Henry tossed the newspaper aside and rang for his valet. The urge to leave Stokeford Manor and return to Canterbury swelled inside him. He couldn’t abide staying in a house with his mother or Hobsworth, for that matter, a second longer.
A knock sounded at his door. “Come in, Jamison. No need to knock; I rang for you.”
The door opened, and Hobsworth stepped into Henry’s bedchamber.
“What is it?” Henry snapped.
“I’ve come to apologize.” Hobsworth’s plump cheeks reddened, and Henry’s heart softened. He’d always liked Hobsworth for his humility. He was the unintended heir to an earldom and lacked the hubris Henry despised.
“You rang for me, sir?” Jamison appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, I’ll need you to pack my trunk. I intend to return home today.”
“Today, sir?”
“Yes, as soon as possible.” He glanced at Hobsworth.
“You don’t have to leave, Henry.”
Henry slipped his hands into his pockets. “My sudden departure is not to escape you, but my mother.”
“I don’t mean to judge you or take Craventhorp’s side over yours,” Hobsworth said, apparently not believing Henry’s declaration. “Heaven knows I don’t even like the man, but I worry when you speak so freely about him.”
“Why are you afraid of him, Hobs? He’s a bankrupt viscount with nothing but a run-down estate to inherit. Whereas you are an earl-in-waiting, with a fortune to inherit.”
“I’m not afraid of him but would not make him my enemy as you have done. And if you accuse him of murder—” he shook his head—“well, you cannot do so without solid proof.” Hobsworth folded his arms. “Go back to Canterbury and forget this business. I fear, if you do not, it will not bode well for you.”
*
The room emptiedaround Annabel, yet she could not force herself up from her desk. Sadness overwhelmed her as she closed her composition book. It was likely the last time she’d sit in this classroom or be asked, as she had today, to write down her impressions of a book she’d read. Annabel had so many thoughts about the books she loved that it had been difficult to choose just one. She could hardly believe that anyone was excited to know she loved reading or cared about her ideas.
“Mrs. Crawford?” The headmistress stood next to her desk. “It seems as though you had a lot to write about today. Did you enjoy the exercise?”
“Very much,” Annabel said.
“What book did you choose to write about?”
Annabel pressed her lips together. What if the headmistress didn’t approve of her choice or thought her remarks ridiculous?
Headmistress Thomas grabbed hold of a chair, placed it next to Annabel’s desk, and sat down. “You were free to choose any book you liked. I shan’t judge your choice.”
“It’s not a new book.” She glanced at the headmistress.
“Some of the best books are old books. You need only think of Shakespeare.”
“This book isn’t as well-known as Shakespeare’s plays, I’m afraid.”
“May I?” The headmistress asked, reaching for Annabel’s composition book.
Annabel nodded; her throat too dry to answer with words.
“Aah,The Female Quixoteby Charlotte Lennox—one of my favorite novels.”
“Truly?” Annabel straightened.
“Absolutely! But let’s not talk about what I think, just yet. Tell me why you chose to write about it.”
Annabel wet her lips. “You’ve heard of Don Quixote, I suppose.”
