A Gentleman's Daughter: Her Choice (3 page)

“You would do better to keep him here,” Mrs. Wilcox said.

“I believe he means to town,” Mr. Wilcox replied. He glanced at Cecilia, who gave him a tiny smile.

“He means to seduce our daughter and have her fortune.”

Cecilia gripped the arms of her seat. An icy chill seeped from her toes while flames blazed a path downward. Meeting in her middle, they created an awful sickening.

Her papa sighed. “You know full well our son’s friends are respectful young men, all.” Mrs. Wilcox snorted. “I will hear no more. And if he knows of Cecilia’s dowry, you must have yourself to blame. I warned you not to speak of it.”

“And I have not,” she said. “But your son--”

“My son knows better than to open the door to rogues and fortune hunters by spreading tales.” Her father practiced discretion in his affairs and wanted Cecilia’s suitors to apply to him due to her merits and their true feelings, not the promise of her more than ample dowry.

“Perhaps, like his father, he trusts the wrong men.”

“Mrs. Wilcox, any more and you may to town alone. Let us upstairs.” He stood and strode from the room. Her mother marched behind, head high. She did not admit defeat so easily. No doubt she already planned her next attack.

Cecilia rose, her hands trembled. Perhaps being a maiden aunt installed at Partridge Place could have its advantages.

Some hour later, Cecilia sat in the carriage with her parents. Sometimes she felt an adopted child, with her dark looks while her parents and Wil shared wavy wheaten colored hair and a stately mien. According to her mother she still loped about as if pretending to be one of her papa’s horses. Cecilia smiled. She preferred imagining herself a wood nymph.

“Well, Cecilia, are you pleased with today’s diversion? There will be good company and the weather and setting could not be more beautiful, I’ll wager,” her papa said. His cheer contrasted her mother’s sharp silence.

“Yes, I am pleased,” Cecilia replied. “I look forward to meeting Miss Taylor again.”

“Polly’s cousin is an agreeable and pretty girl and do not forget we will also be joined by Mr. Drake and the Fordhams. Mr. Drake particularly asked if you would be there.”

“How kind. I look forward to the day.” Cecilia shifted in her seat. Her papa’s eagerness to push her toward their neighbor Mr. Drake was only slightly less irritating than her mother’s overbearing scrutiny.

No one, however, bothered about Cecilia once the party gathered. The field on the farthest edge of Partridge Place provided a perfect flat area for a picnic, while the river to one side--narrow there--and hills rich with berries and flowers, provided amusement enough for an afternoon. All the others grouped in threes and fours, conversing and laughing, save Cecilia. She lounged in the shade of a leaning willow, close enough to overhear ‘Ret’s attentions to Polly’s cousin.

Why he was flirting with Miss Taylor, she could only surmise two motivations: either to fool her mother or because he really found Polly’s cousin charming. Hoping it was the former, Cecilia took every chance to give him the opportunity to seek her out. When the Fordhams suggested berry picking on the hill, Cecilia went further up than anyone. She managed to fill her basket, but not with the girlish joy she always had, for ‘Ret did not come. When Mr. Drake proposed a walk along the river, Cecilia and the younger people joined him. Cecilia again struck out on her own, claiming a wish to see if there were any violets in the upper banks. She was glad to get away from Mr. Drake, whose pedantic conversation about the fauna of the river bored her; she would have listened all afternoon if only ‘Ret had followed her.

Mr. Cateret’s obvious flirtation with Miss Taylor annoyed Cecilia. She had not before noticed his easy ability to make women silly over him nor his whispering, mocking way of flirting.

She paused by the river, bending over to trail her fingers through its cool, quietly powerful waters. She used to play here as a girl, splashing and swimming, safe under the watchful eye of her grandmother Wilcox, Mrs. Partridge, or Polly. Here Cecilia had learned to float with the current without being swept away. Had she let herself rush too far from her anchor in her feelings for ‘Ret? Perhaps he had not the depths she had attributed him, but was merely a shallow pool, not the sure, powerful, passionate man she sought.

