Читать книгу Legacy of Secrets - Sara Mitchell - Страница 12

Isabella Chilton Academy for Single Females

April 1890

Drizzling rain accompanied a week of demanding examinations, but winter session at the Isabella Chilton Academy was finally over. Along with academic and home-management courses, graduates from the Academy were educated in every facet of etiquette and social skills in order to survive a world where a woman’s role was no longer as rigidly defined. Since 1866, when Miss Isabella had converted her husband’s family estate into a school in order to save it from Yankee carpetbaggers, every student who completed the four-year curriculum acquired either a husband or gainful employment with which to support themselves.

“God’s design from the beginning was for marriage between a man and a woman,” Miss Isabella liked to remind the students. “Regrettably, the world seldom chooses to abide by God’s design.”

Neala had spent the better part of the past year learning that painful lesson.

As was the custom, on the first day the capricious April weather cooperated, Miss Isabella treated students to a day trip. Today the destination was a shopping-and-luncheon trip to Berryville, which spawned a giddy atmosphere among all the women except Neala.

Restless, a trifle pensive, Neala had elected to stay behind to assist Miss Crabbe with school paperwork. An Academy fixture for years, Eulalie Crabbe was an excellent secretary, but the high-strung spinster could handle no more than two tasks at any given moment. “But it’s not just the paperwork,” Neala explained to Abigail Schaffer, one of her new friends at the Academy. “I, well, I need to take a long walk this afternoon. To think about…things.”

“I understand.” Abby gave a smile that belied the wistful tone.

“Why can’t you help Miss Crabbe tomorrow?” Nan Sweeney interrupted from behind Abby. “You told me last week you were hoping to finally purchase a new ready-made wrapper, to replace the dress you ruined in the harness-room fire.”

Would anyone ever forget that wretched imbroglio? It had happened over five months ago! All right, she could have perished—but if she hadn’t tried to put out a fire she was responsible for starting, she would never have been able to look in a mirror again.

Violet Gleason, a farm girl standing next to Nan, chimed in, “Please do come. It won’t be the same without you, Neala…”

“All right, my dears. Her decision’s made, and I concur.”

With the brisk kindness for which she was famous, the headmistress silenced the rest of the protests with a commanding wave of a gloved hand. Liam Brody, the school’s coachman and stableman, handed the women into the coach, then shut the door with such haste he caught the ribboned hem of someone’s gown. Muttering what no doubt were Gaelic imprecations, he rectified the mistake, jammed his top hat farther down over his forehead and swung up into the driver’s seat.

Neala and Miss Isabella shared a smile. “Don’t let Eulalie keep you past two,” the headmistress ordered. She pressed her plump heliotrope-scented cheek against Neala’s. “And don’t forget to carry your whistle when you go for your walk. Mr. Pepperell is planting tomatoes this afternoon. I’ve told him to keep an ear out.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” The older woman idly stroked the side of her nose. “You haven’t yet learned your limitations, have you?” A faint frown appeared between her eyes. “Don’t let the new girls pester you so you miss your walk.”

“They’re never a bother,” Neala murmured. “If I can help them know they’re not alone, it’s the least I can do.”

“We all help one another here, it’s true. But you are neither their mother, nor headmistress of the Isabella Chilton Academy. My students must also learn how to embrace solitude, and endure loneliness.”

Heat crept up Neala’s cheeks. “I just want to be a friend.”

Miss Isabella’s face softened. “Ah, Neala. My dear, I do understand. You are indeed a very good friend, to all of us. Even when you’re trying to shoulder more than your share.” She smoothed the row of ruffles on her basque. “While you go for that walk, remember that you do have a home here. People who care about you—simply because you’re you. Think about that as well, hmm?”

At a little past four o’clock, Neala headed toward the thick forest that screened the Academy from fierce northwestern winds. Today, however, the wind was light, playful; spring bloomed in all its flagrant abandon. Neala loved this season of new birth, with the scents and colors of restored life bursting forth from the earth, reminding all mourners that death was never final.

Some time later she reached the sunlit glade she’d designated her forest chapel. Most of the students found hideaways like this, somewhere on the vast grounds where they could escape for a sip of solitude. Few of them…All right, only Neala and the mysterious widow Tremayne ventured this far into the woods. What was her name? Josephine? No—Jocelyn. Jocelyn Tremayne. Several times Neala had invited Jocelyn to join her. Though polite, the widow always refused, saying she needed time to adjust to her new life. If Neala pleaded, Abby occasionally joined her for a hike down to the river. But Abby preferred to spend most of her spare time in the stables, because she loved horses, so Neala tried hard not to be the infernal nag her brother considered her.

She kicked an acorn, then sighed, allowing the tranquil surroundings to purify her restless spirit. She hadn’t yet grasped the notion of embracing lifelong solitude, but these walks seemed to help.

She would have made a wonderful explorer, like Lewis and Clark. Or perhaps an Indian. Yes, definitely an Indian squaw with beautiful long black hair. Long, straight hair worn in easy-to-manage braids. Not an infuriating head full of wispy brown curls that refused to obey hairpins no matter how firmly attached.

An hour later, pleasantly winded, mostly at peace, Neala started back for the school. She was humming a hymn whose words she had forgotten, absently stroking tree trunks as she wound her way back along the faint path her footsteps had created over the past ten months, when the resounding crack of a rifle shot rent the twilight silence.

