“Do you care for raspberries, Miss Faire?”
Cecily snapped out of her thoughts, turning to her new friend. “Uh, um, yes, I do.”
“Well then, you shall visit in a few months when it is late summer, for we always have more raspberries than we know what to do with. Mother makes the most delightful jam, and Bessie always makes pies.”
Cecily feigned interest but snuck another glance at Mr. Stanton. He was dressed as one would expect of a steward, black breeches, tall, black boots that reached his knees, and a charcoal coat. The white neckcloth at his throat fluttered only a bit in the breeze, and the wide-brimmed hat that hid his face was a diversion from the more fashionable style, but it was more practical as the sun continued its ascent.
The other man, Rebecca’s Mr. Turner, was leading a freshly shorn sheep with a rope. They were talking, and Mr. Stanton turned and pointed in the direction of the field behind her. But when he noticed them, he stopped and dropped his hand. They stood for a moment, staring at one another, before Rebecca took her arm and started walking toward the men.
Rebecca whispered, “Is he not handsome?”
Sudden alarm assaulted her. It was as if Rebecca had been reading her thoughts. “Your brother?”
“No, silly.” Rebecca giggled. “Mr. Turner.”
It was then she noticed Mr. Turner’s line of sight fixed on Rebecca. And Rebecca returned the look with equal intensity.
The men bowed as the women approached. Mr. Stanton removed his hat before speaking. “Miss Faire, this is Mr. Turner. He runs the farm to the immediate south of us.”
Mr. Turner bowed again, his sandy hair poking out from beneath his hat, his dark eyes kind. “And what brings you to Laurel Cottage, Miss Faire?”
But before she could answer, Mr. Stanton responded for her. “She is to be Mrs. Trent’s new companion.”
Cecily thought his quick answer odd, and perhaps a bit forced, but then Mr. Turner’s face broke into a smile. “I wish you luck, Miss Faire.”
9
Rebecca and Miss Faire walked ahead, and Nathaniel followed them in a cart on the sun-dappled road that connected the steward’s cottage to the rest of the Willowgrove property. Ancient ash trees and wild elderberry shrubs lined the waterlogged path, and if he kept his gaze firmly ahead, he could not see the water shimmering over the fields.
The morning had been pleasant enough. The rain had ceased, and judging by the vibrant blue sky, the day might be promising. He had enjoyed his talk with Turner. Laurel Cottage was so close to the main road that tenants would often stop by to discuss business instead of taking matters to his proper office at Willowgrove Hall. Nathaniel actually preferred it that way.
He only wished the day would not turn unpleasant.
For today, Mrs. Harriet Trent would return.
When he was a child, Mrs. Trent embodied the witches in the fairy tales his mother used to tell him. But as he matured, his fear of her morphed into disdain. Regardless of how hard his father worked, Mrs. Trent always treated him with irrational incivility, especially after Mr. Trent died. His father used to ignore Mrs. Trent’s illogical behavior, and when Nathaniel would inquire about it, he would simply say, “’Tis not my place to judge her. My responsibility is to do my job to the best of my ability so that my actions might glorify my heavenly Father.”
In his younger years, this sentiment had angered Nathaniel. When he had assumed the role of Willowgrove’s steward five years ago, he had tried his best to meet Mrs. Trent’s demanding expectations. He desired to prove that he had earned his position and did not grow into it as a result of the agreement between his father and her late husband. Over time, however, it became clear that Mrs. Trent was not judging him by his work. She would forever judge him as the living, breathing lapse of judgment her husband made those many years ago. For the sake of her own pride, she would never dismiss him, but she would do her best to make his tasks as difficult as possible.
But when he assumed his father’s role, he began to ascertain why his father never angered at the woman. Even though Mrs. Trent’s brashness had lessened over time, pity stirred within him. Mrs. Trent’s unpleasantness stemmed from unhappiness.