Pondering all the things she didn’t know about ‘Ret, she sat on a rock, hugging her knees, until the sun began its descent. This same late afternoon sun made dappled shadows along the riverbank as Cecilia made her way back to the party. The shades of light and dark mingled to match her mood. She felt the buoyancy of being outdoors but her feelings were muddled by doubt and exasperation. These feelings intensified when she saw Mr. Cateret, Miss Taylor, and Mr. Drake conversing somewhat apart from the others.

As she approached, Mr. Drake remarked: “Miss Wilcox, you will quite do yourself in with all this activity. Women should be careful not to overexert themselves.”

 “I am worn down just looking at you, Miss Wilcox!” Miss Taylor said, her parasol carefully shading her pale complexion. “A woman needs her rest, you know.”

“Oh, but Miss Wilcox still considers herself in the schoolroom, I believe, so she need not concern herself with a woman’s needs,” Mr. Cateret said, his expression twisted in scorn and mischief. Miss Taylor tittered.

Cecilia’s throat tightened, holding down her biting thoughts about their comments, but especially Mr. Cateret, who not only should have been walking with her, but also taking her part against such talk, as he had before. His derisive remark both mortified and incensed her, especially considering his attentions to her over these last few days, which were not those a gentleman would give to a schoolgirl. However, he would now not even look at her so she steeled herself and called upon her mother’s teachings of the last two years.

“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Drake,” she said, drawing herself up with a proud tilt of her chin. “I do feel a slight headache, if you will excuse me.” Turning from them, she made her way over to her parents who, fortunately, were already preparing to leave. Upon seeing her, they both expressed concern she was fatigued and the three bid a hasty farewell to the rest of the party.

As they rode home, Cecilia’s father remarked on how far she and Mr. Drake ventured up the river together.

“No, father. I went most of the way myself. Mr. Drake was dull and I wished to be away.”

“Cecilia, I am surprised at you! Mr. Drake is a good sort, always solicitous of you.”

“Well, Mr. Wilcox, he will not be so after today, the way Cecilia went cavorting over hill and dale, unlike Miss Taylor and Polly, who know how to behave. You know Mr. Drake’s views on women having delicate constitutions,” Mrs. Wilcox put in.

“I agree with him when he says women should not be too vigorous, which you have today, Cecilia. I hope you have learned a lesson,” Mr. Wilcox said.

Cecilia by this time truly had a headache and so simply replied “Yes, Papa” and closed her eyes.

“We shall have a tray sent up for your supper so you may rest,” he said.

“A fine idea, Mr. Wilcox. Wil and Mr. Cateret dine with the Partridges and Cecilia needs be ready for our journey.”

They soon reached the shelter of home, where Cecilia trudged upstairs. She could hardly believe such a promising spring day ended in a shower of tears in her darkened room.

The next morning, Cecilia awoke with a pounding head and a weight on her heart. She had always been confident, sure of her opinions, but now doubt assailed her. Had she imagined Mr. Cateret’s longing looks and amorous attentions? Did she misunderstand their conversation on the hill? Had she misjudged his character; was he fickle or cruel or a trifler? What did it matter, when he said such hurtful words to her? As a gentleman, he should have approached her and explained himself.

Her mama harried her all morning as the household bustled in preparation for their trip on the morrow. Wil and Mr. Cateret absented themselves, as Wil always did before their mama traveled. After noon, her papa summoned her to the library. Determined to remain composed, Cecilia breathed deeply before she opened the door. The light Gothic tracery contrasted the dark colors of the room. She took in the view from the tall windows; the small pond on the North side of the house reflected the sky and clouds, creating its own designs.

“Child, are you certain you wish to go to London? You have not been yourself these last two days. If you really feel you cannot leave home, I will understand.” They stood shoulder to shoulder by the French windows.

“Mama will not. Thank you, Papa, but it will be easier for us all if I go. We are not to be there over a month. I will manage. And, I do look forward to seeing Amelia and Fanny.”

“Thank you, my girl,” Mr. Wilcox said. His furrowed brow eased. “I know your mother can be demanding of you, but she has your interests in mind. Go, then, and enjoy yourself.”

“I will, Papa, thank you,” she replied as he kissed the top of her head. At least her father’s affection she need not doubt, Cecilia thought ruefully.

