A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (25 page)

“Lorna?” Clarkson shot back in a hushed whisper. She stepped closer, close enough that the light through the nearby window illuminated her brown eyes, which were narrowed in pointed interest. “Where did you hear that name?”

Cecily swallowed the rising self-doubt. She was within her right to ask such a question, was she not? “Mrs. Trent has called me by that name twice now, yesterday just before we left for church and again this morning at breakfast. I am concerned.”

The slanted light coming through the door highlighted the twitch of Clarkson’s jaw. The lady’s maid opened her mouth, hesitated, and adjusted the basket in her arms. “I-I put your clean gowns in your wardrobe.”

And with that, she disappeared down the hall.

Cecily stared after her, frozen to her spot until the clicking of footsteps on the wooden floors faded. She had overstepped her boundaries. Inquired too much about something she had no right to know.

She stood alone, in a shadowed corridor, with naught but the silence for company.

She had been here several days, and still she could not grow accustomed to the silence. Her throat began to tighten, and she turned toward the gold room. Her bedchamber was pleasant, but it was silent. And lonely.

She was about to retrieve a book when she spotted the wardrobe door ajar. Inside hung the gown Rebecca had loaned her just a few days prior, clean and pressed. She opened the wardrobe door and touched the dress, an idea forming. She could stay here in her room, avoiding Andrew, feeling lonely, or she could go for a walk and return the gown.

The thought of possibly encountering Mr. Stanton again unnerved her, especially after her dramatic display by the garden gate, but she had noticed his habit to stay at Willowgrove until late in the evening. Surely she could go visit Rebecca and the rest of the Stantons and be back before he returned home for the night.

She carefully folded the gown into a small satchel she found in the bottom of her wardrobe, and she then retrieved a few more swatches of fabric from her embroidery box. She grabbed her shawl to guard against the chilly spring breeze and left her room.

She paused by Mrs. Trent’s door on her way out. Cecily was always hesitant to leave the woman, even for a walk. It pained her how much Mrs. Trent did not care to be alone. But when she opened the door to check on her, Clarkson was sitting by her side, sewing. The maid looked up when Cecily entered.

Cecily whispered, “Is she sleeping well?”

Clarkson lowered her work to her side. “Yes.”

“I am going for a walk, if you think it is all right to leave her for a bit.”

Clarkson looked offended. “I am here. She will not be alone.”

Cecily nodded, pressed her lips together, and exited the room. Voices wafted up from the floor below. Not wishing to risk encountering Andrew or one of the Pritchards, she took the servants’ stairs and exited through the kitchen.

Out in the wide expanse of Willowgrove’s lawns, the tension Cecily was carrying vanished. A cool wind swept down from the distance, carrying with it the lush scents of outdoors and disrupting her bonnet’s satin chin ribbons and the folds of her gown. But she did not mind. The soft music of the wind danced through the budding trees, perfuming the landscape with the sweet aroma. The path to Laurel Cottage was muddy from the earlier rain, so she walked in the grass alongside the road.

She tightened her shawl about her and quickened her pace. The farther she walked, the more her confidence wavered. She could not recall the last time she had paid a visit to anyone alone. She was normally accompanied by the other girls or Mrs. Sterling. But her desire for company far outweighed her discomfort, and before she knew it, she was coming around the last bend.

Laurel Cottage came into sight. It was as charming as she remembered. Fluffy smoke puffed from two of the chimneys. A few chickens and a goose hurried across the yard. The windows were open, and curtains floated in and out on the breeze. Cecily drew a deep breath and tightened her grip on the satchel.

She walked through the courtyard. Feminine voices and laughter floated from the home, reminding her of the constant sounds at Rosemere. She made her way to the door and knocked.
Within moments the door flew open, and Hannah Stanton’s small face peered through.

The child’s dark eyes lit with surprise. “Miss Faire! Mother, Mother, it is Miss Faire!”

In quick succession, Charlotte joined her, and then Mrs. Stanton was at the door.

