Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  A pile of books tumbled into her outstretched hands, the dust causing her to sneeze.

  “I don’t know why I ever kept these books. It’s not like my poor Henry is going to return.”

  No. Sorrow panged. Poor Mrs. Cherry. Her nurse may have retired when Verity went away to school, but it wasn’t to a life of leisure. The intervening years had been anything but kind, with a husband who immediately took ill and required expensive cures and extensive care that had stolen time and energy from Mrs. Cherry, and obliged the once house-proud older lady to live in a state of teetering mess. His death two weeks ago had released her to an honesty Cecy was relieved to see, and even gladder to assist in, though such endeavors would remain a secret from her mother, who would be sure to wring her hands in horror at the thought of her daughter participating in such menial tasks.

  But it was simply wrong to let the woman who had cared for her as a child—who always had a kindly word to say when such things had seemed few and far between—to be left to the impersonal efforts of servants. She rather doubted Mrs. Cherry’s pride would allow people she had once considered beneath her to see how she lived nowadays. But for some reason she did not seem to mind Cecy being here, perhaps because of a sense of twisted obligation to the Aynsley family that refused her to say no when a daughter of the house insisted. Regardless, Cecy was glad to offer her assistance, limited though it may be.

  Now if only she could order her mind and emotions the way she hoped to bring order to this cottage.

  “Ah, Edward. Good of you to join us.”

  Ned greeted his father, then nodded to his brother, who instantly returned his attention to his breakfast. Although at this time of day it should probably be called an early luncheon. After selecting his meal from the dishes on the sideboard, Ned sank into the seat opposite his brother, at the left hand of his father.

  His father and brother exchanged quiet conversation about various estate matters for some time, leaving Ned free to concentrate on his repast, until a pause in conversation led him to look up to meet his father’s perusal.

  “How is Franklin Park these days?”

  His inheritance. The one he hadn’t squandered. “I was there last week; it looks to have withstood the recent rains.”

  His father grunted. “You may want to check the upper corner near the master bedchamber. I seem to recall the roof leaking at one stage.”

  “I made a point of it. The repairs appear to have done their job.”

  “Good, good.”

  “I still don’t understand why you stay here and not there,” his brother muttered.

  Ned ignored him. He suspected John well knew their mother was not prepared for her younger child to leave the family home. His previous foray into independence had not gone well at all. Guilt wrenched within. Heavenly Father, forgive me …

  “Any plans today?”

  He swallowed his mouthful of eggs. “I thought I might head into the village.” Ned met his brother’s sardonic look. Gulped down the defensive retort. Just because he was not the heir and had few estate responsibilities did not mean his time would be entirely wasted. During his prayer time this morning he’d felt a prompting to pray for some of the estate’s former employees, prayers that had firmed into the desire to visit said employees, and so he planned to go as soon as he finished his meal.

  “I was pleased to see you dancing with the Hatherleigh girl.”

  Ned looked up from his plate to meet his father’s gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Hatherleigh girl. Cecilia, isn’t it? Something Shakespearean anyway.”

  “I believe there was a Celia in As You Like It.”

  “Regardless, she seems a pleasant kind of girl, if a trifle shy at times.”

  Ned chose not to respond, instead concentrating on his food.

  “Perhaps her looks are improved by her dowry,” John said in an undertone.

  “You need not be so crass, my boy,” Father said, frowning at John. “Truth be told, I think you would do well to cultivate that acquaintanceship, seeing as you will inherit the estate and it cannot hurt to see the two estates merge. Edward isn’t the only one who would benefit from marrying someone well dowered.”

  John flushed, but said nothing, although his glance across the table was eloquent enough.

  “You know I cannot wait around forever for you two to marry and beget heirs.” Father glanced at Ned. “And now with both of you returned to me …”

  Ned swallowed. Father might as well call him the prodigal son and be done with it. Heaven knew John did it enough. He would never be able to make it up to his father for all the worry he had put him and Mother to last year. As if in memory, his shoulder panged.

