A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (17 page)

“Mr. Stanton, there you are. We have been waiting all morning for you.” Her voice sounded thick with accusation.

He gave a short bow. “Mrs. Trent.”

Nathaniel nearly stopped mid-bow, however, when he noticed Miss Faire in the chair opposite Mrs. Trent. He’d expected them to be together, for Mrs. Trent was never alone when she could help it, but he should have prepared himself better for the effect the new companion would have on him.

Miss Faire was dressed in a simple, high-waisted gown of blue.
Sleeves covered her arms, and white embroidered flowers embellished the neckline and hem. The gown’s pale color only served to make her hair brighter. Her eyes, more lively. His mind recalled how she appeared that first night, with her damp hair splayed wild and untethered over her shoulders. Today it was smoothed into feminine curls atop her head. Elegant. Refined.

“Mr. Stanton, Miss Faire tells me you have already met.”

“Yes.” Mr. Stanton gave a short bow in her direction. “Miss Faire. It’s my pleasure to see you again.”

Miss Faire nodded at him. The simple action stole his breath.

He was going to need to employ every inch of self-discipline to stay focused on the task at hand.

Mrs. Trent jerked her head, her eyes narrowing on Nathaniel. “I trust you and your family are well.”

He shifted his weight. Must they go through this charade each time they interacted? Harriet Trent cared little for his health, and even less for that of his family. “Very well, ma’am. I trust you found Bath enjoyable.”

“Tolerably.”

Nathaniel cast a cautious glance toward Miss Faire, trying hard not to notice the way the sunlight caught the glimmer of her hair and her feathery eyelashes. She appeared to be as uncomfortable as he, for even though she was still, her eyes were wide and watchful. And her gaze was latched onto him.

“Be seated, Mr. Stanton. It pains my neck to look up at you in this manner. What news do you have for me? I know you must want to be about your business.”

Nathaniel did as she bid. He had made a mental list of the news she typically liked to receive when she returned from her travels. “Mr. Shire died a week ago. The youngest Hardy boy fell from his horse and broke his arm.”

“’Tis a shame to hear.”

“And the new carriage horses are here, four of them, all matching bays. James has been working with them and says they will be ready before too much longer.”

“And what of the bridge?” she said. “It was most unsuitable to be forced to go back to the west stable entrance.”

“I take it you did not receive my letter.”

Mrs. Trent clicked her tongue. “Bothersome having to drive around to the back gate after all these years coming up the main drive. I shudder to think what my nephew’s guests thought of the inconvenience.”

He cast a glance over at Miss Faire and thought he detected a hint of a smile tug at her lips. She knew the inconvenience all too well.

But this is how it always was. Mrs. Trent and her nephew could not see past the minor disruption of taking the stable drive when their tenants would suffer greatly from this incident.

He cleared his throat. “It could not be helped. I have already been in contact with an engineer in Manchester to repair the sluice. He should arrive within the week to assess the damage and formulate a plan for repairs.”

“Have you spoken with my nephew yet on this matter?”

“I spoke with him yesterday.”

“Then I leave the matter to you and him. Do what you must to rectify the situation.”

Mrs. Trent stood, gripped her cane with her bony hand, and crossed the room to a painting.

The painting.

The painting that Nathaniel avoided looking at every time he came into this particular drawing room.

And then he waited for the condemning conversation that was sure to follow.

“I cannot help but wonder how my late husband would have
handled such a situation.” Mrs. Trent’s voice seemed louder, as if she were trying to prove a point. “This was my husband, Miss Faire—here, in the painting. He was a handsome man, was he not?”

Nathaniel looked down at the toes of his boots.

He could not say why she always managed to point out the painting whenever he was in the room. Perhaps it was to remind him of their secret. Or of his illegitimacy. Or of her authority.

Miss Faire stood, shook out the folds of her gown, and stepped across the plush rug toward the painting, her steps nary making a sound. She laced her fingers behind her back as she studied the portrait. “Yes, he was a very handsome man.”

Nathaniel could not look at it. For it was like looking into a mirror. The blue eyes. The square jawline. The straight nose. They were all features he bore. Someone who looked too closely might notice the resemblance.

“He was the most respected man in the county,” Mrs. Trent said. “So wise with ways of business. His talents on such matters were unequaled.”

Miss Faire stepped even closer and rested her hand on the back of a sofa, her expression pensive as she studied the large canvas. “You must be very proud of his legacy.”

Nathaniel needed to change the subject.

He knew little about the relationship between mistress and companion, but he did know one thing about Mrs. Trent: She usually took her companion into confidence.

And what would he care if Miss Faire knew his secret? A man made his own way in the world, despite his parentage. He was playing the hand he was dealt, and he was proud of his work.

But Nathaniel did care for his mother and the reputation of his sisters. For it was different for women. He could quickly overcome such a disgrace, but his sisters’ chances of marrying well were dependent upon their reputations, especially since their dowries
were small. He did not want anyone thinking down on his mother for her past actions.

He purposefully avoided looking at Mrs. Trent and instead turned to Miss Faire. “Tell me, Miss Faire, what do you think of secrets?”

She cut her eyes to Mrs. Trent but then looked at him, unwavering. Her cheeks flushed.

Something was hiding behind her shy expression.

Miss Faire pushed her hair from her face, a trait he was beginning to recognize as something she did when she was uncomfortable. But her answer was surprisingly bold. “I think everyone has secrets, sir, and a right to their own thoughts. It is human nature, I think.”

