Cassandra was used to these outings now and even looked forward to them. Every few days she would accompany the parish women on some act of charity. Once they had visited the nearby poorhouse. Another week they had called on a young mother who had just lost both of her parents to fever. Today they were to visit a woman whose husband had suffered an apoplexy and was near death.
The visits were rarely easy, but Cassandra found solace in knowing she could offer a little consolation, in addition to feeling renewed gratitude for her own situation. Her circumstances might not be ideal, but she was healthy. Content. And as Mr. Warrington had suggested, she was not without hope.
With Rachel next to her, the outing took on a new purpose. The activity afforded them time alone, away from the little girls, where they could talk about life and growing to adulthood.
As they walked together side by side, Rachel cradled a basket of bread. When they were out of earshot of the other ladies, she said quietly, “You said you would tell me one day about what had happened to you, in regard to the young man. Is now a good time? I don’t think Mrs. Pearson is paying attention to us.”
Mrs. Pearson, who had organized the outing, was speaking with one of the other ladies from the village. Cassandra considered how best to respond to Rachel. While it was something they could relate to each other about, she did not necessarily care to revisit it. Not that she was ashamed of it—the experience was a turning point in her life, one where she made an important decision and learned a valuable lesson on discernment and trust. But reliving it was never pleasant.
And yet she’d promised.
Cassandra adjusted her own basket on her arm. “I met him when I was quite young. His name was Frederick, and he was the vicar’s son. I’d see him at every church activity, and we became quite close one summer in particular. We’d find time to be alone at picnics or walk together. His father was preparing to send him away to school, so we decided we had no options but to run away together. It had been a foolish thought, really, and I think I always knew it would not actually come to pass, but I felt the emotions so intensely—I thought surely they had to be real.
“We planned and schemed until the day before we were to leave. I made an offhanded comment to the girl I shared a chamber with, and she informed the headmistress. Mrs. Denton interrupted our departure and that was the end of it. Afterward, he was immediately sent off to school. He returned a year later, rumored to be engaged. Now he is married.”
Rachel shook her head sympathetically. “You must have been heartbroken.”
“I was. But, looking back, it was for the best. I see that now. After it happened, I was so sure he would find a way back to me, and I held on to that thought much longer than I should have. But when he did finally return, it was as if he never knew me.”
“I’m so sorry for you.” Rachel swiped a dark curl from her face as they continued down the path. “It is just so painful.”
“But I survived, you see?” Cassandra forced cheer to her tone. “And I am wiser for it. Or at least I think I am.”
“In my mind I know I am better off here, but in my heart I still miss Richard.”
“I think you miss the idea of him,” Cassandra offered. “Don’t forget, never forget, that he showed you his true self that night when he grabbed you. That is not the man you want in your life, as your partner and as the father of your children.”
They fell into an easy, comfortable silence until Mrs. Pearson nodded toward a small cottage. “Here we are, my dears. This is the house of Silas Smith, the man who suffered an apoplexy and has not regained consciousness. He and his wife have three sons. It is my hope that we can bring her some comfort or, at the very least, distraction.”
Together the women waited at the door, baskets in hand. It was a humble cottage, like so many of the other miller cottages lining the row, with a low thatched roof and deeply set square windows.
At length the door opened, and Cassandra started. The woman who answered the door was strangely familiar. She was older with straight, faded chestnut hair, but it was the slight upturn of her nose and the dimple at the corner of her mouth when she spoke that captured Cassandra’s attention.
They were both like her own.
Had she not been aware of the woman’s name, Cassandra might not have noticed. But Mrs. Pearson had said this was the Smith residence.
Hadn’t Mr. Longham said her mother’s name after marriage was Mary Smith?
But it was such a common name. Surely there was no connection.
After stepping inside the dark corridor, she leaned toward Mrs. Pearson and whispered, “What is her name again, please?”
“This is Mrs. Smith, dear.”
“No, I meant to ask about her Christian name.”
“Mary Smith, I believe. Why?”
Cassandra did not answer. She could not answer. Control seemed to flee her body. Her arms felt weak and tingly. Her breath fluttery and airy.
Could this woman be . . .
No, surely not.
Mrs. Pearson continued the introductions, oblivious to the panic bubbling within Cassandra. “This is Miss Rachel Warrington. She lives at Briarton Park.”
Mrs. Smith’s sternly set jaw twitched ever so slightly.
“And this is Miss Cassandra Hale,” continued Mrs. Pearson, “governess at Briarton Park.”
At this all color drained from Mary Smith’s face.
Cassandra knew there could be no doubt—this woman, fearing for the life of her husband, was her mother.
And they both knew it.
The next minutes blurred. Mrs. Smith’s words were brusque. Abrupt. Baskets were emptied. Food was left. Prayers were said. It was as if Cassandra was watching the events unfold instead of participating in them.
She wanted to say something, but what? It was hardly the time. Her mother’s husband could very well be on his deathbed. And there was no privacy.
But as they prepared to leave, Mrs. Smith called after her, “Miss Hale. A word before you leave, if ye don’t mind?”
Cassandra separated from Mrs. Pearson and Rachel and stayed behind at the cottage. For several moments the women stared at each other. No words were exchanged, and then Mrs. Smith’s words rang cold. “So, ye found me.”
Cassandra’s mouth dried. She could only stare at the petite woman she’d thought about, wondered about, every single day of her life.
Mrs. Smith pushed on. “I heard you were in the village askin’ questions. Mrs. Hutton told me ’erself. Why? What are ye hopin’ to do?”
“I—I just want to know the truth about who my family is. I received a letter from Mr. Clark. He told me he wanted to share information—”
“Robert Clark is dead, as ye well know,” she snipped. “Why are you here, at me house?”
Cassandra didn’t know whether to be hurt, angry, or anxious. She didn’t have time to formulate her response, for Mary Smith’s churlish words barreled forth.
“What right have ye comin’ here, pokin’ ’round where ye don’t belong? I’ve a life now. You have yours. My husband and boys know nothin’ ’bout you, and Silas must never know what my life was like before. Leave the past in the past, where it belongs. Dead. Buried. You upended my life once. Don’t do it again.”
Mary Smith spun back into the house and disappeared before Cassandra fully understood what had just happened.