  John cleared his throat. “Father, such talk is a mite precipitous. You will be with us for many more years.”

  “Ah, but we cannot be sure where life will take us.”

  Guilt bit again.

  “It was good to see Bevington yesterday. I had a brief chat with him and he seems to have settled into the earldom very well.” Father shook his head. “I find it hard to believe his father was only a year or so older than me. Such a tragedy.”

  “It is good he seems to be doing well.” Ned had enjoyed the previous day’s conversation with the Earl of Bevington, whom he had first met on his ill-fated visit to London last year. Both times, he and his wife had proved to be kinder than was warranted, or, he suspected, than they had felt obliged to own.

  “There is a young man who knows what is owed his family name. I can only hope his example will motivate my sons to do the same.” Father sighed, although the twinkle lurking in his eye belied his pose.

  “You are terribly hard done by,” John retorted, affection lining his features.

  A strain of gladness filtered through Ned’s heart. The warmth he remembered existing in his family was not completely gone, even if his brother struggled to show Ned any grace. But perhaps that was just another challenge for him to face, to forgive his brother seventy times seven for the slights and offenses that constituted their daily interactions. Perhaps forbearance in this might bring God to overlook Ned’s failings in other matters, including the stain John would never let him forget.

  THE RIDE to the small village of Aynsley was pleasant, the June temperatures mild and the day sunny. Preparations for the midsummer revelries seemed well underway, the structures of sticks and branches readying to form a large pyre for the morrow. Unlike some landholders, Father was not too precious about such festivities, preferring to focus on the Christian aspects of such events, like the fact that tomorrow celebrated St. John’s birth, rather than be concerned about any pagan elements.

  He drew his horse up at the cottage of one of Father’s retainers, the elderly woman he believed God had placed on his heart this morning. Cherry was a dear, having been a part of the family until he had been sent away to school. He tethered Mercury and was walking up the flower-lined garden when a loud crash came from within.

  A cry hastened his steps to the partially open door. “Cherry?”

  But no elderly retainer faced him. Rather, the woman sitting amongst a pile of scattered books held a decidedly mutinous tilt to her mouth, and a flash to her eyes that suggested his father’s earlier comments would forever be in vain.

  He rushed forward, extending his hand. “Miss Cec—I mean, Miss Hatherleigh!” Her sister’s marriage meant he should get used to her new appellation. “Are you injured?”

  She allowed him to pull her to her feet, and commenced dusting off her skirts, her eyes avoiding his. “Thank you, I am unhurt.”

  “I’m so sorry,” twittered Mrs. Cherry. “I did not know the stool was broken.”

  “Now you do,” murmured his neighbor, with a rueful twist to her lips and a subtle rubbing of her hip.

  “Miss Hatherleigh,” he said, crouching to gather the spilled books, “what are you doing here?”

  She murmured something he could not quite hear, her gaze still averted.

 
“I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, I should think that is obvious.”

  He sat back on his heels, peering up at her. She appeared disgruntled with him, although the smile she offered now held a note of apology. Still, those were hardly the words of an enamored girl. John was obviously quite mistaken.

  “Miss Cecilia visited for my birthday, and then decided to stay to help me.”

  It was Cherry’s birthday? “Many happy returns.” He pushed to his feet and gave his nurse a kiss on the cheek. “You surprise me by wishing to spend your special day on such activities.”

  “The cottage won’t get sorted by itself,” Miss Cecilia muttered.

  He peered at her, she glanced away. “And so you are helping Mrs. Cherry.”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid.” She lifted a hand to her forehead, streaking dirty smudges across her face.

  He bit his lip. Would she want to know she was dust-smeared? Or would that give her even greater reason to despise him? For, despite what his brother apparently believed, he could not think a young lady unwilling to meet his gaze terribly taken with him.

