Mrs. Hutton nodded. “I did.”
Cassandra’s heart pulsed. She’d expected Mrs. Hutton to say no, and the familiarity with which she spoke about Mrs. Denton shocked her. “Mrs. Denton told me she’d purposely kept my father’s identity from me—that she had made a promise to someone. Do you know anything of that promise?”
“I do. And I hesitate to tell you”—Mrs. Hutton shifted uncomfortably—“but I suppose everyone involved is dead now. Well, mostly everyone.”
Cassandra held her breath.
“Mrs. Denton was Mrs. Katherine Clark’s sister.”
“S-sister?” The word tasted thick and strange on her tongue.
“Yes. Sister. A few months before you were born, Jane Denton was visiting Briarton Park and overhead Mr. Clark and Mary, your mother, arguing about her situation. To my understanding Mrs. Denton confronted him. She clearly loved her sister very much and wanted to protect her from the pain and humiliation that infidelity would inflict. At that time Mrs. Denton had already been a widow for some years, and her school was quite established. She had a pristine reputation, and she was persistent. She, along with Mr. Longham, advised Mr. Clark to permit you to live at her school. She said she would raise you and keep your identity hidden. I, being one of the few people to know about you, was forced to keep that secret as well, on pain of dismissal. Oh yes, Mrs. Denton despised Mr. Clark, but she was devoted to Katherine.”
“But why, then, after Mrs. Clark died, do you suppose Mrs. Denton did not tell me the truth?”
Mrs. Hutton retrieved a handkerchief from her apron pocket. “Young Peter Clark would be my guess. She loved that boy as much as any aunt could love a nephew, never having had children of her own, and she never wanted to cast a shadow on her sister’s memory. And, of course, to keep scandal at bay.”
The words struck, numbly at first and then with increasing intensity.
Could that be true?
Did Mrs. Denton really sacrifice telling Cassandra the truth to protect a person as brutal asPeter Clark?
Mrs. Denton had loved her and cared for her.
But apparently she had loved her flesh and blood more.
“I can see this is affecting you,” Mrs. Hutton said after a space of silence. “I confess, it’s been a burdensome secret to bear. But I leave you with this. Do not judge your mother too harshly. Mr. Clark robbed her of so much. Her confidence. Her innocence. Like I toldyou in our first encounter, sometimes secrets are a gift. You seem to have done well for yourself. A young woman could do worse than a governess position in a house like Briarton Park. Maybe you’ll find yourself a husband. ’Tis no secret you’ve caught the vicar’s eye. Word’s all over the village, not that I pay mind to gossip, but everyone seems to be expecting a wedding by summer. I’ve experienced a great deal in my day, and my advice is to forget this business and focus on what comes next.”
***
Cassandra needed to return to Briarton Park before she was missed.
It would be dusk soon, and as much as she would prefer to walk in complete solitude to contend with her thoughts, the fastest way back to Briarton was through the village.
She passed through the small maze of cottages off the high street and trod the cobbled road. But as she reached the church, her steps slowed.
Mrs. Hutton had said bluntly that the vicar was taken with her. She even said the villagers expected a wedding by summer. The thought should have flooded her with optimism and given her hope for a future and a family.
So why didn’t it?
Since her arrival in Anston, Mr. North had been gracious and obliging. His visits to Briarton had been regular since Mr. Longham’s death. And he really was undoubtedly attractive. But she could not deny that the more time she spent in his company, the more acquainted she was becoming with his other qualities—insistent, possessive qualities that, to her, sullied his otherwise congenial nature.
She tried to force her mind to look past the misconduct. They were minor failings, and after all, who was without faults? But another thought—another person—pushed the idea of Mr. North to theback of her mind. Mr. Warrington. But it was impossible. Implausible. For look what had happened to her mother when she set her sights on someone in an unattainable position.
Yes, she should want to marry. She should want to marryMr. North.
As she passed the vicarage, Mr. North emerged, donning his black coat as he did so. She’d half expected to see him, for his study overlooked the high street and he observed all comings and goings. He waved a hand and jogged toward her.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you in the village today.” His pace slowed, and he fell into step beside her. “But I’m glad, for I have news for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. But first, how are you?” His brow creased. “Mrs. Pearson said you were not yourself after the visits. She worried you were ill. In fact, I called out to Briarton not an hour ago and was told you were not able to be found. I was concerned.”
The words should warm her, or at least make her feel supported, but something in her resisted it. “Do not worry on my account. I’m quite well, as you see. After our outing, I called on Mrs. Hutton.”
“Mrs. Hutton?” He jerked. “Why?”
