Book Read Free

A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

Page 14

by Sarah E. Ladd


  He gave a short bow, smiled.

  Cecily watched him leave the room and then stared at the space he’d just vacated. She drew a deep breath.

  If she was not careful, it would be easy to romanticize Mr. Stanton.

  Very easy indeed.

  15

  It was the moment Cecily had dreaded all day.

  From the time when Mrs. Trent informed her that they would be dining with Andrew, his intended, and his intended’s mother, Cecily could focus on little else. She’d been grateful that she and Mrs. Trent spent their day confined to the blue drawing room or her bedchamber, where she was in no danger of accidentally encountering Andrew. Now that the time was nigh, having been seated by Gordon, the butler, her hands trembled so that she could barely trust herself to lift her fork.

  Despite her discomfort, the grandeur of the room was not lost on her. The silver serving dishes on the sideboard. The Chinese murals reaching to the molded ceilings. The flickering candlelight. She determined to appreciate the beauty around her, but in spite of her best efforts, her every thought centered on merely surviving this dinner with her dignity intact. Andrew sat directly across from her at the broad table. Beside him, Miss Pritchard. And beside her, Mrs. Pritchard.

  Cecily tried not to meet his eyes. She feared what message she would find hidden there, or even worse, what he might see in her expression.

  The dinner marked the first time she had seen him since their encounter on the path the previous morning. She sought him in her quiet, still moments, and yet she also wished to avoid him. And here he sat, in flesh and blood, the object of her thoughts for so long.

  While he had aged, the carefree expression in his dark eyes had not changed. His laugh was still easy and light. But instead of the gangly boy she remembered, with long arms and a wiry frame, he’d grown into a man, with broad shoulders and a thicker frame.

  Her ears flamed as she heard Andrew’s voice mutter something to the lady beside him and then chuckle.

  At the sound, another feeling was emerging.

  Hurt.

  Andrew seemed oblivious to her presence. She did not expect any loyalty, for Cecily’s heart had long ago bid him farewell. But the fact that he never sought after her burned, and his current disinterest jabbed at her heart.

  She looked to Mrs. Trent. Cecily had expected the older woman to guide the evening’s conversation, something that appeared to come naturally for her. But here, in the midst of their guests, the poker-straight footman, and the butler, the outspoken woman was surprisingly reserved.

  As Cecily pushed the fish on her plate with her fork, it was becoming clear: Her presence here was not so much to be a companion but a buffer.

  Cecily gathered her courage and looked up at Georgiana Pritchard, the woman Andrew was going to marry. From what she had gleaned from Mrs. Trent earlier in the day, the wedding date was to be soon.

  It was odd—Cecily and Miss Pritchard had never been formally introduced. She was a beautiful woman, one who looked like she should be a mistress of a grand estate such as Willowgrove. Her glossy, dark hair was swept up from her long neck. Pearl earrings bounced with her every movement, and an intricate amethyst pendant graced her neck. Her gown was unlike anything Cecily had ever seen. Strands of silver were woven into the gray fabric—every movement shimmered, and pearls embellished the neckline. Far different, she could not help but notice, from the simple coral necklace adorning her own throat.

  Lady Pritchard and her daughter shared little resemblance, for the mother’s features were much more severe. Like Mrs. Trent, Mrs. Pritchard dressed in black. Her hair was much lighter than her daughter’s raven locks, but her eyes held the same haughtiness.

  The table had a clear divide, for Andrew and his guests seemed to focus only on one another. Was this typical behavior for Andrew? If so, Cecily could plainly see why Mrs. Trent would be in need of a companion.

  She lifted a spoon of vermicelli soup to her lips.

  “Miss Faire, I must say, you do live up to your name. You are lovely.”

  Cecily held her spoon steady and lifted her gaze to see Miss Pritchard looking directly at her. Despite the smile, her eyes lacked warmth. They were dark. Hollow.

  Cecily lowered the utensil and returned Miss Pritchard’s bold gaze. For even though she had a secret that she—and certainly Andrew—wanted to keep, there was no reason for her to pretend to be shy. “Thank you, Miss Pritchard.”

