A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (12 page)

Perhaps she had not concealed her hurt as much as she had hoped. Cecily forced a smile, refusing to play victim to the circumstances that had shaped her past. “I am quite well.”

Besides, it was too late for retreat. Cecily was fully aware of all the eyes set upon her since entering the kitchen. She tried to recover the enthusiasm, the eagerness she had felt not even a quarter of an hour prior. She tried to remember her position and what she was here to do. She was not a member of the staff—a common servant. She was a lady’s companion. She would not answer to the housekeeper or anyone else besides Mrs. Trent.

To the servants, she was likely another guest in the house, and they were surprised to see her in the kitchen. But she could not deny that she was as curious about them as they must be of her . . . if not more.

No one could deny Mrs. Bratham’s identity. She entered with
such an air of authority and with such dramatic, grand movements that there could be no doubt.

Mrs. Bratham was much taller and broader than Cecily. Indeed, the top of Cecily’s head barely met Mrs. Bratham’s chin. She was dressed in a simple gown of black muslin with a high white fichu crossing her bodice. A white cap was settled over her dark hair, and while the lines on her face were severe, there was a subtle hint of kindness in her small, dark eyes.

“Good day, Miss Stanton.” She raked Cecily with her eyes. “And whom do you have with you?”

“This is Miss Cecily Faire, Mrs. Trent’s new companion.”

Mrs. Bratham stopped midstep and thoroughly assessed Cecily. “Oh yes, we have been expecting you, but I must offer my sincerest apologies. We did not think you would arrive for another week.” But her voice held neither enthusiasm nor disgust, the words spoken as a mere observation. “But what were you thinking to bring Miss Faire in through the kitchen? Mrs. Trent will not be pleased. Please, Miss Faire, forgive us such an oversight.”

“Oh, it is quite all right,” Cecily said. “I do not mind.” Not wishing to see her friend scolded for bringing her in through the kitchen, Cecily added, “I asked to be shown the kitchen gardens. I am quite fond of gardening, you know.”

The housekeeper cocked her head to the side and looked more closely at Cecily. “Miss Faire, you are pale. You are not ill, I hope. May I offer you some tea?”

Cecily swallowed. “No, thank you, no tea.”

Mrs. Bratham turned back to Rebecca. “How is it that you are the one bringing her to me? She came by a coach, did she not?”

Cecily thought it odd that the woman would ask Rebecca about the journey and not her directly, but at the moment, her head throbbed with such severity she was grateful to not have to respond.

“A mishap brought Miss Faire to Laurel Cottage instead of
Willowgrove, but as you can see, she is here now, quite safe and sound. My brother asked me to deliver her to you directly and you would know just what to do. It will be a busy day for Mrs. Trent.”

“And he is right too,” Mrs. Bratham said. “It’s plain wore out Mrs. Trent will be.” She pivoted to face Cecily. “Now, where are your things?”

“Mr. Stanton was to see that they be delivered to where I will be staying.”

“Very well. I will take you up to your room straightaway. I can’t imagine that Mrs. Trent will be up to meeting you today, but one can never tell. I will get someone to introduce you to the grounds at a later point, but for now, I trust you are eager to get situated.”

Rebecca turned and looked directly at Cecily. “This is when I leave you. Remember, if you need anything at all, you know where I am.” She gave a shallow curtsey and left through the door she entered.

Cecily had not realized how much she had been relying on Rebecca for strength. For even though they had not known each other for a full day, a bond had formed.

Mrs. Bratham led her up a simple staircase with whitewashed walls and wooden stairs, but once through the threshold at the landing, a door gave way to the most exquisite room Cecily had ever seen.

She stepped into what seemed a fairyland, with rich tapestries hanging on vibrant papered walls featuring exotic birds and intertwined vines. The light bounced from the ceiling and marble statues. The room was beautiful, a gilded utopia with teak and mahogany furniture, vivid paintings of lush landscapes, and intricate portraits that were taller than Cecily was herself. Everywhere she looked she saw extravagance.

