A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  But Mrs. Trent’s nephew, the future heir to Willowgrove Hall, was another situation altogether. He was a silly man, full of unrealistic plans for the future of the estate, and he would no doubt have words. Nathaniel tugged his neckcloth. “I had a conversation with him last autumn about having the engineer out to assess the sluice when we first began having trouble with it, but he thought the expense unnecessary.”

  “He was a foolish boy, and he has grown to be a foolish man.” Silas sniffed. “Mrs. Trent’s not long for the earth, and then we will deal with him every day of our lives.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.” Nathaniel skimmed the horizon. “I’d say he will be here a few months out of the year and spend the majority of his time elsewhere. Mr. Trent might have preferred to have a hand in the day-by-day happenings at Willowgrove, but I daresay his replacement will have naught to do with it. At least such an arrangement will leave us to go about our business in peace.”

  “Days of peace are over, lad. Everything is changing.” Silas adjusted his footing on the wet carpet beneath him. “’Tis a shame. All this hard work. And it could have ended so differently.”

  Nathaniel caught the look Silas flung in his direction before he turned to survey the land. As if intercepting Nathaniel’s thoughts, Silas slapped him on the shoulder. “I am sure you will figure it out, lad. I will tend my gardens. You see to the rest.”

  Nathaniel could not resist one last question. “What do you think my father would have done in this instance?”

  Silas huffed. “Which one?”

  Nathaniel stiffened at the reference, for Silas had struck on the truth that he’d kept hidden from the world. Only four living souls knew the truth, and Nathaniel needed to keep it that way. Silas was a trusted man, but referring to it in such a lighthearted manner irked Nathaniel, especially when the weight of responsibility already pressed upon him.

  Silas’s withered face fell when Nathaniel did not join him in a chuckle. “My apologies. Did not mean to offend.”

  “You did not offend me,” Nathaniel said, propping his foot on a nearby stump and then leaning on his knee and staring off to the distance. “Truths are truths.”

  “Most men only have one father. You were blessed with two.”

  Nathaniel grunted. He rarely spoke of this matter with anyone. “Blessed? I cannot see how.” Nathaniel straightened. Silas was getting too close.

  As if sensing Nathaniel’s discomfort, Silas cleared his throat and returned to the topic at hand. “As for what your father, old Mr. Stanton, would have done, it is simple to say. He would have done what was best by those who depended upon him. And that is the farmers whose livelihoods rest on the grounds they tend. He would have fought to get the sluice fixed posthaste and do whatever necessary to see such an event did not repeat itself.”

  Nathaniel drew and held a deep breath. Silas was right. Nathaniel, and his father before him, were stewards, but without a separate land steward or bailiff to oversee the relationships with the tenants, the responsibilities of managing the house and the tenants fell to him. It was the part of his occupation that he found the most satisfying, but at times, seeing to the needs of the tenants could put him at odds with the mistress of the estate. He released his breath. “Well, there is nothing we can do by staring at this. We had best get to work.”

  Thunder growled, and Silas turned his pale eyes heavenward. “Don’t think you’ll make much progress ’til tomorrow.”

  Never one to back down from a challenge, Nathaniel scratched his puppy’s ear again and turned to take the path back down Grange Peak. “Well, we’ll not get anything done if we do not get started now.”

  And with that, he strode back down the hill.

  Cecily gasped as the coachman tossed her trunk to the ground from atop the carriage.

  “Do be careful!” she shouted, struggling to be heard above the howling winds and rustling branches.

  But her words were carried away with the gusts, and her trunk fell to the soggy ground below with a thud, splashing up mud and bits of earth. She shrieked when the brass latch popped open, spilling two of her clean dresses onto the waterlogged road. She scrambled to save them from the puddle and as she did, hot tears blinded her eyes.

  No, no, no!

  The entire day of traveling from Rosemere to Willowgrove had been uncomfortable at best, and now, after hours of traveling on rutted roads, Cecily’s nerves were as raw as the bitter spring wind.

  She attempted to latch the trunk, but the leather strap had torn away from the side.

