Cassandra tucked the letter in her reticule once more and trudged back over the arched stone bridge to the village.
She had to manage her expectations. She had to remember how important it was to protect her heart and her mind as she sailed through this voyage of discovery. For if she did not, no one would.
Chapter 4
It was not uncommon for Milton to stop by Briarton Park. He was, after all, Weyton Mill’s supervisor. It was also not unheard of for Shepard, the local magistrate, to visit. It was, however, unusual for both of them to call at the same time, let alone before noon.
Sensing something was amiss, James focused his attention on the two men after Miss Hale had quit the chamber. “What is it?”
Milton’s expression sobered, and he narrowed his gaze. “Riddy was found beaten outside the mill’s south entrance this mornin’.”
“What?” Shock lowered James’s voice. “Is he all right?”
“Prob’ly will be, but right now he’s in a pretty bad way.”
Thomas Riddy, a man of near fifty, was a mainstay at Weyton Mill and had been instrumental in the ownership transfer when James purchased the business.
Rachel’s piano music in the adjoining chamber fell silent. Fearing their conversation might be overheard, James ushered the men to his study in the house’s east end. Once they were inside and the door closed, James turned to face his guests. “Tell me what’s happened.”
Milton shrugged his thin, stooped shoulders. “Some of the workers found Riddy on t’ side of the road outside the gates. When he came to, he said he’d been pummeled by three men—the boys from o’er in Desdale.”
Heat rose beneath James’s cravat, and he folded his arms over his chest in contemplation. Both Riddy and Milton had warned James that the laborers from the nearby towns feared the new milling machinery he’d installed would take their jobs, and they had threatened violence as a means of intimidation.
Perhaps he should have paid the warnings greater heed.
Shepard pulled his enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat. “I can’t say I’m surprised. That lot’s been causing trouble for the mills up and down the river for weeks. If it’s them, of course. They’re not happy about the new looms coming up from the south.”
James huffed. “They can’t stop progress, no matter how many men they accost.”
“Agreed.” Shepard opened the box and offered it to James. When he refused, Shepard pinched a bit of the black powder between his thick fingers and inhaled it. “You know the Greycombe Mill north of here? Someone attempted to set fire to it after they had dismissed twenty workers. It set Mrs. Greycombe to such a state that she up and moved to London. And just the other day someone tried to set fire over at Tutter Mill some five miles west of here. Chased off by the dogs though.”
In a sharp turn Shepard wiped his bulbous nose with the back of his pudgy hand. “Who was that woman? Hale, was it?”
James nodded, distracted by the change of topic. “Yes, Cassandra Hale. She stopped by inquiring after Robert Clark. She had a letter from him and said she had business with him. Family business, sounded like.”
Shepard snapped his head up at the mention of Clark’s name. “The man’s been dead for years now. Didn’t she know?”
“Apparently not. She seemed surprised to learn of his demise.”
“Odd.” Shepard’s bushy brows drew together as he returned his snuffbox to his striped waistcoat. “Family business, was it? Bah, no telling what it could be. Clark always was a secretive fellow. She seemed harmless, but mind there’s suspicious activity afoot. I’d be mighty careful who I allowed in my home, that’s what I’d say, even someone as unintimidating as her. In fact, I’d consider hiring extra men to patrol at night if I were you. Dangerous times.”
James stepped back as the corpulent man moved toward the door and placed his bell-shaped hat atop his auburn hair. “I’ll be taking my leave now. I’m off to Desdale. Surely someone there knows something. Good day, gentlemen.”
When all was quiet and he was alone with Milton, James dropped to the chair behind his desk.
Milton followed suit and sat in the chair opposite the desk. “’Twas a matter o’ time, and we’ve both known it. Truth be told, we’ve been lucky ’til now.”
James raked his fingers though his hair and recalled the events of the last several weeks. “Shepard’s right. Hire men to watch the mill and the house, will you?”
“Figured you’d say that. Already sent out word.” Milton smirked as he slouched, resting his bony elbow on the armrest. “You never met ol’ Clark, did ye?”
“No. But it’s strange that a woman is here asking after him after all this time. Isn’t it?”
“’Course it is. But you didn’t know Clark. Was a character, he was.”
“How so?”
Milton cocked his head to the side and scratched his chin. “Ask twelve people what they thought of ’im, and you’d get twelve diff’rent answers. As for me, well, I respected him. I did. He was mighty shrewd but impulsive to a fault. ’Twas his downfall. Once he gave his word, it was solid as stone. That stubbornness, rightly or wrongly, is exactly why the mill was in such a sorry state when you bought it.”
Shrewd. Impulsive. Stubborn.
Milton’s words stayed with him even after the supervisor quit Briarton Park and James was alone in his study. The clock on the mantelpiece had not even struck the noon hour and already he’d argued with his sister, encountered a beautiful if not slightly mysterious woman, and learned of an attack on one of his workers.
As he absently tapped his fingers on the desk, he took fresh notice of a stack of unopened letters tucked under a newspaper. Miss Hale indicated she’d written a response, and sure enough, a letter addressed to Robert Clark was in the pile. He slid his finger under the seal and opened it.
Mr. Clark,
Please forgive this late response. I only just came into possession of the letter you wrote me dated 24 June 1809. I would very much like to meet you and discuss the family matters you referenced. My present circumstances have changed abruptly, so it is my intention to depart for Briarton Park and arrive in a few days. I sincerely hope this is still agreeable to you.
Until then, I thank you for your kind invitation.
Cassandra Hale
James doubted her arrival was part of a larger conspiracy against the mill owners, as Shepard had implied, but even so, questions lingered. Why was she here unaccompanied and without a carriage? What had she expected the outcome of this visit to be? Would she have need to return to Briarton Park?
He had more pressing matters to think on. His half sister. His mill. The locals determined to destroy it.
He studied the delicate penmanship on the missive’s exterior. In all likelihood, he would never see Miss Hale again, even though he suspected the memory of her bewitching hazel eyes and the soft dimple at her mouth’s corner would linger in his mind’s eye for quite some time. Instead of returning the letter to the stack, he opened the drawer, tucked the letter inside, and closed it. He would just have to leave it at that.
* * *
The noon hour was approaching by the time Cassandra returned to Anston’s high street. Sulky clouds now blotted out morning’s earlier brightness, the effect of which conjured a dimness that matched her spirit.