Cecily pressed her lips closed and stayed close to Mrs. Bratham. Surely someone like her did not belong here—a penniless, unconnected woman from a modest girls’ school. And yet she was to
be a companion, a friend, almost an equal, to the mistress of the estate.

Mrs. Bratham called out details as they moved through rooms and down corridors. “We just passed through the great parlor and the blue drawing room, which is Mrs. Trent’s personal drawing room. I’d wager you’ll be spending a great deal of time there. The chapel and chapel drawing room are through the main hall, and the steward’s office and tradesmen’s entrance are on the far end, past the staircase. If you should ever lose your way, remember that the house is shaped like a U, with everything centering around the main hall. If you find your way back to the main hall, you should be able to set yourself right.”

Cecily tried to process it, but she had never been in such grandeur. She’d only been inside Aradelle once or twice, and never beyond the kitchen. “This is the staircase hall.” Mrs. Bratham led Cecily up a broad staircase, complete with walnut tread and risers and leaves carved on the balusters. “There are other stairs at the west and north entrances and, of course, in the servants’ area. But you’ll find this one the most convenient for your needs.”

Cecily followed Mrs. Bratham closely and would not have been able to retrace her steps if pressed. At the top of the great staircase, Mrs. Bratham waved her hand. “Down across the hall are Mrs. Trent’s personal chambers, and here is where you will be staying.”

They finally drew to a stop at a closed door. Mrs. Bratham turned the handle, and Cecily followed the housekeeper into the room. The woman made a full circle in an obvious assessment of its state. But the first thing that captured Cecily’s attention was the broad, paned window framing a breathtaking view of Willowgrove’s gardens.

“This is the gold chamber, the room that the former companion occupied. I have not spoken with Mrs. Trent on the matter. I am fairly certain that she would like you to have the same.” Mrs. Bratham moved to the window and pulled the brown velvet curtain
back even farther, allowing more sunlight to spill through the opening. “You should be comfortable here. The water basin is on the table. I will have one of the maids freshen the water. I believe that Clarkson, Mrs. Trent’s lady’s maid, had been in the habit of tending to the previous companion, so I see no reason why that would change.”

Cecily only nodded, trying to absorb—and retain—everything that she heard.

“Most days Mrs. Trent will want you to dine with her, but on days she did not, Miss Vale always took her meals in her room. I have no doubt you and Mrs. Trent will settle into a routine. Mrs. Trent has always made it perfectly plain that she does not want her companion fraternizing with the rest of the house staff, so Clarkson, her lady’s maid, will be available to you. I will help you as needed, but know I run a tight ship, Miss Faire. And I follow Mrs. Trent’s orders by the letter. I have seen my fair share of companions come through these halls, and if you heed my advice, things should move along just fine.”

Cecily nodded, taken aback by the woman’s blunt expression. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good.” She ran her hands down the front of her gown and began to brush past her. “As I said, Mrs. Trent’s chamber is down the hall, next door down. She insists on her companion being accessible. Once she is settled and ready to make your acquaintance, either Clarkson or I will escort you. In the meantime, feel free to rest and get settled. Walk around the grounds to get yourself familiar, if that suits you. I shall send up some tea and a bite to eat.”

The woman took another step, then stopped. “I do wish you happiness here, Miss Faire. Perhaps a nice first step would be to go down and explore the gardens. Mrs. Trent is quite fond of the pink roses that grow in the walled garden. Oh, and welcome to Willowgrove Hall.”

The older woman closed the door behind her.

Cecily hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until the door latched, and she emptied her lungs with a swoosh. She dropped the basket she had been carrying and looked around the room. If she weren’t so tired, and her heart so sore, she would be enchanted at the room’s simple elegance. But the bright light, which she would normally find so charming, sliced her, and with her now-pounding headache, she sank down on the bed.

It only seemed right—only seemed poetic—to burst into tears in this moment. Every dream she had for the last three years now lay damp and deflated at her feet. Andrew wasn’t still searching for her. He wasn’t still missing her. He was engaged to another. And he seemed . . . happy. Indeed, tears would be preferable to the sharp ache in her heart.