  “It seems that we were not properly introduced.”

  Cecily stiffened at the obvious jab at Mrs. Trent. A fire began to simmer within her. Mrs. Trent was an old woman. Her attentions to such detail were clearly not as she was certain they had been in the past—a reason to overlook the slight impropriety. Miss Pritchard seemed resolved to point out such oversights. Cecily kept her eyes on Andrew’s betrothed.

  “And where are you from, Miss Faire?” Miss Pritchard said in a honeyed tone.

  Cecily returned her napkin to her lap. “Most recently I was at Rosemere School for Young Ladies in Darbury.”

  “A ladies’ school? How fascinating. And were you a pupil?”

  “At one time, yes, but more recently I was a teacher.”

  “And what did you teach?”

  “Embroidery, among other subjects.”

  Cecily did not need to see Andrew’s face to know that her response had affected him. For the first time during the dinner, he fixed his eyes on his plate, pushing the stewed celery to the side.

  When they were younger, and very much in love, Cecily had embroidered him a handkerchief with his initials. He had carried it with him always. It was a silly, romantic gesture, and in hindsight, brazen. But what about her behavior back then had not been?

  Cecily doubted that Andrew would ever share such private details, and yet Miss Pritchard’s tone seemed to hold a note of challenge. “And who is your family? Perhaps we have encountered them at some point.”

  Cecily’s blood ran cold.

  It had not been that difficult to share with Mrs. Trent that she did not know much about her family. But the silent judgment balanced in Miss Pritchard’s words was unmistakable.

  Cecily pressed her napkin to her lips before speaking. “A tragedy separated me from my family a few years ago.”

  Miss Pritchard’s hand flew to her throat, and she looked to her mother. Either the display was in earnest or a show of false sympathy. “My condolences.”

  Cecily had not even realized she had glanced over to Andrew until their eyes locked. She quickly returned her attention to Andrew’s betrothed.

  Miss Pritchard forced a smile and adjusted the amethyst hanging around her neck. “Well, Miss Faire, I do hope that we shall be able to get to know each other, if even just slightly, before we depart for London in a few days. We have been invited to stay with the Langleys for the next week.”

  Miss Pritchard spoke as if Cecily should know of the Langleys, but if it was an effort to impress Cecily with their connections, it was beyond her.

  As the volume of the conversation rose above the tinkling silver, sudden pity for Mrs. Trent pricked Cecily. Andrew had asked Mrs. Trent about her day at the start of dinner, but other than that, no one spoke to her. Cecily knew what it felt like to be excluded. Mrs. Trent may be eccentric and opinionated. But she was also kind. And lonely. The day had taken a toll on the woman, for the shadows beneath her eyes were more pronounced.

  Cecily reached out and put her hand on top of the older lady’s. “Can I call for anything, Mrs. Trent? Perhaps a bit more soup? Or an apricot tart?”

  Mrs. Trent looked toward Cecily and smiled. “I am tired. These long days are a bit much for me. I think I shall retire.”

  Cecily frowned and glanced through the window, where the sun had not even yet begun to set. “Are you certain?”

  “Like I told you yesterday, my dear, I need my rest.”

  Suddenly Mrs. Trent seemed fragile. Cecily took note of her plate, which still held a complete lamb cutlet and untouched asparagus.
“Surely you mean to eat something. You’ll fall ill.”

  Mrs. Trent ignored Cecily and glared across the table at Andrew. “I shall retire now,” she announced. “Miss Faire will see me to my room.”

  “But, Aunt, it is early.” Andrew’s protest came too late.

  “I bid you good night.”

  Cecily jumped up and hurried to retrieve Mrs. Trent’s cane when the older lady attempted to stand on her own. She then instructed a footman to send Clarkson to Mrs. Trent’s chambers before casting an apologetic smile to Miss Pritchard and her mother. Secretly, she was grateful to be leaving the confines of the room.

  Mrs. Trent moved slowly, one shaky step in front of the other, and Cecily held her arm as the two left the dining hall. She was certain she could feel the heat of gazes drilling into her back, yet she continued to keep her head high and her arm steady.