  “Oh, Miss Cecilia, now you’ve got a big dirty mark on your face.”

  He saw the pink lips compress, the way she averted her face as if to escape his attention and drew out a handkerchief and swiped at her face, so he turned and picked up the remaining books strewn across the floor. “Where do these need to go, Cherry?”

  “Oh, down there.” She fluttered an agitated hand towards the small bedchamber. “Miss Cecilia has been an angel, but I really think heavy things would be better carried by a man. Would you not agree?”

  “Of course,” he said politely, just as Miss Cecy’s voice murmured faint protest. He glanced at her, and she finally met his gaze, her dark blue eyes sparkling with indignation.

  “I am not weak.” She tilted her chin.

  “I do not think you are. But I do not think such an activity suitable for a gently reared young lady.”

  Her lips flattened into a line but she only turned to the older lady, leaving him free to deposit the books on a small table in the front room. When he returned, it was to find her clearing the dining table of a mass of papers, the former nurse now ensconced in the kitchen.

  “Miss Cecilia, you are good-hearted indeed to assist Mrs. Cherry in these endeavors.”

  “I do not do it for your approval, sir.”

  “I did not think you did.” Her gaze remained averted. “May I ask why it is you are doing it, and why a servant does not?”

  “Mrs. Cherry can barely afford a servant, and feels enough obligation as it is. I could not—will not—allow her to live in such conditions when with a little effort I can help her.”

  “But your parents must not approve.”

  She moved away, carefully wiping down the ornaments atop the mantelpiece with a thin rag.

  “Surely you cannot have told them what you are about. Really, Miss Cecilia, I must insist—”

  “You have no right to insist on any of my actions.”

  How could John have thought she admired Ned? Where had this hostility come from? An image of the previous night wavered before him. Oh. Of course. If she had overheard his less-than-stellar appraisal, then it was no wonder she had little inclination for conversation now.

  “Miss Cecilia—” He waited until she finally met his gaze. “I am sorry if you heard my comments to my brother last night, and if they in any way upset or offended you. That certainly was not my intention.”

  “I … I don’t know what you mean.” But her flushed cheeks suggested otherwise.

  “Please forgive me.”

  She murmured something inaudible, forcing him to ask her to repeat her words.

  Still she seemed reluctant. “Please?”

  Finally, she sighed and murmured, “It always strikes me as amusing that a young man thinks his actions so crucial to the pivoting of the world.”

  “I don’t think myself like that, I assure—”

  “My actions have nothing to do with you, and everything to do with helping poor Mrs. Cherry. Had I in fact known you intended to be here, then I would have ensured I stayed away.”

  He smothered a smile even as he wondered whether it was the longest speech he’d ever heard her give. So, her actions had nothing to do with him? He responded humbly, “I am sorry you find my presence distasteful. I will leave now, if you wish.”

  Her eyes finally lifted to his, dark blue, smudged with disillusion.

  “Children?” Cherry waddled back into the room. “Do I hear the sound of bickering?” She chuckled. “Oh, how that reminds me of years ago, when you, Master Edward, and your brother would squabble like a pair of cats.” She nodded, glancing at Miss Cecy. “Such a pair they were, almost as bad as young Verity and Miss Caroline.”

  Now her attention returned to him. “Miss Cecilia here has never been one for arguing, so it would seem you have some apologizing to do, sir.”

  He bit back another smile, and, turning to the younger lady, whose face now wore no trace of the accident from before, said, “I am sorry if my words or actions have given you a disgust of me.”

  “Oh, but …” Teeth pressed against the plumpness of her bottom lip.

  “Truly. Can we cry friends?” He held out a hand.

  For what seemed an interminably long time she studied his hand before finally nodding. “Very well,” she whispered, and took his hand in the gentlest of handshakes.

  “Thank you.”

