“Yes, Mrs. Helock told me.” Cassandra joined him by the fire as it roared back to life, grateful for the warmth after the chilly walk.
He returned the poker to the stand, wiped his hands together, then nodded toward the portrait to the left of the mantel. “That’s Clark’s likeness, or so I’m told. The paintings were all here when I acquired Briarton.”
A thrill of connectedness surged through her at the bit of information, and she leaned forward to assess the man in the portrait. Sorrel hair. Obsidian eyes. The man in the painting was young, but even so, she was drawn to his soulful, somber expression. Robert Clark might be dead, but having this image to carry with her made him seem more real and heightened her enthusiasm about this search.
What secret did that man hold?
What secrets did he hold about her?
“Odd that you came to visit and did not know he was deceased.” Mr. Warrington turned from the painting back to her.
His voice held no cynicism, and yet Cassandra suspected if she was to be successful in her quest, she needed to develop a new tactic. And quickly.
Perceiving that it would be best to appeal to his sense of rationality, she pulled the letter from her reticule. “I’ve never met him, but you see, I received this letter from Mr. Clark. Clearly it was written years ago, but it only recently came into my possession. I did write a response a couple of weeks ago, but I am not sure it ever arrived.”
“You sent a missive here?” A frown shadowed his otherwise congenial expression. “That is likely my error then. Occasionally I receive letters addressed to the former owner, and I never open them.”
Encouraged by his interest, she extended the missive toward him. “He indicated that he has—well, had—news to share with me about my family.”
He accepted the letter and unfolded it.
Cassandra studied his face as he read it, hoping for some spark, some hint of familiarity, that would help her draw conclusions. But after several seconds he refolded it, tapped it against his hand as if pondering what he’d just read, and then extended it to her. “It’s definitely intriguing, but I’m afraid I can’t offer much information. I purchased this house after his death. I never met him either.” His voice held a tone of finality to it, as if he was done with the conversation.
She shifted, resisting the urge to panic. So many questions lingered. She could not give up. Not yet. “Is there nothing that you know of him? Please, I’ve traveled a very long way. Any bit you can think of would be so helpful.”
He drew a deep breath and looked upward, as if searching his memory. “In addition to this house, Mr. Clark owned two mills near here. I now own Briarton House and the Weyton Mill, but his son, Peter Clark, inherited and operates the other wool mill, Clark Mill. I suggest you speak with him.”
His son! Surely, of all people, his son would be able to shed light. “Peter Clark, you said?”
“Yes. He lives in Ambleton. Next village over to the east.”
The distant, dissonant pianoforte music she had heard earlier resumed.
Mr. Warrington cringed. Then his expression softened to an easy grin. “That would be my sister, Rachel. She’s the musician of the family.”
Cassandra let out a little laugh. “Yes, I—I heard it as I came up the drive.”
“I think everyone’s heard it from here to Bristol,” he teased, as if amused at his own little joke, before he redirected their conversation back to the topic at hand. “You said you’ve traveled far. Where is it you are from?”
“Lamby. A small village outside of London.”
“London? That’s a far piece.”
“Five days of travel.” She nodded as some of the more treacherous legs of her journey flashed in her mind. “But if I can find some of the answers I seek, it will be worth every mile.”
“I admire your optimism.” He sobered, and concern momentarily darkened his features. “Do you have lodgings? Or other family nearby?”
“No, sir, no family, but I do have lodgings. At the Green Ox Inn.”
He raised his brows. “The Green Ox Inn? I wish you luck. Perhaps you should try to meet with the vicar—a man by the name of Vincent North. He was the one to identify Mr. Clark as the man in the portrait when he called a few months back. I’ve heard only positive things about him, and I assume he’s well connected with the people who have lived in the village. I don’t know him well at all, but he’d be a better resource than anyone at Briarton Park.”
As she opened her mouth to respond, the door behind them flung open. Two men, the taller one more finely dressed than the other, sauntered in comfortably, as if they’d done so a thousand times, and then both stopped short when they noticed her.
“Apologies,” the larger man blurted, his narrow face still ruddy from the cool outside. “I wasn’t aware you had company.”
“Milton. Shepard.” Mr. Warrington waved the men in, seemingly not surprised at the intrusion. “May I present Miss— Oh, wait.” He turned his attention back to her. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Cassandra Hale.”
“Ah, very good. May I present Miss Cassandra Hale from Lamby. Miss Hale, this is Mr. Isaiah Milton, my associate, and Mr. William Shepard, the local magistrate.”
“Miss Hale.” Mr. Milton bowed politely, and she curtsied. As soon as the formalities were complete, an awkward silence hovered.
Mr. Warrington had been as accommodating as he could. Kind, she might even go so far as to say. But these men were here to speak with him, and Mr. Warrington made no other comments regarding her plight.
With a jolt the sense of intrusion intensified. “Please, Mr. Warrington, do not let me keep you from your business. I can show myself out.”
“Did you walk here?” he inquired, as if an afterthought. “I can call the carriage if you’re returning to the village.”
“No, no, thank you.” How silly she must seem, chasing after a letter in her crumpled pelisse and mud-caked nankeen half boots. She bobbed a quick curtsy, let her gaze fall one last time on the portrait to fix the image in her memory, and hurried back through the vestibule and out into the fresh air before another word could be uttered.
With her face flaming and the letter still gripped in her hand, she did not slow her pace or look back until she again reached the iron gate. Once she was under the privacy of the ancient ash’s low-hanging boughs, she leaned against the sturdy tree and allowed herself the luxury of a few deep, cooling breaths. She turned her face upward to the intermittent bits of sunshine filtering through the leaves that were fighting to remain in their place as autumn strengthened its hold.
She struggled to make sense of what had just transpired.
She should be happy, she supposed. It would have been foolish to think that all her questions would be answered on her first visit to Briarton Park. At least now she knew the name of Mr. Clark’s son and where he lived. And yet, despite these advances, she felt even more forlorn and isolated than before.
Mr. Clark’s portrait, which had so entranced her in the moment, now haunted her, and she feared it would for a long time to come. Yet she forced the thought at bay. Lingering on sentiments was perilous, and like Mrs. Denton had said, emotions were of little use.