A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (13 page)

He picked up a letter and studied the inscription. “And what did she do?”

“Oh, Miss Faire was quite the opposite of Mr. Moreton. Quite so, indeed. She grew somber, as if she did not wish to see him at all, and then I thought she might burst into tears when I was introducing her to Mrs. Bratham. I felt quite ill at ease for her. The entire ordeal was quite unusual. Do you find it odd that Miss Faire did not mention the connection to the family last night?”

He did think it odd. For if she was connected with the family, then why did she not say as much? “She said that she came here by way of Rosemere. Perhaps it was a coincidence.”

“Well, I felt sorrow on behalf of Miss Faire. I do not care for Mr. Moreton, and judging by her reaction, she shares the sentiment.” His sister pushed herself up from the chair. “I must return home. I only wanted to tell you what happened, for I worry about her. I like Miss Faire very much, and it saddens me if she is uncomfortable here. Anyway, I am to help Hannah with her French before
the afternoon’s end. Are you going to be home for dinner tonight? Mother will want to know.”

Dinner seemed so inconsequential. “I should.”

“Good. I’ll let her know. Good-bye.” And with that, she exited, leaving Nathaniel in the comfortable silence of his study once more.

He stood and walked back toward the window and studied the grounds. Spring was becoming more evident on the trees and in the beds. Bright blooms of yellow and red were beginning to dot the landscape and cascade over the gray garden wall. But he could hardly focus on their beauty. It was odd—neither Mrs. Trent nor Mr. Moreton had been by to inquire after the damage caused by the flooding. It was a significant occurrence, and yet they’d made no mention of it.

No doubt Mrs. Trent would be recovering from the journey. It would likely be a day or two before she was pounding on his door, wanting updates on every happening since she quitted Willowgrove all those weeks ago.

But Mr. Moreton . . . it was quite unusual for him not to have at least stopped by the steward’s office.

It was a charade, really. After being away for any significant length of time, Moreton would pay him a call to be briefed on what had occurred on the grounds. Nathaniel would give a short list of happenings, and then Moreton would be comfortable that he had done his duty as an estate master-to-be.

Their “arrangement” was superficial, and Nathaniel preferred it that way. The last thing he needed was anyone—even the future estate master—meddling in the way he conducted his affairs.

But as Nathaniel reached for his satchel and prepared to leave for the day, boots clicked on the marble floor outside his door. He recognized Moreton’s obnoxious laugh, followed by words spoken far too loudly.

But in the end, what did it matter what Nathaniel thought of
Moreton’s mannerisms? Every brick in Willowgrove’s walls and every tree on its grounds would belong to Moreton in the not-so-distant future. And if Nathaniel had his way, he would be preparing his own home at Lockbourne.

Moreton did not wait for an invitation when he pushed open the steward’s office door with his walking stick, slamming it back against a framed map on the wall.

“Stanton! There you are, good man.”

Nathaniel straightened in his chair and let his satchel drop to the desk. “Mr. Moreton. Good to see you again. I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“Oh, you know, traveling with women and how they fuss over this and that. I thought for certain we would have to delay our journey another day on account of Aunt’s fits, but thankfully, we are here. Fortunate thing, not sure I could have lasted in a carriage a moment longer.”

Nathaniel pushed himself back in his chair and rested his elbows on its padded arms. He did not want to drag this visit out any longer than necessary. “Did you receive my letter? About the flooding?”

“No, never received it.” Moreton walked over to the fireplace and adjusted a small marble statue on the hearth. “Quite a surprise when we arrived and saw the fields. Shock to have to go in through the west gate. Couldn’t be helped, I suppose. But looks like quite a mess.”

Nathaniel attempted only slightly to mask his sarcasm as he repeated the words back. “A mess?”

“You know, the fields and everything.”

Nathaniel’s patience grew shorter by the minute. How he wanted to remind the man that he had brought the situation of the damaged sluice to Moreton and Mrs. Trent’s attention last autumn, and that they did not want to apply funds to get it properly
repaired. He’d voiced his concerns that the makeshift repairs Mr. Moreton had authorized would not suffice, but the man had been firm. And by such negligence, all was damaged within an hour’s time. It would take months to repair.

