Mrs. Pearson continued the introductions, oblivious to the panic bubbling within Cassandra. “This is Miss Rachel Warrington. She lives at Briarton Park.”
Mrs. Smith’s sternly set jaw twitched ever so slightly.
“And this is Miss Cassandra Hale,” continued Mrs. Pearson, “governess at Briarton Park.”
At this all color drained from Mary Smith’s face.
Cassandra knew there could be no doubt—this woman, fearing for the life of her husband, was her mother.
And they both knew it.
The next minutes blurred. Mrs. Smith’s words were brusque. Abrupt. Baskets were emptied. Food was left. Prayers were said. It was as if Cassandra was watching the events unfold instead of participating in them.
She wanted to say something, but what? It was hardly the time. Her mother’s husband could very well be on his deathbed. And there was no privacy.
But as they prepared to leave, Mrs. Smith called after her, “Miss Hale. A word before you leave, if ye don’t mind?”
Cassandra separated from Mrs. Pearson and Rachel and stayed behind at the cottage. For several moments the women stared ateach other. No words were exchanged, and then Mrs. Smith’s words rang cold. “So, ye found me.”
Cassandra’s mouth dried. She could only stare at the petite woman she’d thought about, wondered about, every single day of her life.
Mrs. Smith pushed on. “I heard you were in the village askin’ questions. Mrs. Hutton told me ’erself. Why? What are ye hopin’ to do?”
“I—I just want to know the truth about who my family is. I received a letter from Mr. Clark. He told me he wanted to share information—”
“Robert Clark is dead, as ye well know,” she snipped. “Why are you here, at me house?”
Cassandra didn’t know whether to be hurt, angry, or anxious. She didn’t have time to formulate her response, for Mary Smith’s churlish words barreled forth.
“What right have ye comin’ here, pokin’ ’round where ye don’t belong? I’ve a life now. You have yours. My husband and boys know nothin’ ’bout you, and Silas must never know what my life was like before. Leave the past in the past, where it belongs. Dead. Buried. You upended my life once. Don’t do it again.”
Mary Smith spun back into the house and disappeared before Cassandra fully understood what had just happened.
Tears threatened, and a sob caught unexpectedly. She was not prepared for this. She was not prepared to meet her mother.
And she was being rejected.
It was as if the breath had been siphoned from her lungs as Cassandra stared at the empty space where her mother had been standing.
The words—the dismissal—hurt more than any dagger ever could.
The one person she had dreamt about wanted nothing to do with her.
Chapter 33
Cassandra knocked on the door to Mrs. Hutton’s cottage. And waited. When no response came, she lifted her gloved hand and knocked again. Harder.
The shock from earlier in the day had been almost more than she could bear.
Her mother was alive.
Now there seemed to be no one who could help her find the truth. Except for one person—Mrs. Hutton.
She continued knocking rapidly until Mrs. Hutton appeared at the door. Immediate recognition—and irritation—flashed. “Miss Hale.”
“I’m intruding, I know.” Cassandra held out her hand to keep the door open. “And I am sorry for it, truly. But I have questions to which I need answers, and I fear you are the only person alive who can answer them.”
At first Mrs. Hutton only stared at Cassandra after the rush of words. But then she expelled a puff of air, rested against the door, and cocked her head to the side. “So you spoke with Mary Smith, did you?”