“How lovely,” Mrs. Stanton exclaimed, smoothing her skirt and then her hair from beneath the white cap she wore. “We’ve been hoping to receive a visit from you. Please, please, do come in!”

Cecily was ushered into the home, her warm reception melting away her anxieties. Rebecca appeared and offered a friendly embrace. “You are visiting us at last!” she said, taking Cecily by the arm and leading her to the parlor.

“I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Rebecca guided Cecily to one of the chairs by the fireplace and then took the seat opposite of her. “Of course not! I am so pleased you are here.”

Cecily retrieved the gown from the satchel and extended it toward Rebecca. “It has been cleaned and pressed. Thank you again for your kindness in loaning it to me. I am not sure what I would have done otherwise.”

Rebecca took the gown and placed it on her lap. “Of course, and you are welcome to my gowns anytime you find yourself caught in the rain. Here, do come into the parlor.”

Once in the cozy room, Hannah settled at Cecily’s feet next to the chair by the fire, and Charlotte sat on the sofa. At the sight of the girls, she recalled the fabric scraps she had in her satchel. She leaned toward the girls, as if to share a great secret. “I have something for you.”

Hannah squeaked and clasped her hands in front of her in anticipation, her wide eyes unblinking. Charlotte leaned forward with more reserved curiosity.

Cecily reached in and pulled out the swatches of cream and peach muslin, as well as a length of silver cording and a pale-green ribbon, and extended them toward the girls.

Hannah jumped to her feet, her skirt swishing with the movement. “Charlotte, look!” she squealed, gathering the spoils as gingerly as if they might evaporate at her touch. “They are the most beautiful things I have ever seen!”

Cecily could not help but laugh at the child’s dramatic acceptance. “I am so glad you enjoy them.”

Charlotte took the green ribbon in her slender fingers. “This is beautiful. I think I will wear it to the engagement ball.”

“Oh yes,” Cecily said, turning to Rebecca. “Mrs. Massey told me of your engagement ball. It sounds as if it will be quite the event.”

Rebecca scooted to the edge of her chair. “So you have heard about it, then. I do hope you will attend. I wanted to send you an invitation, but I was concerned Mrs. Trent would not approve. Please know you are most welcome.”

“At first Mrs. Trent was skeptical, but Mrs. Massey was able to get her to come around. I hope that is all right.”

“All right? It is more than all right! I am so pleased.”

Cecily pivoted toward Rebecca. “Mrs. Massey mentioned that she has been a friend of your family’s for a long time.”

Rebecca nodded. “I have known Mrs. Massey since we were children. She grew up in the village. Her father died when she was a baby, and her mother was the town seamstress. But I am positive she must have told you that.”

Hannah shifted her attention from the fabric in her hand back to Cecily. “Mrs. Massey is going to marry my brother one day.”

Cecily jerked her attention to the child, stunned by what she had just said.

The fire grew too warm. The air too thin.

“Hannah!” Rebecca said, leaning toward the little girl, her
expression stern. “There are no such plans. Why should you say such a thing?”

A frown darkened Hannah’s expression. “But I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Rebecca snapped before casting a wary glance in Cecily’s direction. “I am so sorry. You know how children are.”

“Think nothing of it,” Cecily stammered.

But Cecily could not miss the silent exchange between Rebecca and Mrs. Stanton, who had taken her spot next to Charlotte on the sofa. After having worked so closely with children, Cecily knew how perceptive children Hannah’s age could be—how they interpreted the nuances of behavior and conversation in a way many adults failed to.

And Cecily’s heart fell.

Bessie, the Stantons’ housemaid, brought in tea, and Mrs. Stanton rose to take the tray from her. “So, tell us, how are you getting on with Mrs. Trent?”

Grateful for the change of topic, Cecily forced a smile to her face. “All is well, I am pleased to say. Mrs. Trent and I have taken very well to each other.”

