A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (31 page)

Mr. Stanton’s scent of sandalwood and outdoors signaled that he had drawn nearer. “That was Lorna Trent. Mrs. Trent’s only daughter.”

Cecily’s hand flew to her mouth. She did not know why the words should surprise her so. Mrs. Trent had never spoken of children, and she had always assumed that the Trents never had any. But as she looked at the young woman in the picture, she could make out a few similar features. The arch of the eyebrow and the shape of her eyes.

“Why would she never say anything to me about her? Does she live close?”

“No. Lorna died from a fever when she was fourteen. Mrs. Trent forbade everyone from speaking about her. That is likely why you have never heard her mentioned before.”

A sickening wave swept over Cecily. Poor Mrs. Trent! Cecily knew how painful it was to lose a mother. She could only imagine the pain of losing a child.

But in addition to the sorrow Cecily felt, the pang of hurt crept in. How could she not have told her something as important as having lost a child? In hindsight, there was much that Mrs. Trent had not told her. About Lorna. About her reasons for disliking Mr. Stanton so much. Had she only imagined that Mrs. Trent had taken her into her confidence? Perhaps it was Cecily’s desire to have a family that made her imagine that she and Mrs. Trent had grown close.

But then again, Cecily hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with her either. The thought was sobering.

She turned to find that Mr. Stanton had moved away from her and was speaking with Clarkson. His low, calm voice brought a little comfort. If her interactions with the steward had taught her anything, it was that he would know what to do and how to set things right.

Cecily returned her attention to the painting without really seeing it. The realization was becoming clearer: How could she expect others to trust her with the intricacies of their lives if she was not willing to reveal hers?

26

T
he next day Cecily awoke to a sliver of light sneaking through Mrs. Trent’s drawn curtains. As soon as the fog of sleep faded, she lifted her head and pushed her hair from her face to look around.

Cecily had spent the night on the small sofa at the foot of Mrs. Trent’s bed. The elderly woman’s night had been difficult. Her fever had steadily intensified, and delirious rants plagued the midnight hours. Dr. Collingswood had arrived from Manchester late the previous evening, and he now slumbered in the adjoining dressing room.

Cecily stood. She was still in her dress from the previous day. She shook out the wrinkled skirt and stretched to wake up her sleeping muscles.

A single lantern was still burning on the stand next to Mrs. Trent’s bed. Cecily extinguished it and then ducked under the velvet canopy to sit next to her. The sight alone brought a lump to Cecily’s throat. Mrs. Trent’s skin was as pale and colorless as the linen gown she wore. If it were not for her jagged breathing, Cecily
could not be certain she was still alive. Cecily drew a breath of her own. She had not been awake five minutes, and already her emotions were heightened.

Dr. Collingswood had said it was unavoidable.

Mrs. Trent would likely not recover from this bout.

Her fever was too fervent, her heart too weak.

She tried to remember everything that Dr. Collingswood had said. He had been unwilling to give a formal diagnosis, for her symptoms were unpredictable and inconsistent. But he had said that all signs pointed to a failing heart.

Cecily held the lady’s hand in her own and looked down at the protruding veins in the paper-thin skin. How sad it was, now, in the twilight of her life, that Mrs. Trent had no family to comfort her. And, in comparison, the sobering reality that if Cecily were in a similar situation, she would have no one to comfort her either. She didn’t know if it was the lack of sleep, the seriousness of the occasion, or the unknown future, but tears gathered. Cecily could not help recall how she held her own mother’s hand in a similar fashion, hours, nay—minutes, before she perished.

Before her mother died, Cecily had been happy. Her entire family had been. Her mother had been her father’s light, and when she was gone, he became cold and bitter, the hollow shell of a man. Cecily could recall slivers of time when her father had made her laugh. When he would sweep Leah and her up in his arms and swing them around, giggling. But that was before the fever struck their village.

After her mother’s death, her father retreated, allowing anger to replace grief. The target of his anger was the very things that reminded him of earlier times, and more specifically, Cecily. Her father, whose beliefs were rooted in folklore, believed the birth of twins to be bad luck—he believed one twin to be good and one to be evil. In his grief, he came to blame Cecily for his wife’s death.

