A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (10 page)

The silly smile on Rebecca’s face conveyed to Cecily that her words were in jest, but why this schoolgirl flutter in her stomach?

Cecily reminded herself that she was unaccustomed to being around young men.

But then the memory of her past flashed in her mind’s eye.

Budding romantic thoughts of any man, regardless of how innocent or fleeting, could only lead down a path paved with disappointment.

Once finished with the buttons, Rebecca assessed the gown on Cecily. “Well now, what do you think?”

Cecily looked down at the gown. It was so strange to see a patterned dress on her body. The printed muslin was pale beige with tiny green leaves and pink flowers running the length of it, and a narrow satin sash hugged her upper torso, well above her waist. The sleeves hung too low over her hands, and it was a little too big in the shoulders, but the narrow cut of the gown was very forgiving, and the sash allowed the gown to be pulled tight enough around her body that it looked like it fit. “Very pretty. I could not be more grateful.”

“I am sure you are used to much finer gowns, but I hope it will do for now.” Rebecca turned to gather the quilt Cecily had used. “I am sure you are anxious to be about your day. Nathaniel has already been up to Willowgrove this morning. He went before dawn, just as he always does, but he has returned to escort you.”

Cecily lifted her head. “He is returning for me? I do not mean to be trouble. I am sure I can find my own way.”

Rebecca flicked a hand. “Oh, tosh, do not give it another thought.”

At the sound of cart wheels and a voice from the courtyard, Rebecca moved to the window, pushed it open, and looked to the courtyard below. “Why, Mr. Turner is with him!”

The words were spoken with such emphasis that Cecily grew curious. “Who is Mr. Turner?”

Rebecca turned from the window, the breeze through the open window catching her loose wisps of hair. “Mr. Turner is a Willowgrove tenant. His father died last year, and he took over his family farm, which is over the south hill. He is a great family friend. We grew up together, his family and mine.” But it was what Rebecca did not say that spoke louder than her actual words, for the apples of her cheeks flushed pink, and her eyes glowed with unbridled enthusiasm.

Cecily smoothed her hand down the front of the gown, adjusted the satin sash under the laced bodice, and turned her attention to her trunk to begin packing. She pulled out a remnant piece of pink silk that the dressmaker in Darbury had given her. It would be the right size for Hannah to make something new for her doll. She set the scrap aside, found her comb, and quickly forced it through her hair. There was no mirror in the room, so Rebecca helped Cecily arrange her hair and hold it in place with her ivory comb.

Once her hair was satisfactory, Cecily returned her belongings to the trunk. She latched the clasp, grabbed the leather side handle, and attempted to pull it over the wooden floor to the door, but Rebecca stopped her.

“Leave it be. Nathaniel will fetch it. Come, get something to eat before you depart. Today will likely be a busy one for you, and I know Mother would refuse to send you away from our home hungry.”

“Are you sure Mr. Stanton won’t mind the delay?”

A grin crossed Rebecca’s face. “My dear Miss Faire, my brother is the only man in a home with four females. I assure you, he is quite accustomed to such delays, as you put it. Come now.”

Cecily followed from the narrow room, growing more curious about the lives of the family she had invaded. Feminine chatter and the clang of copper pots wafted up the steep, wooden steps, and she lifted her hem to keep from tripping as she descended.

She followed Rebecca through the main-floor hall into the dining room.

The room looked quite different in the bright light of day. It was a small but cozy room, with pale-green walls and an oak cupboard in the corner. Light flooded in through the latticed window, which acted as a frame to the landscape outside. Scents of bread and coffee teased her, reminding her how hungry she was. With all the commotion and girls moving about, she felt as if she were back at school again.

Upon their entrance, Mrs. Stanton stood, adjusted the fichu about her neck, wiped a strand of hair from her face, and then pressed her hands to her hips. “Well now, good morning to you, Miss Faire. I trust you slept well?”

“Very well, ma’am,” she said with a little curtsey. “The most restful night’s sleep I have had in quite a while.”

Mrs. Stanton’s eyes widened in animated expression. “Well, no doubt, after such a journey. I am only grateful you did not waken with an affliction after being so damp and cold.” She motioned to the table. “Please. Be seated.”

Hannah and Charlotte were both already seated at the table. They looked even more alike by the light of day. With blond hair, brown eyes, straight noses, and pointed chins, there could be no denying that these two were indeed sisters. Both sets of dark eyes were fixed firmly on her.

Cecily leaned close to the girls. “Hannah, how is your doll today?”

A grin graced the girl’s face, and she said in a very grown-up voice, “Very well. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, I found this in my trunk and thought of her.” She produced the scrap of fabric she’d retrieved from her embroidery box. “I thought you might be able to make a little gown for her.”

Hannah’s brown eyes widened, and her mouth fell open in wonder. “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!”

“It is silk,” said Cecily, depositing the fabric in the girl’s small hand. “All the way from India. It was given to me by a dressmaker in Darbury, but I think it needs to stay with you.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Faire!” The child was having difficulty remaining in her chair. “Mother, may I go work on it? Right now?” And without waiting for an answer, she jumped from her chair and ran from the room.

After a quick but filling breakfast of rolls, jam, and coffee,
Cecily and Rebecca were donning their bonnets when Mrs. Stanton handed Cecily a basket. “Here are a few things to make your stay more comfortable. Please consider yourself welcome to dine at Laurel Cottage whenever you are free to do so.”

The sincerity in the woman’s tone warmed Cecily. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanton. I am grateful for your generosity.”

Rebecca opened the door, and they stepped into the courtyard.

With each passing moment, Cecily grew more excited about the idea of a new life. Already, she was certain that she had found a friend in Rebecca Stanton, and the rest of the family was endearing. She soaked in her surroundings. Everything had been so dark and hazy the night before that the property was barely visible. The scent of damp livestock and earth met her, and chickens scurried before her. All around her were signs of life. Before her stood the copse of trees she had traveled through the previous evening, and when she looked higher, just above the tree line, she could see spires jutting into the vibrant sky.

Willowgrove Hall.

She felt as if she were about to jump out of her own skin with renewed optimism.

Willowgrove Hall faded, however, as she saw Nathaniel Stanton, his posture straight, rounding the corner of the stable. Another man walked by his side, whom Cecily assumed to be Mr. Turner.

Rebecca was speaking to her about the berries that grew on the bush near the fence, and Cecily tried to concentrate on the words, but the rapid pounding of her heart divided her attention.

She recognized this emotion, this strange sensation of her pulse racing while all the other senses dulled. How her stomach knotted in certain turmoil, yet her heart felt light and giddy. She had experienced it once before . . . with Andrew Moreton. That ache had lain dormant in her for many years. And Cecily had been
relieved, for those feelings were misleading. Irresponsible. And would inevitably lead to pain.

And yet she had only met Mr. Stanton the previous eve. Their interactions had been confined to a dinner and short conversation by the fire. How could her heart be swayed so swiftly?

“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

R
ebecca 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.