  But her continued avoidance of his eyes put paid to any notion of her possessing warmer feelings towards him. For really, talk of Miss Cecilia holding anything akin to affection for him in her heart was simply ridiculous. One would have to be a fool to think otherwise.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HOW I WISH I might be freed from this attraction …

  Cecy paused her diary entry, thinking on the strange time two days ago at Mrs. Cherry’s, which had concluded with Ned extracting a promise from Cecy to not tackle such a thing again. “I would hate for you to be injured, and I’m sure that would be difficult to hide from your mother.” His eyes had glinted. “And—forgive me if I’m wrong—but I suspect your mother would not look too favorably on this task.”

  “And I suspect your mother would not look favorably on knowing you were holding me to such a promise. It might even be considered blackmail, might it not?”

  He’d had the grace to flush. Before chuckling and shaking his head. “You surprise me, Miss Hatherleigh.”

  But was that in a good way? She could not tell. She was as surprised as he seemed to be by some of the things coming from her mouth, using her words as a desperate kind of shield. Almost like the heroines of those Gothic romances she liked to devour, willing to court danger, daring to seek adventure. Even if the danger and adventure only consisted of helping a former servant tidy her cottage, at risk of Mama’s displeasure.

  Her spirits sank. Really, she could not afford to incur further displeasure from Mama. Her mother had already wondered aloud how a visit to Mrs. Cherry had returned Cecy in a state of dusty disrepair. Cecy could only imagine how much more she’d be incensed by the knowledge Ned had been there. Her lips tightened. She had tried to stifle the attraction, to not look at him, to not speak with him above what was necessary. But it seemed he paid no attention, causing her fingers to tingle as he helped her stand, her heart to skip when he smiled, and gratitude to bloom at his thoughtfulness as he helped organize poor Mrs. Cherry’s home. Then when he had asked to cry friends …

  Oh, if only she could simply be his friend! Lord, help me to not want more. Her prayer rose, fell.

  She sighed and looked up from her writing table. Through the bedchamber window, beyond the woods, she spied a plume of smoke curling from the village. Yesterday had been quarter day; last night had seen the commencement of the festival of midsummer. The village had been abuzz for days, the staff excited also. Quarter day saw many of the servants enjoy a few hours off, some of whom would have spen
t their time—and their money—on the village merriments. She had never gone, had never had any interest in seeing locals act in ways that might give rise to disgust, as Mother said such activities were prone to do. But still, some part of her could not help wonder …

  A carriage trundling up the path soon gave notice of its occupants. Her heart sank a little. Mother was none too fond of Lady Heathcote, but as they were neighbors it would never do to cut the connection completely. But perhaps if she could hide away in her room she could avoid—

  A knock at her chamber door.

  “Wait a moment!” Her dash to hide her writing materials nearly toppled the ink pot. Really, she should request a proper desk set. Perhaps if she dropped a hint for her birthday … “Come in.”

  The door opened and a footman cleared his throat. “Excuse me, miss, but her ladyship requires your attendance downstairs.”

  Cecy nodded, unsurprised at the request, although a little by the wording. Mother’s request suggested that perhaps Cecy wasn’t the only one requiring a bolstering of confidence. How extraordinarily strange for Cecy to be the one offering anyone any form of confidence. Did not everyone always assume she was the shy one?

  After taking a moment to check then smooth her hair, she descended the stairs and entered the room, lowered into the seat Mother gestured to, and picked up her embroidery to await their guests. A minute later the door opened, and Lady Heathcote sailed in, trailed by her son, Stephen.

  Cecy offered a polite smile and greeting before bending her head to her stitchery again, stitchery that never would be finished, seeing as its chief purpose was to remain in this room for moments like this.

  “Ah, dear Lady Aynsley,” Lady Heathcote oozed with overfamiliarity. “I simply had to come and congratulate you on such a wonderful occasion. The wedding, the ball, everything was simply marvelous.”

  “Thank you.” Mother accepted the praise with not a little complacency. “We were all very pleased with how things went off.”