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 notthink 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.
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 thewindows. “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. Heconducted 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.”