Simultaneously the bark of the white pine inches from her face exploded outward. Neala leaped back, hands flying to cover her eyes even as realization slammed into her with the same force as the bullet struck the tree.

Some stupid hunter had almost killed her, thinking she was an animal.

She ducked behind the pine even as another bullet zinged past a mere two feet behind her. How stupid of her, to have worn dark mourning clothes for her walk, which made her far more difficult to distinguish from a deer or some other large animal. Neala scanned the direction from which the shot had been fired, but she could detect no sign of movement. She cupped her hands on either side of her mouth to create a makeshift megaphone like a ringmaster at Barnum & Bailey Circus.

“Don’t shoot again!” she yelled. “I’m a person, not your supper!” Then, after two seconds of thrumming silence, she added, “And this is private property! One more shot, and I’ll see that you’re the one being hunted!”

A massive oak with two joined trunks offered more protection than the pine. Neala gathered up her skirts, hunched her shoulders and darted behind a thicket of mountain laurel, then raced for the oak’s protection. She hunkered down, frustrated and angry because the oaf out there had spoiled the atmosphere.

Cautiously she peered around the tree. A hand’s width from her nose, leaves and dirt exploded almost simultaneously with the echoing crack of a third shot. Stupid, careless hunter, she thought, a lump forming in her throat. If Adrian were here…

Impatient with herself, Neala smacked a fist against her palm. Right now she needed to extricate herself from a potentially dangerous situation, not wallow in maudlin longings. And if she didn’t put in an appearance within two minutes of the coach’s return, someone—probably an irate Liam—would set out to search for her. If the hunter were still in the vicinity, he might accidentally shoot Liam as well. What a wretched dilemma!

“Did you hear me?” she yelled again.

There was no response. For several vexing moments Neala sat, her mind searching furiously for a solution. Only when she crossed her arms did she remember the whistle dangling around her neck. All students, regardless of the length of time, were required to carry a whistle with them if they were out of sight of the main house. Neala Shaw, you have nothing but a mess of day-old oatmeal for brains.

Shaking her head, she lifted the whistle to her lips and blew.

Gray lay sprawled under one of the trees planted years earlier by new students, a charming if somewhat mawkish custom, to his way of thinking. Hands folded to pillow his head, eyes half-closed, he could almost hear Aunt Bella’s crisp denouncement of such cynicism. From her perspective the trees were planted so newly orphaned students would have something to nurture, something they could claim, at a place she wanted them to regard as home.

Home.

Gray rolled and sat up, fighting the ever-present discontent with his life. Nothing assuaged the malaise, not women nor drink nor even a couple of shooting competitions where he’d reaped adulation and medals for pretending every shot he fired was aimed at Kevin Hackbone’s heart. Sumner—no, it was not Sumner anymore. Now his only refuge from a stifling lifestyle was a school for females. Life was full of bitter irony.

Gray shuddered.

Why did Aunt Bella have to pick this particular day to hare off to Berryville?

He’d arrived an hour earlier, eager for a much-needed visit with the only female left on earth whose presence he could tolerate longer than twenty-four hours. Growing up, Gray spent miserable hours wishing Isabella was his mother, instead of the sweet but overprotective woman who refused to let Gray become a man. Even now, on his visits home, she treated him as though he were a perpetual three-year-old toddler. At fifteen, he finally rebelled and ran. Aunt Bella was the only family member with whom he’d stayed in touch. Understanding soul that she was, she’d waited out a year; when he turned sixteen she calmly told him to take his sorry carcass back home and mend fences, or she’d write his mother herself. And send Gray’s two older brothers to fetch him.

A smile tweaked the corner of his mouth, remembering that first reunion. Aunt Bella had been spot on, of course.

He flicked open his watch, to discover only seven minutes had passed since he checked the time. Swearing beneath his breath, Gray stood up, scanned the winding drive again. It was going on five, dusk not far away. Why weren’t they back home? He needed to talk, needed to hear her advice, soak up the love offered without chains.

When he heard the faint but piercing sound of a whistle, he whipped around, hand automatically going to the butt of his gun. Across the lawn, Mr. Pepperell had also straightened. He dropped his tools, his head swiveling back and forth as he, too, scanned the estate’s southern woods. Gray loped over.

“What is it? Who’s ruining the peace and quiet by blowing a blasted whistle?”

“I—oh, my, it most likely is Miss Shaw. She told me she was going for a walk.” He paused to wipe a shaking hand across his brow. “I don’t know precisely what—that is to say, I hadn’t expected…”

“Why is she blowing a whistle?”

The gardener swallowed several times, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Instead of a dapper gentleman politely sharing botanical tidbits, now he resembled an old man on the verge of collapse. “Distress.” He peered dazedly up at Gray. “It’s to be used only as a call for help. A—a safety measure, if you will. All students wear one when out of sight of the main house. They’re most of them young women from towns and farms, not used to the country.”

Clumsily he began untying his gardener’s apron. “I must go. I’m the only one—”

“No, you’re not,” Gray interrupted. “I’ll go see what the problem is. You stay here, alert the household to be prepared with bandages or whatever might be required.”

Ignoring the gardener’s halfhearted protests, he took off at a run in the general location of the last whistle call. When he reached the woods he paused, rapidly searched and discovered a path of sorts. Good. Jaw set, Gray plunged into the shadowed forest.