 While out for a walk that afternoon, Cecilia decided Mr. Cateret must no longer have any affection for her. Perhaps he found her a beautiful woman, as he had said, but obviously he did not love her or wish to marry her. He had not been at Middleton House all day, choosing to accompany Wil on some business in town. Cecilia thought they would be back for dinner, but Wil arrived alone, apologizing for Mr. Cateret, who was detained on another errand. Cecilia’s calm attained on her walk turned to sadness, for her hope that their friendship could be restored now seemed impossible.

Chapter Three

T
he morning of their journey to London, Mrs. Wilcox roused Cecilia from an uneasy slumber with a perfunctory knock on her bedroom door.

As Tilly pinned Cecilia’s hair, Mrs. Wilcox rechecked her trunk. “Your papa has been most generous. We will not only be able to complete our purchases from last year, but also make you ready to attract even the attention of a Lord.”

“I have no wish to be a Lady.” Had they been alone, her mother would have screeched her displeasure. As it was, she clucked her tongue.

“So you’ve proven in your inattention to my lessons. I hope you will attend better your aunt Higham and myself as you did not on our last visit.” Her mother studied Cecilia’s reflection in the dressing table mirror.

“I cannot like town. But I do look forward to visiting Amelia…and Fanny and Aunt Higham.” Cecilia kept her face as expressionless as possible, but an almost inaudible sigh escaped. She had much rather Papa bought her a new horse rather than this trip to London. Though she did enjoy wearing new clothes.

“I will not allow you about with Amelia.”

“But Mama, our walks in the park…” Cecilia would lose all sense of herself without access to some bit of green space in the midst of the brown, grey, close city.

“You’ll not run about as you do here,” her mother said before she dismissed the maid. Mrs. Wilcox exhaled and rustled her garnet gown. “We shall be occupied enough with shopping, preparations for Fanny’s wedding, and the parties and balls your aunt has arranged. All of London still celebrates Princess Charlotte’s marriage. Enough protesting, girl. Your papa’s generosity only extends so far and we shall take full advantage while we may. Do not disappoint us.”

“Yes, Mama.” Cecilia’s limbs ached, as if she’d already been jolted in the carriage all day. Her mother stood behind her, still studying Cecilia’s reflection in the mirror of her dressing table.

“You have not your aunt Higham’s excellent features or style. Still, you are the image of your grandmother Wilcox, who was the beauty of the county in her day. You may raise yourself yet.” Her mother’s eyes unfocused before she touched Cecilia’s hair with a light tap.

Cecilia scrutinized herself as her mother had done, ignoring the click of the door. Perhaps her sun-browned skin and rounded features, her wide eyes and simple dress, would make little impression on such gentlemen as her mother and aunt wished her to secure. What did it matter? Only one gentleman interested her, and he did not wish to be captured.

Mr. Cateret, Mr. Wilcox, and Wil escorted Mrs. Wilcox and Cecilia to the waiting carriage and said their farewells. Mr. Cateret stood slightly apart, as he was not one of the family; he relaxed his rigid posture, relieved not to be close to Cecilia. Being too near her would endanger his promise to himself not to tamper with her. He satisfied himself in studying her once more, for though he battled his passion for her, he wished to fix her image in his mind. He had always cared for her and now included her among the most desirable women of his acquaintance.

Once the ladies were handed into the carriage, Mr. Cateret stepped forward. “Mrs. Wilcox, Miss Wilcox, I wish you safe journey. Please give my regards to Mrs. Higham, Miss Higham, and Miss Amelia.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cateret,” Mrs. Wilcox said. Cecilia sat back, hidden from sight. “Mr. Wilcox, please remember of what we spoke.”

The three men bowed as the carriage started on its way. Her mother began a flow of talk about the new dresses and hats, ribbons and shoes they would need for her. Cecilia’s mother’s words washed over her. If she let her go on, she could turn her mind to her own thoughts, as long as she maintained a calm countenance and nodded in the proper places. So their journey passed, quite pleasantly to Mrs. Wilcox; to Cecilia it felt a punishment.

Upon their arrival in London that night, Cecilia drooped, exhausted. Her mother, on the contrary, flourished, like a hothouse rose: beautiful, stately, and thorny. Only Amelia and Aunt Higham greeted them, for Fanny was abed.

