The Green Ox Inn would be her temporary home for as long as she remained in this village. It stood just across the high street from the stone bridge. Presently, a muddy carriage with four bay horses stood in the broad, sodden courtyard, unloading a group of passengers. Two adolescent girls pealed with laughter and were quickly reprimanded by their mothers. At the sight, a pang of homesickness stabbed.
At this time of the day, her students would have been preparing for their midday meal. They would have just finished their arithmetic and reading studies. It had all been so predictable—a patterned comfort to which she’d grown accustomed.
But there was no school anymore.
No Mrs. Denton.
No home.
She missed her cozy chamber at the school—the one space that had truly ever been her own. She missed having others around her who cared for her, and for whom she cared in return. Mostly, she missed Mrs. Denton.
She sniffed and tossed her hair from her face. She would waste no time reminiscing. She’d remain steadfast. What other choice did she have? She had to focus on her remaining options, not the disappointments and the emotions threatening to dissuade her. Briarton Park was only the first inquiry in her search. There had to be other people in this village who knew Mr. Robert Clark. And there was still his son.
She turned her attention to the cobbled high street with renewed interest. Modest shops with slate roofs and quaint thatched cottages lined the road, and at the far end loomed the church, ascending in stone blackened with age.
Perhaps Mr. Warrington was right. Perhaps the vicar could assist her. And there was no time like the present to find out.
The leaves swirled around her ankles and clung to the rough fabric of her pelisse as she made her way to the church, pausing to allow a group of plainly clad women to pass. At the iron gate to the churchyard, she slowed to assess the ancient structure. The graveyard was tucked into the building’s far side, sleeping eerily amid the ashes and oaks.
She hesitated. Cassandra had always avoided graveyards. Even as a child she’d shied away from them and squeezed her eyes shut as they crossed through the one at Lamby to reach the church’s entrance. The idea of death, and the finality of it, unsettled her. Mrs. Denton had always said she did know Cassandra’s parents’ identity, but she’d also said she did not know if they were living. In Cassandra’s young mind, that meant they could be in any graveyard—and that had unnerved her.
She pushed open the gate and stepped through. The graveyard was larger than she had initially imagined. As she traversed the path, she realized it curved around the back of the church and stretched beyond. Gravestones of every shape and size, darkened by age and now rain, dotted the grounds and family plots. An ancient stone wall, tinted with moss and covered with ivy, encircled all, as though not to allow anything to disturb what was sleeping within.
She swiped a drop of rain away from her face as she plodded forward, pausing to read each carved inscription. Then, after nearly a quarter of an hour of searching, she found what she sought in a small plot beneath a copse of ash trees.
Robert Clark 1745–1809
Cassandra froze in a desperate attempt to decipher the feelings brewing within her. Loneliness? Sadness? Grief?
She shifted her gaze to the name of the stone next to his, and she sobered. Katherine Clark. His wife.
But it was the three little stones next to them that jolted her. Small graves, all marked Infant.
She stood transfixed. The memory of the man in the portrait plagued her as she stared at his final resting place. She could not shake the sensation that they were connected. But how? Was she related to him? Was she related to these infants?
She gathered her skirts and knelt to brush fallen leaves and twigs from one of the infant’s headstones.
“Were you acquainted with the Clark family?”
Startled, Cassandra jumped to her feet and whirled to face a man clad in a black coat standing a few feet from her, his hands clasped casually behind his back, the brisk wind lifting his molasses-colored hair from his forehead.
“O-oh,” she stammered. “I—I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”
Ignoring her discomfort, the man continued closer until he was directly next to her. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Clark. She died before my time here. I did speak with Mr. Clark a handful of times before he passed. A good man.”
Cassandra took a step back, reestablishing an appropriate distance between them.
He was a stranger.
Speaking to her in a graveyard.
As if taking notice of her caution, he gave a little laugh and adjusted the black broad-brimmed hat he was holding. “Forgive my lack of manners. We’ve not met. I’m Vincent North, Anston’s vicar.”
The tension in her shoulders eased. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m Cassandra Hale.”
“You’re not from Anston, are you, Miss Hale?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I arrived only yesterday.”
“Then allow me to formally welcome you to our lovely village. And is your trip here for pleasure? Are you visiting family, perhaps? Or friends?”
“Actually, I’m in search of some information, and I was hoping to speak with you. I—”
Before she could continue, the heavy wooden door to the church opened, and a wiry woman toting a large basket and wearing a white apron over her old-fashioned round gown exited. She stopped suddenly and stared at Cassandra. “Merciful heavens, Mr. North. Who’ve we ’ere?”
“Ah, Mrs. Pearson.” He pivoted to include the older woman in the conversation. “This is Miss Hale. A visitor to our parish.”
“A visitor!” Her weathered complexion brightened. “Well now, we don’t see many new faces here, do we, Mr. North?”
He shifted back to her. “Miss Hale, may I present Mrs. Pearson. She’s the housekeeper at the vicarage, but she is instrumental in overseeing the charitable work for the church. She keeps things working as they ought here.”
“Now, now, ’nough about that. It’s startin’ to rain, can’t you see?” Mrs. Pearson blinked up at the gray sky and wiped away a bit of rain from her blotchy cheeks. “None of us need catch our death talkin’ amid the stones. I’ve a mind to get Mr. North’s tea brewin’ early, and you’ll come into the vicarage and take some. That way we can get acquainted, and you can tell us how ye came to be in Anston.”
For a moment Cassandra felt robbed of speech. She could not think of a time when a person had been so forthcoming—and expectant—with an invitation.
As if sensing Cassandra’s hesitation, Mrs. Pearson continued. “Now, not a soul goes wanderin’ among these stones without a reason, and there’s a story behind yours, I’ll wager. So come with me, child, lest the rain soak you clean through.”
Mr. North chuckled. “Mrs. Pearson knows everything about Anston. If it is information you seek, she is, no doubt, an excellent resource.”
At this Cassandra could not refuse.
The walk to the vicarage was a short one—just across a narrow road next to the church. It was a fine house, with dark gray stone and white trim, paned windows, and a tidy walkway. By the time her foot crossed the threshold, the rain fell mercilessly, and she was grateful for the shelter. Mrs. Pearson quickly took her pelisse and gloves and ushered her into a modest low-ceilinged parlor. Despite the gray skies, ample colorless light filtered in through the three broad windows overlooking the road, making the space appear quite bright. A warm, cheery fire was quickly brought to life, and when it was offered to her, she settled into a highback chair next to the hearth.