The Headmistress of Rosemere (31 page)

She diverted her eyes and tried to ignore how in the afternoon light he looked so like the boy she had grown up with. The familiar way his too-long hair fell over his broad forehead. For a brief
moment she found herself wishing things could be as they once were, when she could confide her troubles in him, and he would always know how to set things right.

She had misinterpreted Mr. Sterling’s intentions.

Perhaps she had misread Ewan O’Connell’s as well.

Patience walked over to stoke the fire, eager to be busy. “What can I do for you?”

He did not respond, and she paused at her task and turned to look at him.

“I wish you would sit with me.”

She arched an eyebrow and blew out a breath. She felt sick—not the sick of an anticipating heart, but a sick dread. She nodded, wordlessly returning the poker to its holder, and sat down on the chair next to him. The overwhelming sense that something important was about to happen nearly stole the wind from her lungs. She waited for him to speak.

“You’ve changed.”

She sucked in a defensive breath, but instead of firing back a clever retort, she pressed her lips together and looked out the window to the fading dusk and waited for him to explain himself.

“Will you at least look at me?”

She turned toward him and forced her eyes to meet his. Pale, brown eyes that, when she had been younger, she thought to be full of mischievous romance.

“I suppose we have both been changed,” he said. “Time does that. I can only imagine that things have been quite harrowing since your father died. I can see you are troubled, and I’ll not pretend that I have the right to know what it is. I thought I would never see you again. But when I saw your brother, and when he told me the circumstances surrounding the school, I knew the time to redeem myself had come.”

Redemption? His words were delivering a cryptic message. A
gust of air slammed the window, sending in slivers of cold air, and she was grateful for the coolness. She pictured herself running for the door, but he leaned in closer.

“Miss Creighton. Patience.”

Her Christian name sounded strange coming from him. Suddenly, she could not breathe. She jumped from the chair, but as she did, he rose too, and in one step, he was inches from her, had gathered her hands in his, and was holding them against his chest.

She diverted her gaze and inched back. But he held her hands tight.

“You bewitch me. You always have.” She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. “I flatter myself to think that you feel the same way. I am proud of you, Patience. Proud of how you filled your father’s shoes when your brother could not. But you need not bear this weight alone.”

Ewan inched closer. She had nowhere to go. If she stepped back, the fire would surely light her skirt, and a heavy mahogany chair pinned her from her right. She pressed her lips together. She had no choice but to hear what he had to say.

His eyes were intent, almost pleading. She could not look away. “It is fate, do you not see? My heart first suspected it when your brother told me you had not married. And when he invited me here to help with the school, I dared hope that you would feel the same way.”

She had to stop him. “Please, Mr. O’Connell, I—”

“And then I saw you again. Every bit as lovely as that day I last beheld you under the elm. My last memory of you was that day with tears in your eyes, and here I find you a strong and independent woman.”

She was no longer hearing his words. In a panic, she shook her head. “Don’t, I—”

“But surely you cannot deny this force that has brought us
together.” Excitement quickened his words and heightened his color, refusing to allow her to reject him. “I wanted to wait, but heaven help me, I cannot. I no longer speak as a youth, but as a man, with full possession of my heart and mind. Do me the honor, Patience. Do me the immense honor of becoming my wife.”

When his rush of words finally silenced, Patience was unable to look away from the pale brown eyes that had implored her so many years ago.

She had accepted that she would be a spinster. Or she
thought
she had. William Sterling awakened feelings in her heart that she had never known could exist. Before she could process the feelings within her, here was Mr. O’Connell, not Mr. Sterling, making an offer of marriage.

Tears pooled in her eyes. For when her heart was so clearly set on another, how could she accept?

But in light of the accusation she’d heard regarding Mr. Sterling, how could she refuse?

She could not get her lips to articulate her thoughts, nor was she sure she wanted them to. She stared at Ewan, mouth hanging open, watching his changing expression as he interpreted her silence.

Slowly, he released his fingers from around hers. Many years ago, when she did not answer, tears had filled his eyes. But today, anger was apparent.

“There is someone else, is there not?”

Her chin quivered, but she said nothing. The warmth that had softened his eyes vanished, leaving behind a cold, steely expression. Then he said, low and with menace, “Sterling.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I will not press you for an answer. I know that I have just returned, that I caught you off guard. But promise me this. Promise me that you will at least consider it.”

Her breathing slowed and she could only whisper, “I will.”

28

W
illiam paced the alleyway of the stable in front of the foaling stall. The mare circled in restless agitation, nipping at her swishing tail and neighing loudly. A wild look widened her black eyes.

“Should be any time.” Lewis folded his sleeve high on his arm.

William nodded and looped a length of rope around his shoulder. After all these months of planning, the time for the first foal was about to arrive. The delivery had to be successful. Slaten’s offspring had to be strong. There was no other choice.

In the silence of the dark stable, waiting as they were, he shook off his exhaustion. Two days ago he learned he was a father. And two days ago he’d learned of Riley’s betrayal. Both were a shock, for different reasons, and ever since he’d been unable to find a moment’s rest.