“Sister, it has been too long since you visited,” Aunt Higham proclaimed as they walked upstairs to retire. From the ground floor hall, elaborate iron balusters curved on the cold stone stairs and forked on the landing, where a recessed alcove held a white marble bust of some unknown Greek man, above which the graces danced in a muted frieze. Beige marbled walls created an elegant backdrop for the sparse accents. The classical styling of her aunt’s home seemed cold, though fashionable and attractive; the place reflected its owner well.

Cecilia and Amelia followed their mothers past the closed doors of the drawing room and morning room on the first floor, knowing enough to remain silent.

“I could say the same, but we are here now,” Mrs. Wilcox said as they proceeded up the simpler staircase to the second floor bedrooms.

“It is well, for we have much to accomplish.” Aunt Higham glanced back at Cecilia. They parted at Amelia’s door, where her cousin laughed upon shutting their mothers out.

“Two such sisters I have never seen,” Amelia declared. Her pale freckled face beamed, glowing like her deep red hair.

“They are equally beautiful.” Cecilia’s stiffness relaxed in the yellow, book-lined coziness of Amelia’s room.

“Equally determined and shallow, I should say.” The two helped each other ready for the night. “You do not laugh as usual, cousin.”

“Never mind that, I am tired,” Cecilia said, though really she could not laugh at her mother, when she herself had made such an ill judgment as to trust Mr. Cateret. “What news, Amelia? I have missed you. How do you fare with all the bustle of the season and Fanny’s preparations?”

Amelia’s face shone. “I am quite well for I hope I too will be married soon, perhaps even before Fanny.”

“Amelia! What can you mean?” Cecilia pulled her shift around her and curled up on the bed.

“I have met someone, Cecilia. He is a scholar, an antiquarian. We met at my friend Mrs. Morris’s. I have written you about her. She holds gatherings of artists, writers, scholars, and like-minded people. He is a respectable gentleman, not so wealthy or handsome as my mother would wish, though I doubt she hopes for much from me now. We plan to obtain a license so we may marry before June. He wishes me to accompany him on his next expedition. He and his mother will call tomorrow in hopes my mother will give her approval.”

“You are happy then?” Cecilia asked, stunned. She need not have, for her cousin’s pleasure was apparent in her face. “I congratulate you. But, who is he? When did you meet?”

“Thank you, I am content. We met nearly three months ago. I wanted to be sure of the seriousness of our attachment before I told my mother. Her scrutiny can be overmuch. Frederick, I mean Mr. Dryden, is not as mindful of the proprieties as our mothers like.”

“Frederick Dryden? Why, and to think Mr. Cateret offered to introduce you. It is just as well.”

“Whatever do you mean? When did you speak to Mr. Cateret about Mr. Dryden? Are you hiding something?”Amelia asked in an impish tone. She settled herself under the covers.

“No, I leave that to you. He happened to be visiting last week. He is still at Middleton House with my father and brother. He simply asked after you and thought you might like to attend Mr. Dryden’s lecture.”

“I will be. It was kind of him to think of me. But, Cecilia, you look upset. Did something happen? Do you not regard him as you had?”

“No, yes. I still like him, though I wonder why. I have been mistaken, that is all. I will follow my parents’ guidance from now on.” Cecilia did not believe her own words, but even with Amelia, she did not want to share the whole truth.

“That is not like you.” Amelia grinned, but stopped upon seeing that Cecilia did not share her mirth. “Do you not wish to speak of it? Are you sure you should follow your mother’s wishes?”

“I will put my girlish fancies behind me,” Cecilia said, evading the question. “Besides, perhaps Mr. Thornhill will sweep me off my feet.” She laughed. Often the most effective concealment was had through humor.

“I am glad to see you are not too affected, cousin. I had thought…but, as you say. I doubt Mr. Thornhill will do that. He does not appear to have a passionate sensibility, unlike Mr. Cateret, but he is well-looking, not too dull, and enjoys country life as you do. Our fathers were friends, though Fanny and I never met Mr. Thornhill until last year. You know my parents always pursued their own lives.”

“Yes. I suppose my curiosity will be satisfied the day after tomorrow, when my aunt throws her dinner party.” Cecilia stifled a yawn.

