The Headmistress of Rosemere Read Online Free PDF Page A

brighter, called louder. He was a gambling man, was he not? One not easily intimidated by loss or ruin. The higher the stakes, the higher his interest and the more he invested. He would right past wrongs and restore Eastmore Hall to its former glory, or he would accept his demise. He needed time. Three months. Until Captain Rafertee returned .
    And a little bit of good fortune would hurt none.

    The morning dawned gray and contrary. A quick glance through the latticed panes of Patience’s bedchamber window confirmed that a generous dusting of snow covered the grounds of Rosemere, and by the look of the low-hanging clouds and wispy fog, more might be looming.
    Within the school’s stone walls, the sleeping house was springing to life. An hour or so had passed since their early-morning visitor’s departure. The scents of strong coffee, hot chocolate, and baking bread filled the corridors, and the excited chatter of girls going about their morning routines resounded.
    If she pressed her eyes shut, Patience could imagine that things were as they had always been, back when her father was living. But try as she might, the simple act of closing her eyes and pretending did not change the fact that her father was gone.
    Or that her mother could not cope with the loss of him.
    Or that her brother had deserted them when she needed his help the most.
    As Mary helped her dress in a somber gray mourning gown, similar to the ones she had worn every day since her father died, Patience contemplated the mysterious visit from Mr. William Sterling. The tales she had heard of him, passed on in hushed tones in the village, rang rich with mystery and extravagance. But the man who’d lain in George’s bed that morning was hardly the man embodied in those stories. He’d seemed rough. Harsh.
    Maybe even dangerous.
    And yet . . . intriguing.
    The memory of that bold expression in his ice-blue eyes refused to leave her alone. Perhaps it was the lure of things unknown. Of things beyond the walls of Rosemere. Of a world—a life—she would never know or understand. Or simply the thrill of possible romance.
    Patience looked out the window and glanced down at the snow drifts that hugged the skeletons of rose bushes and shrubs. Had he made it home to Eastmore? Had he but stayed at Rosemere as she’d prompted, he’d be safe and warm. But then she’d likely have had another predicament, for how would she keep even one of her twenty-nine charges from discovering his presence?
    She determined to think of it no more. What was done was done, and as soon as she stepped down those stairs, she would not have a moment of solitude until night once again fell on the moors.
    She would have it no other way.
    Patience sent Mary on her way to finish preparing breakfast for the girls, fastened her father’s pocket watch on a chain about her neck, and tucked a stray ebony lock of hair beneath her ivory comb before stepping into the corridor. After securing her door, she stepped across the way to her mother’s. She hesitated beforeplacing her hand on the door’s brass handle. Truth be told, she would need more energy to face her mother than she needed for all the pupils waiting below.
    Every morning was the same. She’d greet her mother with all the enthusiasm she could muster, but she never knew what to expect. Some days were better than others, and Patience allowed herself on those days to hope that perhaps her mother’s zest for life was returning. But then there were the other days, when grieving tears robbed her mother of speech, and she could barely rise from her bed.
    Patience forced a smile to her face, brightness to her eyes, and tapped on the door. “Mother?”
    She waited. No response came.
    “Mother, are you awake?”
    Still silence.
    Patience turned the handle and stepped inside Margaret Creighton’s dark room. Light filtered through the drawn curtains, barely bright enough to illuminate her mother’s figure still abed.
    Patience sighed.