He hung the rope on a nearby hook and let his hand linger against the cold metal. The fire had not been an accident. It had been a ruse on Riley’s part to force the Creightons from the land
with the assumption that he would not be able to rebuild the stable. And the fact that Riley’s action had injured his daughter only fueled the anger within him. He had foiled Riley’s plan by rebuilding the stable, but he had been counting on money from the mill. Money now gone.

With a quick glance at the laboring mare, he stepped outside for a breath of fresh morning air. Ever-present mist shrouded his view. He looked out toward Wainslow Peak. Its height and clinging foliage blocked any sight of Latham Hill beyond it.

He looked off toward Rosemere and could just make out the chimney line above the trees. He tried to reconstruct the image of the child, his child, who lived there. He could see only Isabelle’s olive skin. His own clear eyes. He wanted to run to Miss Creighton, explain everything. But if he were Miss Creighton, would he want to release a sweet child to the care of a man who had gambled away everything?

The best plan would be for the child to remain at the school. He had no way to care for her properly at Eastmore Hall. But he could not allow her to go on living under the belief that she was an orphan. He wanted to be more than merely financially responsible. He wanted to be a father, a true father. He was not a man prone to emotion, but with so much that he had to make right, he felt overwhelmed, almost lost.

His gaze fell on the overgrown path leading to Sterling Cemetery, where his mother and father lay under ancient elms. He’d tried it his father’s way, relying on his own strength for success and self-worth. With so many decisions to be made, he would try it his mother’s way.

He stood in the open, empty yard in front of Eastmore Hall and lifted his face to the churning sky. Was God up in the heavens, beyond the mist and clouds? And if he called out to God, would He respond? With his face upturned and his hat brim away from
his face, the raindrops fell on his cheeks and lashes. “God, if you hear me, I need help.” He wiped the rain from his face and looked heavenward. “I want to make it right. Help me know what to do.”

Lydia swept into the study, her hair in an intricate twist and books stacked in her arms. Her face formed a pretty pout. “Patience, dear, whatever is the matter? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”

Patience looked up from the letter she was writing. “Oh, no, no. I am well. A headache is all.”

“Well, it is no wonder.” Lydia began stacking the books on the shelves. “I am surprised we are not all sick in bed on account of this weather. I do not know when I have been so cold. And this endless rain and snow! Is the weather always like this here?”

Patience tucked the half-written letter away. “We often get snow this time of year, but this winter has been unusually harsh.”

Lydia paused from her task of shelving books long enough to click her tongue and cast a quick glance out the window. “It has been weeks since the fire, but I can still smell smoke. It is as if it still clings to everything in this house.”

Patience watched Lydia shelve the last of the books. How young and full of life she looked. Patience swallowed a twinge of envy at the girl’s—no, woman’s—pale yellow silk dress with dainty half boots made of ivory kid leather. Her glossy hair, the color of straw, was neatly smoothed and curled against her head. Patience lifted her hand to smooth her own wayward black hair from her face, wishing she’d taken more pains with it.

But what did it matter? Now that the stable was nearing completion, William Sterling had not been by for days.

Either way, it was of little consequence.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, Patience.”

Patience pushed her childish thoughts aside. “Yes?”

“It is about your mother.” She took timid steps toward her, reminding Patience of the first day Lydia came to Rosemere. “I hope I am not being too forward.”

Patience tensed, anticipating unpleasant news. But any topic would be a diversion from the unwelcome storm of her own thoughts. “Of course not. She is your mother too, is she not?”

Lydia scurried to close the door and then returned. “Is she . . . well?”

The question was an odd one. “Yes. I mean . . . no. Ever since Father’s death, she’s been . . . melancholy.”

Lydia’s face twisted in contemplation, and she pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I do hope you do not think me impertinent. But since my arrival, I have been unable to discern her opinion of me. At the dinner when your neighbors were here, she seemed so happy with me, but ever since—”

Patience drew a deep breath. “You will have to forgive her, Lydia. She has had a hard time with my father’s death. No doubt Rawdon has mentioned that she has changed.”

Lydia toyed with the lace trim on her sleeve. “Truthfully, he has said little on the matter. When I questioned him about it, he said only that things are the way they are. And that is why I have come to you.”

“I see.” Patience didn’t want to talk about her mother, but at least they were not talking about a burned stable. Or her brother’s plans for the school. Or Ewan O’Connell. Or, heaven help her, William Sterling.

Perhaps it would be nice to have another friend to talk with. And if she could not trust her sister-in-law, whom could she trust? “I wish I knew how to help her. I could barely get her out of bed for months following my father’s death.” Patience bit her tongue, stopping short of sharing her recollection of how hard it had been to see
her mother so forlorn, especially in her own grieving state. Patience did not wish to paint a picture of her mother as being sad. Instead, she would continue to promote her mother as she knew she could be. Kind. Loving. “She is getting better by the day.”

“I am familiar with what it can be like to bear the weight of one’s grieving. Oh, I will not go into details, but I can tell you I have had my share of pain.” Lydia offered a weak smile, and Patience wondered if she should inquire. But before she could decide, Lydia’s face brightened. “I am glad to hear she is on the mend, for I have news to share, and I was not sure how she would take it.” She hurried over to Patience and took her hands. “Will you hear my news? I need to know if you think such news will upset your mother.”