“Good, I am glad to hear it, although I can hardly say that I am surprised,” added Mrs. Stanton, pouring the steaming liquid into a cup and handing it to Cecily. “You are such an agreeable young woman. I find it difficult to believe that anyone could find fault with your company.”

“That is very kind of you to say.”

Rebecca accepted a cup of tea from her mother. “And how is Mrs. Trent? I heard reports while in town that she took ill while in Bath and has taken to her personal chamber. And yet she was at church, so I was not sure what to take as truth. I asked Nathaniel, but you know how men are about such things.”

Cecily chose her words carefully, not wishing to speak out of
turn. Mrs. Trent was misunderstood in the village. Nothing could be more obvious. She felt the need to protect the older woman—even from the Stantons. “Mrs. Trent is tired from her travels, I believe. I am sure after a few nights of rest she will be much recovered.”

Hannah lifted the hem of Cecily’s woven shawl from the edge of the sofa where it had been discarded upon her arrival. “Will you show me how to make a flower like this?”

The girl gathered the shawl in her arms and scurried over to Cecily.

Charlotte stood and walked toward them. “Hannah, Miss Faire does not have time to show you that now.”

“Yes, she does!” She looked at Cecily with big eyes. “You do, do you not?”

Cecily smiled and assessed the embroidery in question. A simple stitch. “Of course I do. Fetch a needle and some thread. I can show you on the muslin I just brought.”

The next hour passed in happy companionship, complete with much-needed laughter. Cecily taught Hannah and Charlotte a series of simple backstitches to form little flowers, and Rebecca and Cecily discussed their opinions on the book Cecily had seen in Rebecca’s room,
The
Romance
of
the
Forest
.

The evening sky visible through the window was a painting of vibrant pinks and oranges and then faded to periwinkle and lavender hues as the sun continued its descent. Inside, the white light of afternoon had been replaced by the yellow glow of candles and the fire. Cecily had lost track of the hour. It was only when she heard footsteps outside and smelled the scent of meat and bread that she realized the lateness of the hour.

The door creaked open. “I’m home!” His tenor voice echoed through the hall.

Cecily froze. She had not intended to stay so long. She intended to only be away from Willowgrove—and Mrs. Trent—for a brief
span of time. A quick glance at the clock confirmed the hour had grown later, and now Mr. Stanton was here. Heat crept up from her bodice. To her neck. She could feel her cheeks growing warm. She had not seen him since the necklace incident.

Hannah jumped to her feet and ran from the parlor. Cecily watched as she grabbed his hand and pulled him forward into the room where they all sat. “Miss Faire is here, Nathaniel!”

He removed his hat. Her heart ached at how handsome he appeared. There was a smudge of dirt on his sleeve. His hair disheveled. His cheeks unusually pink, most likely due to the increasing wind. He stared at her for a moment and a smile tugged his lips. “Miss Faire!” He bowed. “Pleasure to see you.”

“Good day, Mr. Stanton.” Cecily straightened the edge of her sleeve.

She wondered if he would say anything about their earlier encounter, but instead, he glanced around at the fabric strewn across the sofa and chairs. “What is going on in here?”

Hannah retrieved a scrap of fabric and reached it up to his face. “See! I am sewing flowers. So is Charlotte. Miss Faire taught us.”

Mr. Stanton reached to steady the art in his sister’s bouncing hands and assessed it. “Very lovely. Miss Faire, it looks as if you will make fine seamstresses of my sisters yet.”

Miss Faire was the last person he had expected to see.

But oh, how it made him smile to come home and see her sitting amongst his family. So naturally. As if she belonged.

“How was your day, son?” His mother ushered him to the chair opposite Cecily.

He ducked through the doorway to the parlor, barely taking his eyes from Miss Faire. “It was pleasant enough.”

Miss Faire, on the other hand, seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable. Her cheeks were flushed. The memory of her hand beneath his by the garden gate, although fleeting, played in his mind. If he did not know better, he would think she was embarrassed by the touch.