  In the hall to the foyer, the air felt cooler, a welcome relief from the hot pressure they’d just escaped. Voices and laughter resumed from the dining hall. No doubt the occupants inside were eager to be free of Mrs. Trent.

  The injustice of the thought sickened Cecily.

  Clarkson was waiting for them in Mrs. Trent’s chambers. The sun, which they had enjoyed that morning, had traveled to the west, and with the heavy brocade curtains drawn, the hour seemed later than it was.

  After her first full day of trying to impress Mrs. Trent and keep her feelings in check at seeing her long-lost fiancé, Cecily was worn.

  Once Clarkson finished her duties and quitted the chamber, Cecily drew a heavy, wooden chair next to the bed. “Shall I read to you?”

  Mrs. Trent settled into the bed, her frame rather tiny in the sea of bedclothes and pillows. “Yes, dear.”

  “Any requests? I have a book of Wordsworth’s poems from the library. What of that?”

  Mrs. Trent’s breathing sounded labored. “No. Not tonight. The Bible is on the cupboard there. Read from that, if you will.”

  Cecily retrieved the Bible and shifted it in her hand. She could not recall the last time she had held a Bible in her hands, much less read one. Childhood memories rushed her. Her mother had memorized several psalms and would recite them to her and Leah before bed. Her mother had insisted that Cecily memorize them too, but time had robbed her of the recollections. For some reason, her heart now yearned to remember them.

  She flipped forward, then backward, through the pages. “What shall I read?”

  “It makes no difference, child. Anything will do. Miss Vale used to read to me from this before bed, and I have grown quite accustomed to it. Your voice is a bit lower than hers, but I think it will suit me fine.”

  Cecily cleared her throat. She opened the Bible to Psalms and started to read. The words were foreign—yet oddly familiar too. She tried to read the words without hearing them, to separate herself from them, and yet their cadence struck a chord within her—the knowledge she should heed the words she was reading. She hoped for it and feared it at the same time.

  Nathaniel trudged home, each step feeling heavier than the last.

  Even Gus seemed abnormally slow, his gait listless.

  Normally, walks home at the end of a long day were pleasant, especially this time of the year when the evenings were neither cold nor hot, but a pleasant balance of comfort. But gathering clouds to the west hinted that storms might be headed their way again. He shook his head as he thought about the bridge.

  More rain was the last thing they needed.

  While nobody else would likely care if the bridge’s repair was delayed another week, he did.

  Workers had demolished what was left of the existing stone and timber bridge, and a dam had been constructed to restrain the flowing water so the workers could build footings. As of yet, all seemed to be going as planned. But any more rain might cause the makeshift sluice to give way, which would force them to start anew.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to release the tension stored there. Mrs. Trent did not seem to care about the progress. Neither did Mr. Moreton. It should not matter to him, then.

  But it did. And he knew why. His father had dedicated his life to Willowgrove. And whether it was out of respect for his father, or just a result of his teaching, he could not turn his back on what he knew was right.

  His body cried for a hearty meal and bed, for the next morning would begin before the sun rose.

  He turned the bend in the road and approached Laurel Cottage, and within moments he was inside. Soft laughter came down from the upper rooms.

  It felt good to be home.

  He called up to his sisters from the bottom of the stairs and then turned to the parlor. He sat on the worn wingback chair—which had been his father’s—and removed his boots. He unfastened the fabric buttons down the front of his tailcoat and tossed it on a chair next to the fireplace. He tugged on his neckcloth to loosen it.

  Suddenly, from behind him, a sweet voice sounded, so softly he was not quite sure he had actually heard it or only imagined it. “Good evening, Mr. Stanton.”

  He whirled around. There, in the threshold, stood Mrs. Olivia Massey. She was, as always, a vision of perfection. Her dark hair was smooth and intricately arranged, and her gown of deep plum hugged her figure with precise proportions. Her eyes were fixed on him with brazen directness.

  “Mrs. Massey!” Realizing he was not properly dressed to meet with a woman, he reached for his coat. “Forgive me.”

