”
Cassandra squared her shoulders. “I wish to speak with Mr. Clark, please.”
The older lady raked her sharp gaze over Cassandra’s traveling clothes, landing on the mud streaking the gown at her ankles. “Mr. Clark is dead.”
Cassandra winced at the words. She did not have time to contemplate them further, for the woman began to close the door.
“Wait.” Cassandra reached her hand forward to prevent the latch from catching. “Please, a moment.”
With a huff of annoyance the woman gripped the edge of the door and nodded to the footman, dismissing him.
Determined to keep the woman’s attention, Cassandra blurted, “My name is Cassandra Hale. I’ve come a very long way. May I speak with the master? It’s very important.”
The woman shook her head. “Mr. Warrington is very busy and will not be able to take callers today.”
Mr. Warrington. She had the name of the current owner at least.
Sensing her time was limited, Cassandra spouted the first question that came to mind. “And are you the mistress of the house?”
“I should say not!” The woman’s scoff denoted superiority. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Helock. And if you are here to seek employment, I suggest you come around to the servants’ entrance.”
“No, no, you misunderstand,” Cassandra hastened to correct her. “I’m not here about employment.”
“Even so, you should not be using this entrance at all. You should—”
“May I be of help?”
The masculine voice startled them both. A tall man with sandy hair and broad shoulders approached from the corridor. He did not appear annoyed. Indeed, his presence and affable tone immediately put her at ease in light of Mrs. Helock’s brashness.
The woman cast Cassandra a warning glance. “I can see to this, Mr. Warrington. You needn’t bother yourself.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Helock. The young lady asked to speak with me.” He rubbed his hands together before him. “I’ve a few moments before I leave. Tell me, miss. How can I assist you?”
Chapter 3
Cassandra’s stomach fluttered as she followed Mr. Warrington from the entrance hall to the much larger great hall. After all that had transpired over the past few weeks, she’d finally arrived at the place where her questions could possibly be answered.
Even as fresh optimism soared, a stinging prick of inadequacy enveloped her as she lifted her gaze to the stately oak beams running the length of the high plaster ceiling. Her gaze fell to the chamber’s two paned windows that framed the scenic grounds. Ample gray morning light flooded through, illuminating the long, narrow table centered in the hall with the serving pieces atop it, the presence of which suggested this space was one used for receiving and entertaining guests on formal occasions. The absence of the pianoforte music upon her arrival had only intensified the stillness—and magnificence—of the room. All around her paintings and portraits in gilded frames adorned the paneled walls, bringing the chamber alive with rich history.
She did not belong in a place as grand as this. Not with her sullied attire and wrinkled gown. She was a simple teacher with no real connections to speak of. Yet the man who had invited her here had lived within these walls.
And she was determined to unearth every detail he’d wanted to share with her.
She steadied her thoughts and tempered her expectations. Like Mrs. Denton instructed—emotions could not be permitted to interfere.
As they walked to the chamber’s center, Cassandra ignored the thudding within her chest and focused instead on her host, who was likely her best source of information.
Mr. Warrington epitomized everything she imagined a country gentleman to be, not that she had ever really met one. From his tall, straight stature to his buff buckskin breeches and polished top boots, his very presence boasted confidence and authority. The cut of his dark blue coat and its defined lapels emphasized the broad expanse of his shoulders, and an easy smile added to his charm. He was handsome, with a strong jawline and thick, light hair that curled just wildly enough to make him appear approachable. But it was his own easiness in his surroundings that made her feel even more out of place in this elegant room. She’d invaded his territory uninvited. Unannounced.
A shimmer of color through the arch at the room’s west end caught her eye. It was a young woman, younger than Cassandra, in a winter gown of rich, dark yellow. A mass of unruly sable curls rippled down her back, and a loosely woven shawl draped over her shoulders. She appeared pale. Sad. She paused in the doorway, staring at Cassandra, but said nothing and continued slowly on her way.
“Did I hear you say you’re seeking Robert Clark?” Mr. Warrington, who apparently had not noticed the young woman, said, bringing her back to the conversation at hand.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“He is dead, I’m sorry to say.” Mr. Warrington moved to the fire and stoked the waning embers.