Now it was his problem to solve. And Moreton’s lack of concern heaped coals on Nathaniel’s already hot nerves.

The sooner he could get this conversation over with, the better. “The masons are going to start on the bridge tomorrow. That is, if the river continues to go down. But the clouds seem to be passing. We may be able to avoid more rain.”

Moreton rolled his eyes and waved a hand. “Oh yes. You know I pay little attention to such things. Whatever you think is best.” He turned back to Nathaniel, his expression twisted as if he had a brilliant thought. “What do you think of the new trees for the south garden?”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. He recalled the saplings Silas had been carrying. “The saplings? All seventy-five of them?” He tried to keep his sarcasm at bay. “I spoke with the gardener about them this morning. The south garden is too waterlogged for new planting, so Silas was contemplating putting them in the walled garden.”

Moreton seemed oblivious. “No, they are to be situated in the south garden. My intended has a fancy for pears, and these are the exact variety. We shall have an orchard. The walled garden is far too small.”

At the reference to Miss Pritchard, Nathaniel scratched the back of his head and held his tongue. There was something about Andrew Moreton that he just did not trust, an unevenness about his manner that concerned him. He was a man of swift, if imprudent, decisions. As Nathaniel was contemplating his response, Moreton said, “So, what are your thoughts on the new addition to Willowgrove Hall?”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “What?”

A grin slid across Moreton’s face, and he pushed himself up from the chair. “Am I to believe that the ever-observant Nathaniel Stanton failed to notice the pretty new addition to our party?”

Nathaniel leaned back against the chair. “My job is to tend to the estate. It is not my business who Mrs. Trent chooses to invite.”

Moreton snorted as if amused. “What a proper response.”

Nathaniel looked past Moreton and down to the ground again. He had noticed more than he was prepared to admit to anyone—even himself.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “About the bridge.”

Moreton waved his hand again. “Oh, do what you must about the bloody bridge. Just get it repaired.”

“And the sluice? We will have this trouble again if it is not tended to.”

“Very well.”

Nathaniel went down his list of other issues to discuss with the heir. The neighboring farmer’s flooded fields. The draining of the gardens. The purchase of new carriage horses. But every word seemed more trite. Normally, he could ignore such ignorance. But this man was inheriting the estate that should belong to Nathaniel.

Nathaniel loved Willowgrove Hall. He had spent his entire life in service to it, caring for it and those who were employed here. But Moreton cared more for the cut of his coat and the hue of his waistcoat than the legacy that had provided for families all around the county for generations.

It sickened him.

12

C
ecily sat at the small writing desk, folding and stacking the letters she had written. The afternoon had been a long one. She had not ventured from the room to the gardens, as Mrs. Bratham had suggested. Instead, she stayed in her new bedchamber. For all of its charm—the pale-yellow walls, the mahogany furniture, the vibrant lady’s portrait in a gilded frame—she could focus on naught else besides the ache within her chest.

At first, she cried. Silent, lonely tears, mourning her renewed sense of the loss of her emotional and physical innocence. The sharp pang of regret and loss stabbed her. Then, when the tears subsided, she watched the goings-on outside her window, hoping—and fearing—to catch a glimpse of Andrew. But it never came to pass. Then she napped—an unsatisfying bit of sleep that left her even more tired and with a considerable throbbing in her head. When Cecily rose, the long slants of light signaled the fading day. She washed her face with the cool water in the washbasin.
She assumed that Mrs. Trent would not want to meet her since the hour had grown so late. She looked at her quill.

It had been over a year since she last attempted to write her aunt in Manchester. Either her aunt was no longer at the same address, or she had chosen not to respond. Either way, the lack of response was maddening. Even if her letters were reaching her aunt, Cecily was closer to Manchester now than she had been at Rosemere. Perhaps she could travel there herself.

A knock sounded at her door. Cecily eyed the paneled door suspiciously before rising, walking toward it, and turning the brass handle.

She had expected to see a maid. Or perhaps Mrs. Bratham. But instead, it was Mr. Stanton.

At her bedchamber door.

Their eyes met.

This was not proper. A bolt of fire flamed through her. The last thing she needed was any appearance of indiscretion.

But then she took notice—he had her trunk on his shoulder.