“I hope he will be all you wish, Cecilia. I want you as content as I. Now, to sleep, for I shall need you tomorrow and you will want to be rested for your meeting with the celebrated Mr. Thornhill.”

“Yes, I must not disappoint such a gentleman.” The sarcastic edge in Cecilia’s tone went unnoticed by Amelia, who plumped her pillow.

Cecilia slept well that night, tired from her journey. She could not like travel; though she loved riding, a long carriage ride was very different and oppressed, rather than refreshed, her spirits. Turning her mind to Amelia’s problem, she hoped to be of use to her cousin, who was nervous of the meeting between her mother and Mrs. Dryden. Amelia believed the two older women might clash.

“Mr. Dryden’s mother is a formidable woman,” Amelia said as they walked into the drawing room the next afternoon. “Mr. Dryden assures me she approves of our engagement, but I fear Mama may take offense at her forcefulness. Though I am of age, I should like her blessing.”

Cecilia perched on one of the two pale green sofas in the room, which also contained several round-backed chairs and tables of various sizes, as well as a compact writing desk along the wall opposite the door, situated between two classical landscapes. The colors reflected the high poplars of the Square’s park, visible through the front windows. “I am sure she will give it. As you have said, my aunt’s greatest wish is that both her daughters should marry well. She will be satisfied.”

In this matter, Cecilia was proved correct. Mrs. Dryden and Mrs. Higham, though of very different minds, had their purposes coincide on the matter of their children’s marriage. Mrs. Higham was at first shocked her daughter had been carrying on a secret engagement, but upon meeting Mr. Dryden, whose parents came from very respectable old families, and his mother, she quickly forgot all quibbles with the whys and was content with the wherefores. Between the two women, it was agreed that the couple should marry at St. George’s Chapel in three weeks’ time. They concurred it would be best to send them on their wedding journey rather than await Mr. Dryden’s return some year or two later.

“Neither of them is getting any younger and I wish to see grandchildren ere I reach my dotage,” said Mrs. Dryden, in which sentiment Mrs. Higham agreed, though both were far from such an age. The two women were satisfied they had brought about the entire match themselves, in which happy illusion their children had no wish to disabuse them.

 While she sat in the drawing room some hours later with her mother and aunt, Cecilia’s stomach grumbled. The dinner hour here was later than at home, and the food fashionably delicate, if plentiful. She stacked her letters to her papa, the Partridges, and her cousin Jane, ready to be posted, and glanced out the window. Grey skies above grey buildings, ironwork and fencing imprisoned her.

“I hope you are done writing,” her mother said from her position on one of the room’s long sofas. She and Aunt Higham plied their needles, sharp as their tongues. “You shall end with ink spots as Amelia’s Mr. Dryden.”

“He is a respectable man,” her aunt said. “Too scholarly, true, but well matched for Amelia, who is in all aspects like her father. Unlike my Fanny, do you not agree, Leticia?”

“Fanny is the image of you, save her raven hair. And, like you, she has secured a wealthy, agreeable gentleman.”

“Fanny’s Mr. Borden has not the family connections Mr. Higham had, but he will do for her. His London home is spacious, for what it is, and his family’s estate rivals Partridge Place.”

“But not as large as Lionel Hall,” her mother said. Cecilia did not turn, but her attention peaked. Lionel Hall was Mr. Thornhill’s home. Some twenty miles south of Middleton House, Cecilia had heard of its grand vistas and pleasant situation on the Thames River. But, though her uncle Higham had been friends with the Thornhills, Cecilia’s family was not. Their circle extended to the east and north, to Reddington and Oxford.

“I give you that, sister, but he has no home in London, preferring country life. His uncle, Lord Nefton, owns a house across the Square where he stays when in town. And Mr. Thornhill’s income rivals Fanny’s Mr. Borden, for the elder Mr. Thornhill was a careful man, and the younger also inherited the fortune of his aunt, Lady Greyton.”

Cecilia shifted in her seat. Their words seemed stilted and said all for her benefit, though if they knew her well they would know she did not care about such matters. She studied her aunt’s collection of Jasperware on the rectangular table between the front windows. How she would like to transport herself home, where she might again run about as did the white figures on the plates and vases.

“I have not seen him in many a year,” her mother said. “What sort of man is he?”