“Rachel told me that you had an experience similar to hers when you were younger. With a young man. Cassandra, I know what it is like to experience the anguish of a lost love.” He closed the space that she had created. “I never want to feel that again. But I also don’t want to be without love.”
At the word love, she tensed. “But if this all goes wrong—”
“But what if it doesn’t go wrong?” He brushed her hair away from her forehead. “We can’t wait to see what comes next in order to be happy. Oh, Cassandra. So much time has passed. We have to find our happiness. Create it. And I want to do just that. With you.”
Something akin to relief softened her expression, and she melted against him once more. He pulled her closer, feeling her softness. Her gentleness. He wanted her to trust him, really trust him, and in that moment, he believed she did. He tilted her chin up and claimed her mouth with his.
* * *
“Emotions will cloud your judgment and weaken your ability to react rationally.”
The statement repeated over and over in Cassandra’s mind.
Yes, there was truth to it, but it would no longer be a truth that defined her. The emotions that Mrs. Denton had so tried to steer her away from refused to be ignored. But now, instead of melancholy, she was happy. And she would allow that emotion to guide her.
Her mother wanted to know her.
James had declared his feelings for her.
And she trusted him.
She scurried about her evening duties, checking on Mrs. Towler, seeing to dinner, and getting the girls to bed, until she was free to rejoin James in his study. Candles lit the entire space, and he’d pulled out several trunks and crates. Papers were stacked around the room, covering nearly every surface.
How tempting he looked in the candlelight.
It was hard not to notice or even to focus on anything else. His coat was removed, and he wore a blue waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His fawn-colored hair was tousled and careless, and curiosity brightened his expression.
He’d not yet noticed her, so she tapped her fingers on the door. “The girls are asleep. Mrs. Helock is with Mrs. Towler.” She stepped in farther. “It appears you’ve been busy. Have you found anything of interest?”
“Nothing as of yet, but this Clark fellow was a stickler for records.” He lifted a stack of folded papers from the top of the desk. “Look at these. Letters. Ledgers. He kept everything. There are several stacks having to do with the mills, but from the looks of it, he had a propensity for cards.”
She lifted a portfolio and flipped open the cover. “I do wish I could have known him. Did you know your father well?”
“I did. Very well.” James straightened and lowered the paper he was holding to the stack. “But there were times we did not see eye to eye. We were quite poor when I was growing up. After my mother died, my father sold our house and we lived in the countinghouse at the mill. When he married Rachel’s mother, that was when I left the family mill and relocated to Plymouth. It wasn’t until then that we were able to prosper a bit.”
She felt quite proud of James. Having built himself up from nothing. Maybe he was right. Maybe that was why her background did not matter to him.
The next couple of hours were spent searching through the paperwork left behind by Mr. Clark. Papers that dated as far back as his childhood were included among them, and it was like getting a glimpse into the life of the man who’d had such a profound influence on her life, even though she never knew him.
Suddenly James called to her, “Cassandra, come look at this.”
She hurried to his side and looked over his arm at an open portfolio. He pointed to a number, and then she saw it.
A transaction sheet.
With Denton School for Young Ladies written across the top.
Excitement welled within her as they slid the entire contents of the portfolio out onto the desk. Letters and ledgers tumbled out. She recognized Mrs. Denton’s handwriting immediately. Hungry to receive all the information at once, she shuffled through the papers, eager for her next discovery.
And then she saw it. Her father’s copy of the custody agreement. Overwhelming relief rushed her. “Now we have both my mother’s and father’s copies of the paperwork.”
Laughing, she turned to him. “This is wonderful! Oh, James, it is all here. Every bit of it.”
She sat down with the letters, several of which were written by Mrs. Denton. The writing style was so familiar. They were full of insights on her life—on Cassandra’s personality and upbringing. On how she was doing with her studies and with the other girls. It was a year-by-year account, from her earliest days.
In that glimmer of a moment she could see past Mrs. Denton’s betrayal. Past the heartache. For these letters described their relationship. These letters told the story of what the woman really thought of her.
“It’s like looking into my life,” Cassandra exclaimed as she shuffled through the letters. “And to think she was protecting me. Her sister. Even herself. Oh, how I wish I could apologize to her.”
“If she knows you as well as you think she did, then she would understand.”
“I know, but it’s heartbreaking. She meant so much to me, and I will never be able to tell her.”
“That’s the sort of thing that people who know each other well just know. She knew you loved her. And judging by these letters, the sentiment was returned.”
Chapter 41
James studied Shepard’s face as he picked up each individual piece of paperwork—the signed custody agreement, the ledgers of school payments, the baptism record—and read them. “Well? What do you think?”
Shepard clicked his tongue and chortled. “I don’t think Peter Clark will be very happy about this.”
“I don’t think so either, but based on all of this documentation, Miss Hale is unquestionably the woman named in Robert Clark’s will,” commented James as he uncorked the decanter to pour his guest a drink. “There has to be a connection with Longham’s death. There’s too much overlap, and I’m guessing that whoever killed Longham knew he possessed the documents and wanted to prevent him from pursuing this in court. And that’s why they were stolen from the murder site.”
Shepard looked toward Cassandra and pointed a thumb in James’s direction. “Do you agree with his assessment?”
Cassandra, who had been waiting quietly as James explained the situation to the magistrate, nodded eagerly. “I do.”
Shepard accepted the glass from James and settled back in his chair. “Very well, Warrington. You clearly have someone in mind. It’s written all over your face. Out with it then.”
James licked his lips and forged ahead. “Initially I believed Peter Clark to be involved. We all know his temper. But then, when Miss Hale found the baptismal record, I realized it could not be him. He did not even know Miss Hale was his half sister until after she had begun searching for the records.”
“So then, who do you think it is? Who is our murderer?”
“Vincent North.”
Shepard scoffed incredulously, his already ruddy face pinkening further with amusement. “What, the vicar in Anston?”