“I do not know if I agree,” Mrs. Trent shot back. She might be aging, but her tongue was as sharp as it had been when he was a boy. “Some secrets are like a noose. The more you resist, the more they strangle you.”

The tension in the room expanded, pressing on him. Even after all these years he could not identify the emotion he experienced around Mrs. Trent whenever this topic—or even the reference to this topic—surfaced. He wasn’t sure if it was anger. He was fairly confident it was not sadness. But the constant need to walk a fine line with the woman grew old.

Whereas he would respect her and her position just as his father had demanded, she seemed determined to try to push him to the point of breaking. Then she could despise him for something that he did, and not something that his parents had done. But his best course of action would be to stay strong and behave in the manner in which he knew to be right.

“I am growing tired, Mr. Stanton,” Mrs. Trent said, returning to her chair. “You may leave now. But before you do, please escort Miss Faire to the library on your way to wherever it is you are going. She does not know where it is, and I should like her to read to me.”

Cecily jerked her head up at the mention. The thought of being alone with Mr. Stanton, even for something as simple as walking to the library, sent a tremor through her.

She was not sure what had just transpired between Mrs. Trent and Mr. Stanton. With each word, the tension between them pulled harder, a battle masked behind civil, even tones.

She tried to follow their veiled dialogue and found it impossible, but after the strange conversation, she was certain of one thing.

Nathaniel Stanton had a secret.

Something that Mrs. Trent knew. Or perhaps it was Mrs. Trent who had the secret.

And that mystery made the handsome man standing before her even more intriguing.

Her mere presence in the same room with him made her head feel light and her thoughts muddled. And even as her encounter with Andrew reopened old wounds, the woman in her could not deny the attraction to Mr. Stanton.

She found her voice and turned toward Mrs. Trent. “Are you certain? I can visit the library while you are napping if you prefer company.”

“No, I think not. Go now.” Mrs. Trent returned to the sofa and took a few moments to settle herself. “Please select some poetry, dear. And nothing too sentimental.”

Cecily complied, keeping her eyes low. She preceded Mr. Stanton to the corridor. The distinct scent of leather and sandalwood met her as she passed him, and she was grateful when she stepped in the hall to put a little more distance between them.

He closed the drawing room door and turned to her. “Have you not had a proper tour of Willowgrove, Miss Faire?”

She shrugged. “No, sir. Not as of yet. I did not mean to take you away from your duties. I fear I am becoming quite a nuisance to you, Mr. Stanton. I am sure I could have found the library. Eventually.”

He held a door open as she stepped through to another sunlight-filled corridor. “I am sure you could have, but this is much easier, is it not? This is an old home. Wings have been added and demolished over the decades. Some parts of it are a bit of a maze.”

She paused to take notice of a large painting of a woman holding a small child. “This is by far the largest house I have ever been in. I fear I shall have to write this down so I can commit it to memory.”

“I am sure you will do just fine. Here is the main staircase. This area is called the Staircase Hall.”

She immediately recognized it from both the previous day when the housekeeper took her to her chamber and when she and Mrs. Trent descended from her bedchamber to the blue drawing room earlier that morning.

“Find this and you will always be able to find your way back to the main hall. We will be going up one flight of stairs. The library is across from Mrs. Trent’s chambers.”

Cecily placed her hand on the varnished handrail as she ascended and could not help but wonder why, if the library was so close to their chambers, Mrs. Trent did not show her the room herself.

But before she could ask, he spoke. “Tell me, how was your first night at Willowgrove?”

She almost laughed. Her first night had been emotional. Heart-wrenching. Sleepless. “It was well.”

“I am glad to hear it. I trust it was more comfortable for you than Laurel Cottage?”

She smiled. “I must say I missed the company at Laurel Cottage. How is your mother? And your sisters?”

He paused at the landing and allowed her to pass. “They are all well. In fact, Rebecca, just this past night, became engaged to Mr. Turner, the man you met in the courtyard yesterday morning.”

“Oh, how delightful! Please pass along my felicitations.”

“I would be happy to, but would you not prefer to do that yourself? My family would welcome you at any time.” At the top of the stairs, he motioned to a door at the end of the corridor. “Here is the library.”

When she stepped past him into the room, Cecily had to catch her breath. For the ceilings in the room were exceptionally tall. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark and cool. Oak bookshelves lined every wall, and the space above the shelves but below the crown molding was painted a bright shade of emerald green. The showpiece of the room was a marble chimneypiece boasting intricate caryatids flanking each side. Above the mantel was a striking painting of a young man, large enough that it might have easily been a life-size portrait. A writing desk with rich leather inlay stood in the middle of the room, a small, square table was tucked in the far corner, and two chairs sat near the fireplace.

Mr. Stanton walked to the window and shook the curtains open. Light tumbled into the room, reaching to every corner and illuminating motes in the air.

“You will have to forgive the state of the room, Miss Faire. It is rarely used and remains closed off from the house most of the time.”

She could barely hear what he was saying, for she was still soaking in the sheer volume of books around her. She had only been in one library before this moment, and it had been the modest room at Rosemere. It paled in the shadow of the leather volumes here. “What a magnificent collection!”

“Mr. Trent was an avid reader, and he took great pride in his assemblage. I believe last I heard there were more than four thousand volumes, the oldest of which dates back to 1498. There is a
complete catalog on that podium, if you are interested.” He looked around the room, fists on his hips, as if assessing it for the first time. “I recall you mentioned you were fond of reading, so you should feel right at home here. Sadly, there have been no new additions logged since Mr. Trent’s death, but I am sure you will find something to entertain yourself and Mrs. Trent.”

“I am certain I will. Thank you.”