The statement shocked her. It was direct—and improper for a man to discuss such a personal topic.
“I would not mention it,” he hastened to add, “but if that were the case, it would explain why he was so upset when he encountered us in the conservatory last night.”
How was she to respond? Her heart wanted to emphatically deny an attachment to Mr. Abernathy, but her head urged caution. Her father’s plan was clear, and Miss Sutton’s recent words came to mind. “There is no understanding between Mr. Abernathy and me.”
“Good.”
Was he truly happy about it, as he seemed, or was he being polite? “I understand why everyone is saying so, though. My fatheris not well, and the Society is concerned about the school’s future. We all have a duty to fulfill. Mine is to preserve Keatley Hall.”
His response was soft. Almost tender. “I witnessed firsthand what happened to my sister when she did as expected. Things do not always end up the way we hope they will. You’ve not asked my advice, but I’ll share it anyway. Don’t give away your future happiness to fulfill another’s expectations. One day you’ll be faced with the consequences of your decisions, and no one wants to live with regrets.”
How did he do it? How did he say the words that touched the part of her soul that needed soothing and the part of her heart that needed care? Mr. Rowe’s sincerity stood in sharp contrast to Mr. Abernathy’s censure and warnings.
As they made their way to the quieter parts of the garden, she was reminded of what she loved about it—the scent of the late-blooming wisteria on the gate that separated the kitchen garden and the wood pigeon’s song. The path led them past the box gardens and hedgerows to, at last, the oak tree. Once under the boughs of the magnificent tree, Mr. Rowe propped his hands on his hips and stared up at the canopy above them. The sun streaming through the branches dappled his face and shoulders.
He then stepped toward the trunk and placed his hand on it, as if reliving a memory, and grinned. “I learned the fine art of gambling in this very spot. I owe all my success to John Woods, you know. He always had licorice, and we would gamble for that instead of money.”
He stepped away from the trunk, looked at the ground, and nudged a rock away with the toe of his boot.
“What are you doing?” she asked, confused by his odd action.
He lifted his head. “Every year the students would bury a box around here. I was just looking for the signs.”
“Ah yes”—Ella smiled at the memory—“the boxes. On the last full moon before the winter solstice.”
“What?” He jerked up his head. “How do you know that?”
“This area is not so isolated as you think. Just look at the house. We could see every gathering, just like anyone can see us now. I watched every year from the window. Do you really think my father would let a bunch of boys sneak out at night without him knowing?”
“It was meant to be a secret ceremony.” Mr. Rowe chuckled. “We thought we were so clever.”
“That’s the point, I suppose. There is something important to be said for traditions.”
“There?” He suddenly changed positions and pointed to Keatley Cottage—a distant small brownstone house that mimicked Keatley Hall in its design. “Is that where the girls school will be?”
She followed his gaze across the meadow, and her heart ached at the sight and for all that it symbolized. “Yes. That’s it.”
“That’s marvelous. You must be excited.”
She nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll be leading an excursion there. We hope that if the members see the school grounds and learn more about the plans, enthusiasm will grow. A great deal depends upon the Society members buying into the idea.”
“I’ve no doubt they’ll see your passion for it. I know it was your mother’s dream, but if you are to lead it, then I also hope it is yours.”
His words resonated. Yes. That was what she wanted.
Wasn’t it?
She looked back to Keatley Hall. Even from this distance, she spied Phoebe staring at her, and the reality of her situation rushed her. “We should probably return.”
“Yes. I think Mr. Abernathy is jealous.”
At this she laughed—a genuine laugh.
How good it felt.
As their laughter faded and they turned back toward the house, his countenance sobered. “Before we return, please allow me to say one thing. It’s not the house or the school. It is what your mother instilled in you. If you take away Keatley Hall, you will lose something important to you, but you would not lose who you are.”
His words challenged one of her deepest fears: that she was nothing without Keatley Hall and without her family’s legacy. They walked back through the garden in silence—mostly because Ella did not trust herself to speak.
