She’d met Mrs. Pearson and Mr. North but minutes ago, and already she found herself easing into their good-natured company. Mr. North was nothing like the old vicar in Lamby. He boasted amiability. His large brown eyes contributed to his youthful appearance, but the soft lines around them suggested that one should not judge his age by appearances alone. As he sat across from her in the faded green wingback chair, with his tea in hand and easy manners, Cassandra could feel her anxieties subside, even if just for a moment.
“Please pay no mind to the mess.” He waved a dismissive hand at a pile of newspapers and books on a table beneath one of the windows. “Mrs. Pearson is always after me to find a place for these things. My office in the church is often quite cold this time of year, so I do a great deal of my work right here in this room.”
“Ah, the young miss doesn’t care ’bout your mess, Mr. North. No need to draw attention to it.” Mrs. Pearson pulled a padded side chair close, sat down, then patted Cassandra’s arm with her wrinkled hand. “Now then, why don’t you tell us what brings you to Anston.”
Cassandra gave them a brief overview of her situation—careful to impart enough information while still guarding her privacy. She did show them the letter, and she observed them for any reaction as they read it.
After they’d both read the letter, Mr. North handed it back to Cassandra, and for several seconds no one spoke. Then Mr. North sat back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other. “So I must ask. Did you not find what you sought at Briarton Park?”
“No, sir. Unfortunately, I did not.”
He stood, crossed the room to the fire, and reached for the poker. “In fairness, the Warrington family has been at Briarton for about a year. I’m not surprised Mr. Warrington did not know much of the history.”
She scrutinized his every movement, as if the motions alone might hold some secret. “Perchance do you have information you could share with me?”
After several seconds the young vicar straightened, returned the poker to its stand, and turned. “Unfortunately, I did not know Mr. Clark at all. I only arrived a few months before his death. Not nearly enough time to forge any sort of true acquaintance. Mrs. Pearson? Did you know him?”
“Aye, yes. I remember Robert Clark well.” Mrs. Pearson settled back in her chair. “They were a quiet family, the Clarks. Kept mostly to themselves far as I knew. Mr. Clark traveled often for the wool mills. He owned two, you know, Weyton Mill and Clark Mill. He conducted a great deal o’ business in London, I believe it was, and Mrs. Clark remained behind at Briarton Park. She was frequently ill as I recall, but they had a son, and he resides over in Ambleton, not an hour from here.”
“Yes, Mr. Warrington mentioned a son—a Mr. Peter Clark.” Cassandra tried to mask her enthusiasm with a steady tone. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him, of course, once or twice at social gatherings,” responded Mr. North. “He now runs Clark Mill. Passed down. I could manage an introduction if it would be helpful.”
“Oh, it would.” Cassandra nodded. “Immensely.”
Mrs. Pearson leaned forward, her cobalt eyes bright with interest. “And do you recall, Mr. North? Mrs. Susannah Hutton was the housekeeper at Briarton Park for many years. She lives at the end of South Lane now with her sister. People in service to great families know everything about them, so perhaps she’d entertain a question or two. But I caution ye. She’s not the friendliest sort. Guarded and severe. But never mind that. I’ll see to it that all will go well. Tomorrow we’ll call.”
“T-tomorrow?” Cassandra stammered.
“Of course. I’ve not called on her in quite some time. I’ll take you there myself.”
It all seemed too fortuitous. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t dare think of intruding on your time, and I am sure you have—”
“Nonsense! I’m forever telling Mr. North that he should call on all of his parishioners. Not just the agreeable ones.”
Mr. North slapped his knee. “That settles it. A visit to Mrs. Hutton tomorrow is in order. And setting a time for an introduction to the younger Mr. Clark will take some doing, but these things have a way of coming together.”
Cassandra was stunned at all that had been discussed. “You are both being so gracious.”
“Everyone deserves to know who their people are. Where are you staying, child?” Mrs. Pearson asked.
“I have a room at the Green Ox Inn.”
“What? No.” Mrs. Pearson shook her head emphatically. “No, no, no. That place is one step above a hovel.”
“I’m rather content, really,” Cassandra urged. “In truth, I don’t know how long I’ll be in town, so for the time being it suits.”
“Nonsense.” Mr. North stood. “Mrs. Pearson is quite right. When we’ve finished our tea, I’ll escort you over to Mrs. Martin’s house myself. She takes on boarders, and she is a particular friend of mine. I’m sure she can offer assistance.”
The afternoon passed pleasantly and quickly. As the rain subsided and it was deemed dry enough to venture out of doors once more, Mrs. Pearson retrieved Cassandra’s now-dry pelisse and gloves.
After opening the front door, Mr. North turned to face her, his usually pleasant expression growing almost grim. “In light of all that lies before you, I’ll offer this word of caution. As a rare visitor to our village, you will pique everyone’s interest. You have kindly shared your story with us, but I think it prudent if you keep the details to yourself until more can be discovered. Mr. Clark was a mill owner, and regardless of his pleasant demeanor, that alone will cast a shadow on your search. I hate to admit it, but people love their gossip and will reinvent truths in a minute. Discretion, my new friend, is advised.”
Cassandra nodded, but the warning cast a long shadow over her blossoming optimism, staunchly reminding her to guard her heart.
Chapter 5
Mr. North fell into step next to her as they traversed the cobbled street from the vicarage to the boardinghouse. With fortified tenacity and revived hope, Cassandra glanced toward him. He was a handsome man. His face was long and narrow and his complexion quite fair, but high cheekbones added to his air of authority. The directness of his personality, the candor and verisimilitude, relaxed her in his presence.
“The boardinghouse is not far from here. Just down the high street there. See?” He pointed down the street as they walked.
Her gaze followed his direction to a building that, in truth, looked very much like a smaller version of the Green Ox Inn. It, too, was built of stone and rose two stories high. Its facade featured tall, narrow paned windows and green trim, and the shingle outside of the brightly painted yellow door read Martin’s Boardinghouse.
“Mrs. Martin will take care of you. I’m confident of it,” Mr. North explained. “It isn’t a palace, by any means, but Mrs. Martin keeps a tight rein over her boarders and only takes on ladies. It will be much safer and, I daresay, quieter for you there.”
Cassandra adjusted her grip on her reticule. As humbling and difficult as it had been to ask for help, it was almost as challenging to receive it. Mrs. Denton had taught her that self-sufficiency was to be prized. She’d never known anyone, male or female, to truly help another without expectation for more, as Mr. North seemed to be doing. But he was, after all, a vicar. Perhaps he was sincere.