A chilly gust swept down from the fading ancient ash trees lining the walk, bringing with it a shower of russet-colored leaves and the whisper that this place might hold the key to her past.
And, more importantly, her future.
Forcing her hesitance to remain at bay, she placed one foot in front of the other. For what choice did she have? Mrs. Denton was dead. The school had been sold to the master of a boys’ school, and female teachers were no longer required. She had nothing, no connections, save for the hope that Mr. Clark’s letter might uncover information about her family and ultimately a situation where she might belong.
She’d responded to the letter the day after she received it, when the sting of Mrs. Denton’s betrayal still pricked her heart and grief dominated her emotions. Nearly a fortnight had passed since then, and she’d received no response. Had she been more prudent, she’d have waited for a reply before embarking on such a grueling journey, but with circumstances as they were, she had no time to waste, and every passing day was a day lost.
Armed with more questions than answers, she tightened her grip on her reticule and continued down the path, noting the deep ruts and hoofprints that suggested the road had recently been traveled.She rounded yet another bend, and the sight that met her stopped her completely.
Briarton Park.
She’d expected it to be large, stately, but this... this might be a castle.
The stately home rose three stories above the polished grounds, with symmetrical gables at each end and pale gray sandstone chimneys randomly dispersed over the slate roof. Even the fading ivy clinging to the facade added to the home’s imposing grandeur. Not even the vicar’s house at the end of the lane in Lamby could compare in scope.
Summoning courage, she followed the graveled path to another iron gate in a sturdy stone wall that separated the formal grounds from the more wooded area. She stepped through, noting how the road continued parallel to the house before it split into two on the other side at an orchard’s edge.
It was there she noticed a flash of indigo amid the orchard’s subdued grays and beiges. A girl of seven, or perhaps eight, perched in the branches of one of the apple trees. Ebony hair lashed about her small, pale face, and she appeared to be watching her.
They were too far apart to speak, so Cassandra lifted her hand in greeting.
Instead of responding, the girl dropped from the tree and disappeared behind the wall. Almost simultaneously, the tortured cry of a poorly played pianoforte wailed from somewhere within the house.
With her curiosity growing, Cassandra made her way to the paneled door, richly ornate with delicately carved vines and leaves. She lifted the round metal knocker and tapped it against the wood. It echoed, deep and hollow, in the morning’s quiet.
The music from inside did not stop, nor did she hear any other movement. She knocked again, eased away from the door, and waited.
At length a stout-looking footman opened the door, dressed neatly in emerald-green and tan livery.
She tightened her grip on her reticule and forced confidence to her voice. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Robert Clark, please.”
The footman, with a shock of black hair and a deeply clefted chin, only stared. Had he not heard her?
Before she could repeat herself, a portly woman, clad in crisp black with a severe, disapproving expression, stepped in front of the servant. “I’ll see to this, John.”
Cassandra squared her shoulders. “I wish to speak with Mr. Clark, please.”
The older lady raked her sharp gaze over Cassandra’s traveling clothes, landing on the mud streaking the gown at her ankles. “Mr. Clark is dead.”
Cassandra winced at the words. She did not have time to contemplate them further, for the woman began to close the door.
“Wait.” Cassandra reached her hand forward to prevent the latch from catching. “Please, a moment.”
With a huff of annoyance the woman gripped the edge of the door and nodded to the footman, dismissing him.
Determined to keep the woman’s attention, Cassandra blurted, “My name is Cassandra Hale. I’ve come a very long way. May I speak with the master? It’s very important.”
The woman shook her head. “Mr. Warrington is very busy and will not be able to take callers today.”
Mr. Warrington.She had the name of the current owner at least.
Sensing her time was limited, Cassandra spouted the first question that came to mind. “And are you the mistress of the house?”
“I should say not!” The woman’s scoff denoted superiority. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Helock. And if you are here to seek employment, I suggest you come around to the servants’ entrance.”
“No, no, you misunderstand,” Cassandra hastened to correct her. “I’m not here about employment.”
“Even so, you should not be using this entrance at all. You should—”
