Mrs. Susannah Hutton could not be more different. Her hair was faded, frizzed with wiry curls, capped with a frilly mobcap, and closer to white than blonde. Lines etched her plump, florid face, and her pale eyes were narrowed in suspicion—and annoyance—at having to receive unexpected guests.
Confidence and charm flowed from Mr. North’s words in spite of the chilly reception. “Mrs. Hutton. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
“I didn’t really agree to anything, did I?” Mrs. Hutton snapped as she wiped her hands on her linen apron, the statement more a declaration than a question. “I received your message that you were to call, and, well, here we all are.”
Mrs. Pearson thrust a basket of bread and apples into Mrs. Hutton’s arms. “Come now, since when is there a reason for formality when meetin’ among friends? Your name was spoken in conversationyesterday, and I thought a visit and a chat was long overdue. Is your sister at home?” Mrs. Pearson turned after moving next to the fire and adjusted her reticule in her gloved hands.
Mrs. Hutton handed the basket to a young maid in the corridor. “No, she is not. She’s gone to visit our cousin over in Northumberland.”
“Oh, I had no idea,” Mr. North exclaimed, his ever-present smile unaffected. “I’m sorry we’ve missed her.”
“Did you not notice she’s been absent from church these past four weeks?” Mrs. Hutton raised one gray eyebrow dubiously before turning her attention to Cassandra. “And who have we here?”
Before Cassandra could respond, Mrs. Pearson came and took her arm, then drew her farther into the sitting room. “I have the privilege of introducing Miss Cassandra Hale. She’s come to Anston seeking information ’bout her family.”
Cassandra curtsied to mask the butterflies within her.
But instead of returning the greeting, Mrs. Hutton grimaced. “You look awfully young to be traveling alone.”
Mrs. Pearson forged ahead. “Miss Hale had reason to call on Briarton Park askin’ after Mr. Robert Clark. ’Course he’s dead now, and she had questions I could not answer. But then I recalled your long-standing tie to the family. I thought there could be no harm in bringin’ her for a visit. I’m sure you two would have a great deal to talk about.”
An odd quirk tweaked Mrs. Hutton’s lower lip. “I don’t know what I could tell you. I have not stepped foot in that place in nigh onto seven years.”
“Be that as it may, it might be a pleasant way to pass some time. Come now. Surely a few questions won’t hurt anythin’.”
Mrs. Hutton, almost as a sign of defeat, motioned to the sofa and chair next to the fire grate. “Well then, since you’re here, you might as well be seated.”
When they were all situated, Mrs. Hutton lifted a fat orange cat to her lap. “So now. Tell me what this visit is really all about.”
After sharing brief details about her past and the letter, Cassandra retrieved the missive from her reticule, extended it to Mrs. Hutton, and waited for her to read it.
When Mrs. Hutton was done with the letter she lowered it, removed her spectacles from the bridge of her wide nose, and returned it to Cassandra. “I can confirm that that is, indeed, Mr. Clark’s penmanship. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
Optimism flared, and Cassandra leaned forward. “Do you have any idea what he could mean or to what he could be referring? This was the first I’d ever heard from him. It’s really quite cryptic.”
Mrs. Hutton’s gaze alighted on each of her visitors. The displeasure she’d displayed at their arrival seemed to have intensified. “I was indeed the housekeeper to the Clark family for nearly three decades, but one of the first priorities of such an occupation is discretion. I tended to the running of the house. Their private lives were their own concern.”
“Goodness, Mrs. Hutton. We aren’t askin’ after any deep, dark secrets.” Mrs. Pearson laughed, her hand flying to her chest. “The child merely seeks family information.”
But Mrs. Hutton’s mood did not lighten. “Just so I’m clear on what you are asking, you are in search of information about yourparents? That is what all this is about?”
Cassandra nodded. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“And you think Mr. Clark knows who your parents are?”
Cassandra glanced toward Mrs. Pearson, as if searching for reassurance. “Does not the letter suggest as much?”
Mrs. Hutton fixed her stare pointedly on Cassandra. Her tone sharpened. “Do you think Mr. Clark is your father?”
Cassandra’s throat went dry, and she shifted uncomfortably.
It was a condemning, weighted question—one she could not answer without more certainty.
Mrs. Hutton stood abruptly and set the cat on the floor. “If you’ve come to me for information about Mr. Robert Clark, then you’ve come to the wrong place. I suggest you call on their son. But a word of caution, Miss Hale. I can only assume someone went through a great deal to keep your parentage a secret. Perhaps the secrecy is a gift.”
***
As Cassandra, Mr. North, and Mrs. Pearson walked away from the thatched cottage at the conclusion of the awkward visit, Mrs. Pearson looped her arm through Cassandra’s. “La, I told you she wasn’t the friendliest sort. I’m sorry she didn’t shed light on the subject for ye.”