He adjusted the trunk before speaking. “Where shall I put this?”

She stepped back, still unsettled from seeing a man so close to where she would be sleeping. “Um, there, on the carpet, is fine.”

He stepped in to put the luggage on the floor. “Of all the footmen, I couldn’t locate one, so I brought it up myself. I didn’t want you to have to wait any longer. My apologies for the intrusion.”

“No. Not at all. This is most kind.” She hesitated as he straightened from the task. “I-I did not get the chance to thank you for repairing it last night.”

He nodded and looked down at the pitiful piece of luggage. “A nail had come loose, that was all. An easy repair.”

“Well, I thank you just the same.”

He started to bow and then looked directly at her. She grew uneasy under his scrutiny. “Are you well?”

She suddenly became aware of how she must look—of how the tears and sleep must have affected her features, of her hair pulling loose from her comb. Furthermore, it was the way he looked at her—as if he could see into her heart. Her soul. She hesitated. “Oh yes, quite well. Only tired.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite. It has been an eventful couple of days.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Very well, I will bid you good night.”

Mr. Stanton turned and disappeared into the shadows before she could verbalize a response.

The interaction only lasted two minutes at best, but merciful heavens, how her heart raced. Maybe it was seeing him so unexpectedly. Or perhaps that he had been so kind to her.

Mr. Stanton was a handsome man. Even when she closed her eyes she could still see his strong outline, his piercing blue eyes. A little flutter danced in her stomach.

She remembered a similar flutter from many years ago.

Odd how seeing Andrew today had made her feel ill and weak.

How time did change one’s outlook.

As Cecily turned to her trunk, there was another knock at the door. She did not even have time to move from her spot before the door swung open.

There, in the cased doorway, stood a slip of a woman with thin lips and hollow cheeks. Age lines gathered around her pointed features and crinkled her dark complexion. Silver strands laced her dark, wiry hair, which was coiled tightly to her head beneath a white cap. Her face bore no emotion.

She stared at Cecily for a few moments before speaking. “I am Clarkson, Mrs. Trent’s lady’s maid.” Her eyes glanced at the middle of the room. “I will see to you while you are here. I see you got your trunk.”

“Yes, Mr. Stanton was kind enough to bring it to me.”

“Mrs. Trent will see you now.”

The change of topics was abrupt. Cecily jerked her head toward the door, her mouth suddenly dry as cotton. She glanced out her window, confirming that the sun was setting and the hour had grown late. “What, now?”

Clarkson opened the door wider. “She has asked for you. ’Twould be in your best interest not to keep her waiting.”

Cecily brushed her hand against her hair. It had the most unfortunate tendency to be wild, and gauging by Mr. Stanton’s inquiry about her health, she supposed she must look quite altered. She wiped her eyes with her hand. They felt puffy.

She could do nothing about that now.

With a sigh, Cecily lifted her candle lamp from her desk and followed the maid into the dark, windowless corridor and to the entrance to Mrs. Trent’s chamber. Clarkson did not knock but pushed the door open with confidence.

Anxiety wound its way around every one of Cecily’s nerves, and she smoothed her gown and then patted her hair in place. She was still in Rebecca’s borrowed printed dress, and the too-long sleeves, which hadn’t bothered her as much earlier in the day, now presented a problem. She reminded herself that this was the last difficult task. She’d met most of the others. She’d even encountered Andrew. Her entire range of emotions had made an appearance over the last several days. She would not let herself be intimidated now.

Despite the ache in her heart, she did have to admit that Mrs. Trent had piqued her curiosity. Like a puzzle, she had gathered clues to the old woman’s personality from the people she had interacted with thus far. She was anxious to know who she would be spending her time with and what tasks would fill her days.

It was the distraction that her aching heart needed.

Clarkson proceeded and gave a quick curtsey. “Miss Faire for you, Mrs. Trent.”

Cecily almost missed Mrs. Trent at first glance, for she was tucked away in the evening’s gathering shadows between a window and the door to the dressing room, in a brown leather wingback chair. She was rather slight, with thin arms and a slender face, dressed in a black high-necked gown. The only relief from the dark colors came from her stark-white hair and pale skin. Upon closer inspection, the apples of her withered cheeks boasted an abundance of bright rouge.