It was Mr. Warrington who surprised her most, however. She’d always heard that governesses had little contact with the parents, but every evening he would spend at least an hour with his daughters, reading, playing, or talking. He spoke with her often about the girls’ progress—what they were learning and how they behaved.
But now, as she sat next to Mr. Longham in Mr. Clark’s stark countinghouse at Clark Mill, waiting for her half brother to join them, the peace and confidence that brought her such comfort at Briarton had fled, and a sickening anxiety flooded her. Other than the sounds of the persistent rain on the panes and the hissing fire in the grate, she and Mr. Longham sat in galling silence.
Cassandra glanced up at the clock above the mantel and shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair. Mr. Clark should have joined them half an hour prior. “Do you think he’ll not come?”
“He’ll be here.” Mr. Longham’s tone exuded confidence. “I knowPeter Clark quite well, actually. He’s stubborn. This is his attempt to seize control. We simply will not allow it. We’ll wait as long as it takes.”
She smoothed a wrinkle out of her sleeve for the dozenth time and fidgeted with the satin cords of her reticule. If only she possessed Mr. Longham’s composure.
After what seemed like more than an hour, the door flew open, creaking on its hinges and thudding against the wall behind it.
Cassandra jumped, whipping around to see who caused such a commotion, and could only stare at the bulky man in the doorway. For weeks now she had wondered about meeting him. She’d envisioned him to resemble her father’s portrait. He did, but only to an extent. His face was ruddy, either from frustration or drink, and his sorrel hair was wild, unkempt. His nose was strong and straight, and his forehead remarkably broad. But it was his eyes, the same obsidian eyes from the portrait, from which she could not look away.
Mr. Longham rose, his movements as casual as if this were a pleasure visit. “Clark. It’s been a while.”
Peter Clark did not respond immediately. He stomped in, his boots heavy on the planked floor, then went straight to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. “So, you’ve not let this go, have you?”
Ignoring Mr. Clark’s question, Mr. Longham extended his arm toward Cassandra. “I’d like to introduce Miss Cassandra Hale.”
Mr. Clark returned the glass noisily to the sideboard and turned to fix a hard gaze on her. “So I hear you are claiming to be my father’s illegitimate daughter.”
Flustered—and slightly intimidated—by the accusations hidden in his tone, she lifted her chin. “I am only looking for answers.”
He scoffed. “Answers, is it? Bah. Spreading vicious rumors, more like. What is it you want? Money?”
She shook her head, shocked at the animosity in his tone. “I’m not spreading rumors. And I don’t want money.”
“You know very well your father named Miss Hale in the will,” Mr. Longham interjected, as if soothing an angry child. “Why act surprised now that she’s here?”
Mr. Clark fixed a hard stare on Cassandra and squared his expansive shoulders. “I don’t believe for a moment that you are Cassandra Hale. Furthermore, I don’t believe you are my father’s daughter, whatever this man claims.”
“Do you know another Cassandra Hale then?” Longham reasoned, amused sarcasm dripping. “Be reasonable, Clark. She’s a real person, clearly, otherwise your father never would have included her.”
Her defenses growing, Cassandra forced confidence to her voice and retrieved her letter from her reticule. “I received this letter inviting me to Briarton Park and claiming to have information about my family. I think you will see for yourself that it is by your father’s hand.” She extended it to him.
His face hard, Peter Clark snatched it from her and glanced at it.
And then, in a sudden action, he turned and tossed it in the fire.
“No!” Cassandra lunged toward the fire and knelt next to it, but the note was positioned behind leaping flames. There was no way to reach it. Enraged, she stood and turned. Tears burned, but she would not cry. Not in front of this man. “Your father—ourfather—wrote me that letter. Nothing will change that fact. And IamCassandra Hale, and I have spent my entire life wondering where exactly I come from. And now, thanks to Mr. Longham, I know. Whether you like it or not does not change it.”
Mr. Clark widened his stance and leaned forward, towering over her, undoubtedly attempting to intimidate by size. “And what do you think will happen? That you will inherit land from my father? Nah, I’ll never believe you are Cassandra Hale. For all I know, you are just an actress hired by Mr. Longham to get the money.”
“It is not about money.” Her voice shook with ire. “It is about truth.”
“Ah, is it? So I suppose if I offer you money to leave and never come back, you’d refuse it? Doubtful.” He jerked open a drawer full of banknotes. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement. You can walk out of this countinghouse a very wealthy woman. You would just need to sign an agreement never to return.”
She looked at the banknotes. It was more money than she had ever seen.
But it wasn’t right. None of this was right.
She was no longer intimidated. Fury and frustration replaced any such sentiment. “I am not about to sell the truth about myself.”
“Foolish woman.” He slammed the drawer closed and approached her, so close she could smell the brandy he’d just consumed and the dust from the courtyard, and forced words through clenched teeth. “You, madam, are not my sister.”
At length Mr. Longham stood, his tone sobering. “She’s named specifically in the will, Clark. Fight it if you will. It won’t change matters.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt there is a Cassandra Hale somewhere. But this woman? No. Where is the proof?”
