She felt as if she would be ill. If Mr. Clark was involved with the murder, then the logical conclusion was that Mr. Longham was killed to ensure silence.
And she was the reason why.
“I’ve said too much already,” he continued, “but I will say one more thing and then be silent. It is just that I . . . I do care for you, Miss Hale. Very much. I want you to be careful.”
A shuffle sounded at the church door behind them, and they turned to see Betsy.
From their safe distance, Mr. North said, “Your friend’s not very fond of me.”
“Betsy?”
Mr. North spoke low but did not look away as Betsy approached them. “As the vicar here, of course I would like for her to be comfortable around me, at least. But these days I find myself caring less about what others think about me. My concern lies more with what one person in particular thinks.”
There could be no doubt now of his meaning. These were not the words of a vicar to his parishioner. These were the words of a man to a woman.
A strange sense of panic surged through her. “Mr. North, I—”
His words silenced her. “How long do I have to—”
But he quickly stopped talking as Betsy drew nearer.
“I got all of the apples! One rolled under the desk. It took me a while to retrieve it.” She glanced from Cassandra to Mr. North. “If I am interrupting, I—”
“No, you’re not interrupting at all.” Surprisingly relieved to be released from what could have been a much more serious conversation, Cassandra reached for Betsy’s empty basket. “It’s getting late. I must retrieve Rachel.” She turned and curtsied. “As always, thank you, Mr. North, for your concern and help.”
A flash of disappointment, or perhaps annoyance, splayed across his handsome face, but a smile quickly replaced it. “Of course. If you are done in the church, I will just go lock the office.”
Betsy looped her arm through Cassandra’s as they walked toward the vicarage and lowered her voice. “What did Mr. North want?”
Cassandra hesitated. His intentions were clear. Had his help been a mask for his romantic intentions all along? But he had repeatedly stated the importance he placed on social rank. What exactly was his interest with her? It didn’t make sense. “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Hmph.” Betsy’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You are now the most interesting person in the area, what with the inheritance looming, and every man will want to speak with you.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Betsy. It seems that everyone has different stories. Different expectations. If only I had some definite new proof.”
“Yes. Too bad you don’t have any documentation.” A sly smirk crept over her face as they walked along, and she pulled back the linen over the basket in her arms. Inside was a sheet of paper.
“Betsy!” cried Cassandra as she looked down at the page. “What have you done?”
“While you were talking, I just took a look and found something very interesting in the bottom of a drawer, tucked away in a portfolio.”
“But you can’t just take things.” Cassandra glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching them.
“Are you sure? Because . . .” Betsy stepped off the road and tugged Cassandra with her. “Look.” She removed the paper from the basket and held it out.
It was a vellum paper with a list of names and dates on it. The page had clearly been torn from some sort of bound book. Shock nearly stole Cassandra’s speech as the significance of what she was holding dawned on her. “These are baptism records.”
“I know. Look here.” Betsy pointed at the page.
Cassandra’s name was listed next to a date about a month after her birthday. “Why, this is me! But Mr. North said he did not find my records.”
“Well, I guess he did not find you because he, or someone else, did not want you to be found.”
“But he started searching for these before I even spoke with Peter Clark. It makes no sense.”
Betsy smirked. “Do you still want to return this paper to the vestry?”
With a roll of her eyes, Cassandra took the paper and tucked it in her pocket.
Betsy covered the basket again. “I thought you might feel that way.”
Chapter 37
When Cassandra and Rachel returned to Briarton, the sun was just starting its descent over the trees. The temperature was dropping, and the wind pressed hard against the side of the carriage. It would rain soon, and Cassandra would be grateful to be back in the warmth and privacy of her chamber to peruse the paper Betsy had provided.
But for now, she tried to relax and enjoy this time with Rachel. They rarely had time to themselves without the younger girls. Rachel’s company was effervescent, and it was good to see her blossoming.
“I had no idea that Mrs. Pearson could be so kind!” Rachel’s face glowed bright as she recounted the day’s activity. “And amusing. Did you know there were so many young ladies my age in the area? I thought I must surely be the only one. I am confident Mrs. Towler will not approve of them, but I truly don’t care.”
Cassandra could only smile as the young woman chatted on gleefully about the afternoon. She’d suspected that it would only take a few introductions and time out from under Mrs. Towler’s watchful eye for Rachel to feel more settled.
After the carriage crossed the bridge and turned onto the road leading to the main house, Cassandra frowned. An unfamiliar carriage stood in the drive. It was not unusual for Mr. Warrington to have visitors, but most of them, especially those with mill business, would pull into the courtyard in the back.
Rachel leaned forward. “Who is that, I wonder?”
They drove past the carriage toward the courtyard, where they alighted the carriage.
Initially all seemed quiet, but then two maids scurried across the dirt ground, and one of the stable boys ran past. As they approached the house, Cassandra stopped one of the kitchen girls as she crossed the yard. “Whose carriage is that? What is going on?”
The young girl tightened her grip on a bundle of linens. “That carriage belongs to the surgeon. Mrs. Towler collapsed.”
Cassandra winced and exchanged glances with Rachel. “Collapsed? How? When?”
But the girl did not respond. She scurried back inside.
Cassandra gripped Rachel’s hand and together they ran in, not even pausing to shed their cloaks. They darted through the empty kitchen and the narrow, paneled corridors until they finally encountered Mrs. Helock pacing at the foot of the great staircase.
“Is Mrs. Towler all right?” Cassandra gasped, reaching out to take Mrs. Helock’s hand in her own. “What has happened?”
The housekeeper stopped and fixed her gaze on Cassandra. The sadness in her red-rimmed eyes shifted to haughtiness, and she tipped her chin and jerked her hand free. “Clearly the recent happenings in this house have been too much for Mrs. Towler to bear. The surgeon suspects her heart.”
Cassandra ignored the thinly veiled insinuation that her presence contributed to the episode. She could not focus on that now. Mrs. Helock turned to leave, and Cassandra called, “And the children? Where are they?”
Mrs. Helock paused dramatically and turned to face her once again. “As the governess, should you not know that?”