Nathaniel lagged behind the women. His sister was doing a brilliant job at making their guest feel welcome. Rebecca had a gift for such things. He could not make out their words above the clatter of the cart wheels, but the soft, feminine tones floated on the breeze. His days were filled with working with tenants, overseeing tasks and staff, and handling endless letter writing and bookkeeping, so he counted this diversion in his morning routine a pleasant change.
He fixed his eyes on the back of Miss Faire. Her hair was unlike any color he had ever seen. Most of it was pinned up beneath her bonnet, but stray locks flowed from beneath and caught on the gentle wind. She was dressed in his sister’s gown of beige, printed with flowers and leaves. Interesting how he never took note of the pattern before today. The high waist of the gown highlighted Miss Fair’s slight figure. Her movements were graceful. Attractive.
He was curious about her. Her past. And now, if she were able to survive Mrs. Trent’s scrutiny, he would, perhaps, have the opportunity to have his curiosity quelled.
But he quickly checked himself. For as much as Cecily intrigued him, it was best that he keep his distance—both physically and personally.
He almost laughed at the irony. How could it be that the very woman to snatch his attention would also be Mrs. Trent’s companion?
He would fix his eyes on something else . . . something very different from the lovely Miss Faire.
He needed to focus his attentions on learning everything he could about land management and running an estate. For when he inherited Lockbourne, he would relocate and start a new life for himself—not continue to live the life of his father. Lockbourne would be a place where he would be free from secrets. Free from prejudice.
Farther down the path the grounds opened up on a wide, expansive lawn. Silas was walking along the half wall of the south garden, rake slung over his shoulder. His gait was slow, each step labored, his strain becoming more pronounced with each passing month. The past winter had been hard on him, and the early spring flood wreaked havoc on the land the man had worked for years.
Nathaniel thought back to the Silas he remembered as a boy, when the man would run carrying large logs over his shoulder and move dirt in great barrels. Now a hired boy often followed Silas, doing the majority of the heavy lifting, but the man was a wealth of knowledge.
Nathaniel slowed his cart as he approached the man. Silas appeared to have aged ten years in the last ten days. But despite the physical manifestations, the man would never complain.
“Good day, Silas.”
Silas stopped and turned. “G’day, lad.”
Silas was the only person to still call him lad. Even though Nathaniel now outranked him, he felt utter respect for the man who had taught him the importance of soil conservation, irrigation, and the proper approach to sowing any number of seeds. Nathaniel nodded at the sapling in Silas’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Mrs. Trent’s nephew sent seventy-five of these. Seventy-five!” He shook his head. “He might as well have sent a thousand, for where am I to plant them? He wanted to put these in the south garden, but it is too flooded. I was going to put a couple in Mrs. Trent’s rose garden to replace the willows we lost last year.”
Nathaniel shrugged. “You know how particular Mrs. Trent is with the rose garden.”
“Aye. But now it is about pleasing the new master, is it not?”
Nathaniel bristled. The man who was to inherit Willowgrove wanted to redesign the gardens to match the new, more fashionable symmetrical gardens. Nathaniel shifted. “He’s not the new master yet. They arrived a little while ago. I will speak to him about it.”
Silas nodded.
And with that, Silas continued down the path, and Nathaniel turned his attention back to the estate.
Enthusiasm quickened Cecily’s
steps as the chimneys of the great house jutted out of the tree line, reaching far into the late-morning sky. With the journey from Rosemere behind her, and having had a good night’s rest, her curiosity and excitement were mounting.
Rebecca had looped her arm through Cecily’s. She glanced to the side to see the groundskeepers watching them.
Rebecca must have noticed, too, because she whispered, “Pay them no heed. They are merely curious. Just be as you are, and everyone will adore you, just as I do. Even Mrs. Trent.”
“But what did Mr. Turner mean by wishing me good luck?” Though spoken in jest, the comment seemed foreboding.
“Mrs. Trent has a reputation for being strict and particular. But please, do not let this sway you. For Miss Vale was quite fond of her and was vastly contented. So, as I said, be yourself and all will be well.”
Rebecca’s advice brought to mind Mrs. Sterling’s words spoken the day before she left Rosemere.
Be true to yourself.
