Legacy of Secrets. Sara Mitchell

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