  She looked up at the coachman, expecting assistance of some sort, but the driver adjusted his flapping, caped greatcoat, climbed back to his perch, and gathered the reins in his thick, gloved hands.

  “Where are you going?” Cecily demanded, straightening her posture. “How am I supposed to get to Willowgrove Hall?”

  The driver nodded his head toward a gate. “Willowgrove Hall is through that gate, down the lane, and you will curve through the woods. From there you will not be able to miss it.”

  She frowned as she assessed the gate he referred to. Beyond it, the dark, twisting road curved into a forest thick with a shifting evening fog.

  She was not about to step a single foot into such a place.

  Around her, rain started to fall in fine, misty waves. Cecily shielded her eyes and looked back up at the driver. “Then you must take me there.”

  “’Tis not possible. Bridge is washed away. I’d never get the horses through.”

  “What do you mean the bridge is washed away?” she asked, almost laughing at the ridiculous statement. “Then how am I to get across?”

  The driver jerked the reins in apparent frustration and adjusted his collar.

  When he did not respond, Cecily continued, “Well, surely there is another entrance. This cannot be the only one.”

  “This is not a private carriage, miss, and we have already gone off our main route. We’re late as it is.”

  Cecily’s chin began to quiver. Now was not the time to be demure. She was expected at Willowgrove Hall, and she needed to find a way to get there. In her most authoritative voice, she said, “This is not acceptable. I insist that you take me on to Willowgrove Hall immediately.”

  “Hear me.” The driver spoke to her as an adult correcting a child. “That bridge is gone. I’m not about to take my horses for a swim. Now, either I can take you into Wiltonshire for the night, or you can walk on to Willowgrove Hall yourself. Makes little difference to me.”

  Cecily hesitated. Her money was limited. It would hardly be prudent to pay for a night’s lodging. For what if she needed the money another time? She did not have time to give it another thought, for within the span of time it took for her to consider her response, the carriage groaned into motion. She looked up to see the driver flicking the reins on the horses’ wet backs.

  “Wait!” she cried. She tried to run after them, but the clingy folds of her skirt tangled around her legs, making it impossible to take another step without falling face-first to the muddy earth.

  As the carriage disappeared around the bend, she wiped the rain away from her face and gave a little sob. This was not how it was supposed to be.

  I will not cry.

  She forced herself to look in the direction the man had pointed and blew out her breath. The gate, black and shiny from the rain, loomed before her. As she stood lamenting her situation, a clap of thunder echoed from the trees and a streak of spring lightning sliced the darkening sky. She clutched her skirt, lifting it above the mud.

  She reassessed the open iron gate and sniffed. She could either stand here in the rain or commence walking.

  Feeling rather resourceful, she removed one of the leather straps from her trunk and looped it through the handle, and with a sharp tug, angled it appropriately and began dragging it through the gate and behind her. Once she had walked a couple hundred feet down the road, she rounded a curve. As she did, a silhouette of a cupola appeared above the tree line, standing
stark against the churning sky.

  Willowgrove Hall.

  She had no idea how long her walk would take, but the stirring clouds urged her to hasten her step. If she kept her eyes down, the brim of her traveling bonnet kept the rain from her face.

  As she took another step, she caught a glimpse of her mud-caked hem. Her shoulders sank. This was no way to meet Mrs. Trent, damp and soiled, dragging a broken trunk. She was supposed to be a well-bred lady. Or at least, that was what she wanted Mrs. Trent to believe. At present, she feared her appearance resembled more a vagabond than a proper lady’s companion.

  Somewhere to her left an owl hooted, its clear call rising above the steady pound of rain. And then, as she was about to turn another bend, a small animal lunged from the tree line, howling, and circled her. She gave a short scream and hugged the leather strap to her heart with one hand and clutched her skirt in the other. “Shoo!” she cried. “Be gone!”

  She didn’t see the animal until it was quite upon her. It was small. And black. A fox? A small wolf? Heaven help her, with her frayed nerves and total exhaustion, her mind could run away with her.

  She did the only thing she could think to do.

  She screamed.