She should leave. She did not belong here—not with Andrew Moreton so near. And even though Mrs. Sterling seemed so confident of her capabilities, Cecily knew the truth. She was not the sort of person suitable for a lady’s companion.

But if she were to leave, where would she go? She had little money. She could not return to the school, for her past would certainly be exposed. How could she return without confessing the truth about why she could not continue at Willowgrove? She had managed to keep the secret of her indiscretion from everyone—even Mrs. Sterling—for all these years. But if she did not return to the school, she would never find a good position, not without a recommendation.

Cecily stood and looked down to the grounds, hoping yet fearing to catch a glance of Andrew. He was nowhere in sight, yet knowing that he was so close trumped every other thought.

In her wildest dreams, she could run to him. Demand to know why he never sought her. But her more mature self kept her in her room. She was an adult now. No longer could she be ruled
by childish whims. For where had that gotten her? Alone and without a family. And even worse, her past decisions now left her with a black mark on her character, and even though only she and Andrew knew the extent, her past actions would haunt her until her dying day.

11

T
he afternoon sun was beginning its descent as Nathaniel sat behind his desk in the steward’s office on Willowgrove’s main floor. It was a comfortable room, wide and spacious, with dark-green walls lined with bookcases and a paneled oak ceiling. Its broad windows framed the east and south yards, and he could monitor the comings and goings of those through both the main and tradesmen’s entrances. A large landscape painting, boasting hues of gray and green, hung by heavy cords above the side tables, and several large rugs covered the wooden floor.

This room was really a second home. In fact, he spent so much time here that to his right was a door that led to a small sleeping chamber, should his work keep him late or if he did not want to walk home in foul weather. So many of his childhood memories took place in this very space. Memories of watching his father meet with tenants and tradesmen, playing by the fire, or listening to his father’s instruction. Nathaniel drew a deep breath. The memories of his father were still difficult, even so many years later.

From his windows, he could view the kitchen gardens and stable yard, which, like the main house, were on higher land and had remained mostly untouched by the floods. Rows of perfectly spaced greens and vegetables were beginning to break free from the land, and two kitchen maids were tending the garden. But then he noticed Rebecca weaving her way through the garden, the sunlight shining on her shoulders and bonnet, peering at his window as if she could see inside from the distance. She would often stop by to visit, bringing a message or something from home, but her eyebrows were drawn together. She disappeared through the tradesmen’s entrance, and within moments, she was in his office.

Rebecca flew into the room, eyes wide, and dropped into one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Oh, what a day this is proving to be!” she said, tugging her bonnet from her head and waving it to fan herself. “I do believe this is the hottest day we have had yet this spring!”

Nathaniel pushed some papers back away from her and leaned his elbows against his desk. His sister was always full of energy and enthusiasm for things little and great. He was eager to learn what he could about their new visitor.

“I trust you were able to get Miss Faire settled?”

“Yes. I introduced her to Mrs. Bratham. That woman can be as sour as an old goat.”

He really should reprimand her. She should not be saying such things. But had he not harbored similar thoughts? While he was responsible for overseeing the male staff, Mrs. Bratham was responsible for overseeing the female staff. A task he did not envy. Even though she could be quite terse, he respected her.

“But I did not come here to tell you about Mrs. Bratham.”

He pushed himself off of the desk, straightened his stack of letters. “Well then?”

She scooted to the edge of her chair. “My news is of Miss Faire.”

At the name, Nathaniel tensed. But his sister knew him well. He allowed no change in his tone. Otherwise she might draw an assumption. “And what of Miss Faire would you like to tell me?”

“As we were coming down this path through the back garden, we encountered Mr. Moreton. It became clear that Miss Faire and Mr. Moreton were already acquainted. Nothing could have been plainer! For when he saw her he became quite engaged, asking her all manner of questions and speaking casually with her.”

Nathaniel pressed his lips together. He had been right to be suspicious about her and her connections to Aradelle. In his experience, everything associated with Aradelle was tainted. And yet Miss Faire, by contrast, seemed sincere and innocent. Perhaps his first inclination to try to stay away from her was best. After all, what associated with Aradelle—and more specifically, Andrew Moreton—could be positive?