“May I be of help?”
The masculine voice startled them both. A tall man with sandy hair and broad shoulders approached from the corridor. He did not appear annoyed. Indeed, his presence and affable tone immediately put her at ease in light of Mrs. Helock’s brashness.
The woman cast Cassandra a warning glance. “I can see to this, Mr. Warrington. You needn’t bother yourself.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Helock. The young lady asked to speak with me.” He rubbed his hands together before him. “I’ve a few moments before I leave. Tell me, miss. How can I assist you?”
Chapter 3
Cassandra’s stomach fluttered as she followed Mr. Warrington from the entrance hall to the much larger great hall. After all that had transpired over the past few weeks, she’d finally arrived at the place where her questions could possibly be answered.
Even as fresh optimism soared, a stinging prick of inadequacy enveloped her as she lifted her gaze to the stately oak beams running the length of the high plaster ceiling. Her gaze fell to the chamber’s two paned windows that framed the scenic grounds. Ample gray morning light flooded through, illuminating the long, narrow table centered in the hall with the serving pieces atop it, the presence of which suggested this space was one used for receiving and entertaining guests on formal occasions. The absence of the pianoforte music upon her arrival had only intensified the stillness—and magnificence—of the room. All around her paintings and portraits in gilded frames adorned the paneled walls, bringing the chamber alive with rich history.
She did not belong in a place as grand as this. Not with her sullied attire and wrinkled gown. She was a simple teacher with no real connections to speak of. Yet the man who had invited her here had lived within these walls.
And she was determined to unearth every detail he’d wanted to share with her.
She steadied her thoughts and tempered her expectations. Like Mrs. Denton instructed—emotions could not be permitted to interfere.
As they walked to the chamber’s center, Cassandra ignored the thudding within her chest and focused instead on her host, who was likely her best source of information.
Mr. Warrington epitomized everything she imagined a country gentleman to be, not that she had ever really met one. From his tall, straight stature to his buff buckskin breeches and polished top boots, his very presence boasted confidence and authority. The cut of his dark blue coat and its defined lapels emphasized the broad expanse of his shoulders, and an easy smile added to his charm. He was handsome, with a strong jawline and thick, light hair that curled just wildly enough to make him appear approachable. But it was his own easiness in his surroundings that made her feel even more out of place in this elegant room. She’d invaded his territory uninvited. Unannounced.
A shimmer of color through the arch at the room’s west end caught her eye. It was a young woman, younger than Cassandra, in a winter gown of rich, dark yellow. A mass of unruly sable curls rippled down her back, and a loosely woven shawl draped over her shoulders. She appeared pale. Sad. She paused in the doorway, staring at Cassandra, but said nothing and continued slowly on her way.
“Did I hear you say you’re seeking Robert Clark?” Mr. Warrington, who apparently had not noticed the young woman, said, bringing her back to the conversation at hand.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“He is dead, I’m sorry to say.” Mr. Warrington moved to the fire and stoked the waning embers.
“Yes, Mrs. Helock told me.” Cassandra joined him by the fire as it roared back to life, grateful for the warmth after the chilly walk.
He returned the poker to the stand, wiped his hands together,then nodded toward the portrait to the left of the mantel. “That’s Clark’s likeness, or so I’m told. The paintings were all here when I acquired Briarton.”
A thrill of connectedness surged through her at the bit of information, and she leaned forward to assess the man in the portrait. Sorrel hair. Obsidian eyes. The man in the painting was young, but even so, she was drawn to his soulful, somber expression. Robert Clark might be dead, but having this image to carry with her made him seem more real and heightened her enthusiasm about this search.
What secret did that man hold?
What secrets did he hold abouther?
“Odd that you came to visit and did not know he was deceased.” Mr. Warrington turned from the painting back to her.
His voice held no cynicism, and yet Cassandra suspected if she was to be successful in her quest, she needed to develop a new tactic. And quickly.
Perceiving that it would be best to appeal to his sense of rationality, she pulled the letter from her reticule. “I’ve never met him, but you see, I received this letter from Mr. Clark. Clearly it was written years ago, but it only recently came into my possession. I did write a response a couple of weeks ago, but I am not sure it ever arrived.”
“You sent a missive here?” A frown shadowed his otherwise congenial expression. “That is likely my error then. Occasionally I receive letters addressed to the former owner, and I never open them.”
Encouraged by his interest, she extended the missive toward him. “He indicated that he has—well,had—news to share with me about my family.”
He accepted the letter and unfolded it.
Cassandra studied his face as he read it, hoping for some spark, some hint of familiarity, that would help her draw conclusions. But after several seconds he refolded it, tapped it against his hand as if pondering what he’d just read, and then extended it to her. “It’s definitelyintriguing, but I’m afraid I can’t offer much information. I purchased this house after his death. I never met him either.” His voice held a tone of finality to it, as if he was done with the conversation.
She shifted, resisting the urge to panic. So many questions lingered. She could not give up. Not yet. “Is there nothing that you know of him? Please, I’ve traveled a very long way. Any bit you can think of would be so helpful.”
He drew a deep breath and looked upward, as if searching his memory. “In addition to this house, Mr. Clark owned two mills near here. I now own Briarton House and the Weyton Mill, but his son, Peter Clark, inherited and operates the other wool mill, Clark Mill. I suggest you speak with him.”