  5

  Nathaniel walked down the lane to his home, his leather satchel flung over his shoulder and his hat pulled as low as possible to keep the rain out of his eyes.

  Mrs. Trent and her traveling companions would be arriving in the morning. He had written to her of the flooding to prepare her for the shock, but he doubted the letter would have reached her. Indeed, he doubted she would even read it if it had, such was her way in matters concerning Nathaniel.

  The rain fell in sheets now, one belligerent wave after the other. In the distance, yellow light winked at him from the windows of Laurel Cottage, his family’s home. Nathaniel quickened his pace.

  Gus, his pointer, bounded ahead of him. Normally, Nathaniel would call the pup back by his side, teaching him to stay with his master, but after the day’s troubles, he felt more lax than normal.

  But then the animal stopped in the road and cocked his ear.

  Nathaniel whistled low to call the dog back, but instead of obeying, Gus barked a series of high-pitched howls before abandoning their path and diving into a small copse of trees that separated the lane from the main road to Willowgrove Hall.

  He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Gus! Come!”

  Gus barked. Then barked again. No doubt the dog had tracked some unsuspecting hare or rodent. “Gus!”

  But it was when he heard a shriek—a human, feminine scream—that he dropped his bag and raced through the thicket. The wet branches and leaves tugged at him as he forced his way through the thick brush.

  Despite his wide-brimmed hat, raindrops latched onto his eyelashes, and he slid the rough sleeve of his woolen coat across his eyes. But in the split second it took to wipe the moisture away, he was through the brush. Standing before him was his dog . . . and a woman.

  He stood, momentarily captivated, his movements slowed by the sheer shock of seeing her standing alone, in the road, at this late hour, and in this weather.

  If anyone, he’d expected to see his sister, or perhaps one of the townspeople.

  But this woman was a stranger.

  Nathaniel stepped closer. His youngest sister’s stories of enchanted woodland fairies catapulted to the forefront of his mind. Especially when she was younger, his sister would pretend to see them on their walks through the forest.

  But no, this woman was very real.

  The stranger was cloaked in a pelisse that was so wet it appeared black and a straw bonnet with a thick ribbon that sat askew on her head. He could only see her profile in the night’s shadow, but her wet hair hung in clumps about her face and shoulders. She stood a few feet from the dog, hands at her chest, eyes fixed on Gus. When the dog moved closer, she scurried behind a tree trunk.

  She had not yet noticed Nathaniel, but her shouts at Gus pulled him from his trance.

  “Get away! Go!”

  Nathaniel rushed to Gus and pulled the small dog back.

  “I am sorry, miss,” he said, kneeling to hold the dog by the collar. “Did he harm you?”

  The woman drew several breaths. Her eyes flicked from the dog back to him. “Y-Yes. I mean . . . no. He caught me by surprise, is all.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a sharp gust of wind pelted them with more rain.

  “He is harmless. Merely excited.”

  They stood silent for a few moments, each staring at the other. When he did speak, his words came out rougher than intended. “I do not believe we are acquainted.”

  She clutched her pelisse closer. “No, sir, we are not. I am traveling to Willowgrove Hall.” She offered no additional information, only eyed the dog bouncing at its master’s feet.

  Nathaniel thought it odd that a woman should be traveling alone, but if she were a guest on the property, he needed to make sure she was safe. “I am Nathaniel Stanton, steward at Willowgrove Hall. May I be of assistance?”

  She drew a deep breath and met his gaze directly. “I am Cecily Faire, and I thank you, sir, but I am quite well. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Willowgrove Hall, I will continue on my way.”

  “Impossible.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the wind racing through the branches above them. “It is far too dark to walk in this weather. You’ve still about half a mile.”

  He thought he noticed her chin tremble. “If I may ask, how is it you came upon this road? Most do not travel it on foot.”

  She returned her gaze to the trunk by her feet. “The carriage delivered me at the gate, but the driver said he could not continue through to Willowgrove on account of an impassable bridge. He suggested I walk.”

  “His advice to continue on foot was misguided.” Nathaniel nodded toward the main house. “What is your business at Willowgrove?”