  “Think nothing of it. My husband used to remove his coat in just such a manner at the end of a long day.” She stepped casually into the room, her hips swaying with each step. “You were not expecting company, I daresay.”

  “Uh, no.” He pushed his arm back through the sleeve and stuffed his stocking feet into his boots. He looked over her shoulder. He did not like the idea of being alone with her in this way. It would be too easy to give a wrong impression. “Where are my sisters?”

  “Rebecca and Hannah are upstairs. I just came down to retrieve some ribbons from my trunk. We will start preparations for your sister’s wedding gown soon.”

  He followed her gaze, and sure enough, a trunk stood open at the foot of the stairs, overflowing with fabrics and lace. He’d not even noticed it when he entered.

  Trying to think of how to get her back with his sisters, he said, “Would you like me to carry that up the stairs for you? ’Twould be no trouble at all.”

  But she did not answer. Instead, she wove the ribbon she was holding through her fingers slowly and cocked her head to the side. “I hear there is a new addition to Willowgrove Hall.”

  The reference to Miss Faire pricked his senses. Why, he was not exactly sure. But he did know one thing: He did not want to discuss Miss Faire. Not with Mrs. Massey.

  She stepped closer, her bright eyes locked on him like a hunter on his prey. “Mrs. Trent’s maid sent a missive asking me to come by this week. It seems I shall have the privilege of dressing our new acquaintance. I understand from Clarkson that she is in dire need of new dressings.”

  She paused, as if waiting for him to respond. But what could he possibly add? Her gowns were the last thing he would pay attention to.

  When he did not speak, she continued, “I hear she is lovely, with titian hair and skin like ivory.”

  She was clearly waiting for his assessment. The room seemed to grow warmer with every second.

  She stepped closer. So close that the hem of her skirt swished against his leg.

  Mrs. Massey was a charming woman.

  But instead of flattering him, her attentions made him uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Massey’s husband had died two years ago of a fever. Nathaniel had been great friends with Mr. Massey, and out of duty and respect for his departed friend, he had done everything he could to help the widow begin a new life. He had helped her establish her business. Assisted with repairs to her home. And somewhere along the line, he assumed that she had misinterpreted his service for romantic intentions.

  But the more she pressed,
the more he digressed. How could he court a woman and keep the truth about his true identity? Perhaps it would be different if he felt any inclination toward her, but it would take a great deal of trust to share a secret he had kept so long hidden.

  No. If he were ever to marry, he needed to wait until he was settled at Lockbourne.

  Not before.

  And not with a woman as forward as Mrs. Massey.

  If Mrs. Massey noticed his growing discomfort, she did not let on. “I will be at Willowgrove the day after tomorrow to meet our lovely new friend. At least, I hope I shall be friends with her.”

  He looked up from the toes of his boots, met her eyes briefly, and then looked to the door behind her.

  Her smooth voice was barely above a whisper. “Shall I see you at Willowgrove?”

  Before he could respond, Hannah came bounding down the stairs. “Nathaniel, you’re home!” She ran over and hugged his waist.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and knelt down to look at his sister at eye level. “And how was your day?”

  “Good!” She thrust a handful of ribbon into his face. “And look, Mrs. Massey gave me these ribbons. Aren’t they lovely?”

  He looked at the tangle of satin and cotton strips in every color of the rainbow. “Yes, very pretty.”

  “I shall add them to the dress I am making with the fabric Miss Faire gave me.” Hannah smiled and turned toward Mrs. Massey. “Mother wondered what was keeping you and sent me down to see if you needed any help.”

  Nathaniel spotted his opportunity. He reached for his hat and, without making eye contact, stepped back toward the foyer. “I will let you ladies get back to your business. Hannah, tell Mother I will be in the cowhouse.”

  Without waiting for a response, he stepped outside into the damp night.

  Later that evening, after Mrs. Massey had quitted Laurel Cottage, Nathaniel sat with his mother in the gathering dark of night. His sisters were upstairs. Giggles and chatter wafted downstairs. He was always grateful for this time of day. A time when he could sit and be still.

 

‹ Prev