“Isn’t it grand?” asked Rebecca as they turned the corner from a path that wove through a garden and Willowgrove Hall stood before them in all its grandeur. “I am so accustomed to it I fear I take its magnificence for granted.”
Cecily’s steps slowed in sheer awe as she beheld the structure. It was by far the finest structure she had ever seen. Even Aradelle paled in its shadow. It was a symmetrical building of gray stone, highlighted with lighter stone for the quoining. The front parapet boasted an ornately carved stone above the main entrance, which was flanked with columns. A balustrade ran the length of the home, interrupted by eight massive chimneys poking above the hipped roof. A cupola with a bright dome reached into the blue sky. Rows of paned sash windows reflected the sun’s light to the grounds below, and the grand steps welcomed guests. A black carriage pulled by four matching bays was in motion, moving away from the entrance. Servants dressed in black and white scurried about.
Mrs. Sterling had indicated that Willowgrove was majestic, but Cecily never expected anything this elegant.
“So many people!” Cecily said. “I was under the impression that Mrs. Trent lived alone.”
Rebecca looked toward the party on the front lawn. “I believe Nathaniel said she was traveling with her nephew, but I was hardly paying attention. It takes a great many people to run the estate, whether Mrs. Trent is home or not. Here, let’s go around to the kitchen entrance. Most likely Mrs. Trent will not wish to meet you until she is settled.”
Cecily drank in her surroundings as they walked the tree-lined path, floating as if in a dream. The sunlight danced in the bright leaves and cast lacy patterns on the ground. Roses lined a stone garden wall, and the breeze carried away their sweet fragrances. Optimism, bright and endless, surged within her. Here, her past could be forgiven. She was convinced.
Cecily listened to Rebecca prattle on about the grounds, pointing out Mrs. Trent’s walled rose garden, the water fountain, the kitchen gardens, the cold house, and the stable block.
Cecily tried to pay attention, but she was still in awe of her surroundings. Was she really going to live here? To be a lady’s companion? Surely this was the outcome her mother would have wanted for her. One her sister would be proud of.
She was eager to learn everything. See everything. In fact, she was so engrossed in the gardens she was passing that she nearly ran into the man walking toward her.
“Cecily Faire.”
Cecily flinched. The voice rang as familiar and as true as her most trusted memory. She did not need to see the face, for although the timbre was deeper and the tone rougher, she would recognize the voice anywhere.
Andrew Moreton.
She ceased walking, held her breath, and kept her eyes fixed on the stone path before her.
He repeated himself. “Miss Faire, can it be?”
She slowly lifted her eyes, half fearing the image that would greet her. There he stood, leading a giant black horse by a gloved hand.
Indeed, Andrew Moreton stood confident and calm, as if they had seen each other the previous day instead of the five years it had been.
Laughter lightened his voice, the smile she remembered so vividly brightening his expression. “Are you a dream? A vision?”
Every drop of blood in her body had surely sunk to her toes. A mixture of shock and dread gripped her. What must Rebecca be thinking, now that a strange man was greeting her with such familiarity?
In the midst of her shock, she managed to find her voice and curtsey. “Mr. Moreton.”
She hoped that Rebecca took no notice of how he assessed her. How his eyes lingered too long on her lips. Her gown. She ran a hand over the borrowed clothes, feeling suddenly self-conscious of the dirt that had gathered along the hem on their walk.
“I confess, Miss Faire—” He stopped short. “It is still Miss Faire, is it not? Or has some fortunate man given you his name?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Yes, sir. I am Cecily Faire.”
A twinkle shone in his dark eyes. “This is a most pleasant surprise. I must ask, how is it that you have come to be at Willowgrove Hall? Did you come to see me, I wonder?”
Her face flamed at the flirtation.
But how like the Andrew she remembered. In her younger days his irreverence of social customs had been exciting. Now it embarrassed her.
He was looking at her, speaking with her as if he were a casual acquaintance. She forced herself to meet his gaze, the dark, warm eyes that had been party to her dreams—and nightmares—so frequently over the past several years. “I am to be Mrs. Trent’s companion.”