  “I am to be a lady’s companion to Mrs. Trent.”

  At the moment, he was not sure which surprised him more—meeting a young woman on such a secluded road or the fact that Mrs. Trent had acquired yet another companion. She had an unusual habit of bringing guests and not informing him. Such details would be helpful at times like this, when unfamiliar young ladies showed up unannounced.

  Nathaniel tilted his head to see around the curve in the road. The sky grew darker by the minute, and the road beneath him had turned to mud. He could neither allow her to stay here nor to continue on.

  Unsure of how to proceed, he assessed her. She was not a common person, but rather a lady, sent to be the mistress’s personal friend. Even her pelisse, albeit wet and dark, appeared elegantly trimmed and cut.

  Inwardly, he groaned. The last thing he needed was to have any interaction with Mrs. Trent’s companion. But she looked so young. So fragile on so rough a night. He was not about to leave her in the wind and rain.

  “My home, Laurel Cottage, is through those trees. Would you consider accompanying me there? My mother and sisters are at home, I am certain, and once out of this weather we can decide the best course.”

  Miss Faire frowned and looked back over her shoulder, lifting a delicate, gloved hand to shield her eyes. “But Mrs. Trent will be expecting me. I’ve no wish to disappoint her.”

  “Mrs. Trent is away. She will be returning tomorrow. Besides, the driver was correct. The bridge is impassable; the supporting beams were washed away. There is a makeshift footbridge, but that is for the workers and the brick masons. I’d advise against crossing it with wet shoes and in this weather.”

  She looked back over her shoulder again and then turned her eyes toward him. In the gathering darkness, in the shadow of the elms lining the drive, her eyes shone green. Even with wet hair and a soggy cloak clinging to her narrow shoulders, she was very becoming.

  Yet another reason he should have nothing to do with her.

  He released Gus, paused to ensure the dog did not rush the new
companion, and stepped forward to pick up her trunk. He spied the long strap she had tied and lifted it. “What’s this?”

  “My trunk was damaged when it was dropped from the carriage, I fear. I tied the strap so I could pull it.”

  Mud and mire caked the battered trunk. He was already soaked. What harm would a little mud do? He hefted the trunk onto his shoulder.

  He whistled to Gus, who trotted over, tail wagging, and then turned to her. “Follow me. Mind your step, miss, and stay close.”

  Feeling more preposterous than ever, Cecily followed Mr. Stanton through the low-lying brush and thick branches. Mr. Stanton was but a black silhouette before her, outlined in the shifting shadows of the wind-tossed forest. She was unaccustomed to walking in such dense forestry. At Aradelle, she had spent many hours exploring the wooded lands around the estate, but those days were distant memories.

  How she wanted to hesitate, to inspect where she was putting her feet to be sure the ground was solid. But Mr. Stanton was traveling at such a pace that she had to trust him, despite that every sensibility within her was screaming a warning.

  Cecily tried to heed his caution and stay as close as possible, attempting to follow his footsteps to the letter, but she winced as she felt her foot sink into something soft. Her breath caught in her throat when she stepped too close to a branch and it caught on the straw of her bonnet. She paused to free herself.

  When they finally emerged on the other side of the trees, she noticed yellow light spilling from two windows up ahead.

  Mr. Stanton’s voice was low, and he pointed toward the structure. “Laurel Cottage. There.”

  Cecily drew a deep breath and wiped the rain from her eyelashes. Nestled in a clearing stood a cottage, the white walls of which seemed to glow almost blue in the darkness. Upon closer inspection, the cottage was unlike any she had ever encountered. It was a large, symmetrical building, and the entrance was situated between two projecting wings with steep gables. The exterior appeared to be a mixture of stucco and weatherboarding. Dark timbers crossed the frame, and a steep, thatched roof gave way to stone chimneys jutting black into the night sky, the smoke puffing from them becoming one with the rainy haze. She paused to take in the sight, but Mr. Stanton continued ahead. Nerves danced within her. He had said he was the steward of Willowgrove Hall and that ladies were in the house. She should trust him, should she not?