He jerked his head to the side, his casual countenance fading. “Not Harriet Trent?”
She nodded, and at her response he laughed loudly, leaving Cecily confused. “I daresay, Miss Faire, if anyone will be able to handle my aunt, it will be you.”
She smiled, but the humor he found in the situation was lost on her. “Your aunt?”
“Yes. Harriet Trent is my aunt. She is my father’s sister. Perhaps you do not remember.” He sobered. “I suppose those days were very long ago.”
The weight of the words bore down with relentless pressure. She tried to digest each bit of information, knowing that she would want to revisit it in the quiet of solitude, but her brain seemed incapable of such a task.
From somewhere off in the distance, a soft, feminine voice called his name.
He looked in the direction of the voice and adjusted his grip on his mount’s reins. “You will forgive me if I hurry off. I must join my guests.”
And as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving Cecily barely able to breathe.
She would not panic. She refused to cry.
Cecily turned into the wind, allowing the crisp spring breeze to dissipate the moisture that was gathering. Gone were the beauty and the wonder of this place. Instead, the walls and trees around her seemed to close in. The pain and fear from years ago rushed her, stealing her breath.
Had she really just spoken with Andrew Moreton? Or was he a vapor, released from her past? Had he smiled at her? Engaged her in a simple conversation?
“Miss Faire?”
Cecily felt Rebecca at her shoulder. She gave a little sniff. She needed to be calm.
Rebecca’s voice rose higher in pitch, as if her concern were heightening. “Miss Faire, are you all right?”
“Of course!” Cecily forced a brightness to her smile.
She’d hoped to keep her past, and her indiscretions, a secret, but they seemed intent upon chasing her from place to place. “I am surprised to see a familiar acquaintance, that is all.”
“A coincidence, indeed.” Rebecca looked back over toward Andrew’s retreating figure, lifting a delicate hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “You had no idea he was here?”
“None.”
Rebecca’s brow furrowed. “Very odd. How are you acquainted with Mr. Moreton?”
“I-I . . .” Cecily stopped. This should be an easy question to answer, and yet the words were difficult to
find. “My father was employed by his family’s estate, Aradelle Park, many years ago. Our cottage was on the grounds. If I knew of any connection to the Trent family, I surely forgot it long ago.”
Rebecca looped her arm through Cecily’s once more. “Mr. Moreton’s lived here for so long I had quite forgotten where he was from.”
“Here? So long?”
“Yes. I can remember him being here from time to time since I was young, and he has made Willowgrove his home for the past several years, although he is rarely at home. Quite a traveler, he is. What a coincidence!”
Against her better judgment, Cecily glanced back over her shoulder to the direction he had walked.
As if reading Cecily’s thoughts, Rebecca spoke. “That is Mrs. Trent, in the black gown.”
Cecily’s gaze brushed past the older woman to a young woman clad in a gown the color of sunflowers who, as Andrew approached, took the arm he extended. “And who is that on Mr. Moreton’s arm?”
“That is his intended, Miss Pritchard. And her mother, Mrs. Pritchard, is to her left.”
Intended. The word slammed her.
Cecily’s heart sank like a stone plunging to the sea floor.
She was the person he was supposed to marry.
Or at least she had been in another world.
If Rebecca noticed any change in Cecily’s countenance, she possessed the politeness to pretend that she did not. “Come now. Let me take you inside.”
They continued toward the servants’ entrance. It took every ounce of self-control not to run to Andrew. To demand answers. But she was not sure what she would ask him if given the opportunity.
She watched Andrew as he laughed and said something to the elegant, slender woman next to him. He had not seemed the least bit affected to see her. He had moved on. If only her wounded heart could follow his lead.
10
Cecily was grateful that Rebecca walked before her once the path narrowed and wound through the kitchen garden, for tears blinded her eyes so completely she was afraid that she might stumble. The pebble path and green spring grass blurred in and out of focus as she placed one foot in front of the other.
A Lady at Willowgrove Hall Page 8