Leah, by nature, had always been more soft-spoken and complacent. Cecily, on the other hand, had been outspoken and, at times, defiant. Time would soften her hard edges, but the lesson came far too late.

Her mother’s death had been a turning point in her family’s story, a sad one.

In many ways, Mrs. Trent’s passing would be another turning point for her.

Cecily had not been at Willowgrove but a couple of months. As morbid as it felt to think of such things, she would once again be alone.

On her deathbed, her mother had pleaded with both Cecily and Leah to cling to the faith they had. To seek God in all hardships. Cecily had tried, but in the innocence of youth, she thought that when her father turned her away, God did too. For if her own father no longer loved her, how could her heavenly Father? For years she wrestled with this idea, grappling with the gravity of it, until it became easiest to simply hide from God. But now she was tired of hiding. Tired of secrets. Tired of allowing fear to dictate her thoughts.

She looked at Mrs. Trent’s still form. She was alone. No family. Besides herself and Clarkson, no one really loved her. Cecily had not realized it until Mr. Stanton told her about Lorna. If Cecily continued on her path, if she did not face the fears that kept her a prisoner and let others into her heart, she could end up like Mrs. Trent. Alone. Forgotten.

Cecily reached over for her book of Proverbs, which had been discarded on the bedside table days ago. She had been reading it to Mrs. Trent daily. It was a task that she tried not to focus on too much, for it brought back memories of her mother’s reading. But in this moment she was longing for connectedness. Longing for a sense of peace. Perhaps Mrs. Trent was listening. Perhaps she was not. But Cecily needed to find comfort in the words as much as Mrs. Trent did.

27

L
ater that morning, Cecily had finished her reading and was looking out the window at the blanket of fog hugging the trees and landscape. Dr. Collingswood had bled Mrs. Trent in an attempt to release some of the infection. But the act seemed to make her more fragile. Clarkson brought up a tray with broth and weak tea and set it on the bedside table.

Clarkson’s strained voice was unusually thin. “How is she?”

With a sharp intake of breath, Cecily quickly gathered herself. “It has been difficult. She has been calling out different names. But she appears to be resting now.”

Clarkson rested her hand on Mrs. Trent’s shoulder. “Like a ghost, she is. Look at her.”

Cecily tried to mask her emotions as she watched the old lady’s maid assess her mistress. Clarkson had been Mrs. Trent’s personal maid for decades. For whatever Cecily was feeling, Clarkson must be feeling it exponentially.

But whatever emotion was inside Clarkson, she was hiding it well. For her stoic expression gave away little.

“You have been sitting up with her all night.” Clarkson sniffed. “You need some rest.”

“Thank you, but really, I prefer to stay here,” Cecily said.

“Well, at least you will want to change and freshen up. I will help you change gowns.”

Cecily looked down at Mrs. Trent. “Do you think she will be all right?”

“We will only be a minute.”

Clarkson led the way from Mrs. Trent’s chamber to Cecily’s.

Her room seemed so calm. In stark contradiction to the angst occurring down the hall. Cecily’s body ached to lie in her own bed. To find solace and escape in sleep. But her spirit was restless. How could she be calm when Death was knocking at Mrs. Trent’s door?

When her life was about to undergo another change?

Clarkson finished the tie at the back of Cecily’s dress, gathered a few items in the room, and then hesitated at the door. “Thank you for sitting up with Mrs. Trent. I know you are a comfort. Her previous companions would not have been so considerate.”

Cecily turned, sensing the invisible barrier between them start to crumble. “Mrs. Trent has been nothing but kind and generous to me. I am fond of her.”

“And she is fond of you. I have been in Mrs. Trent’s service for more than half of my life. I am glad she is not enduring this alone.”

“Mr. Stanton has informed me that she has no other family. Is there no one at all to send for to make her more comfortable?”

Clarkson shook her head. “No.”

Cecily barely choked on her next words. “And what of Mr. Moreton? Surely he would come to be with his aunt at this time?”

Clarkson huffed. “Mr. Moreton? Humph. He will be here
when it is time to collect his inheritance and not a moment before.” She shook out Cecily’s gown and draped it over her arm. “I will get this washed. I think you should get some rest. The next few days may be difficult.”

After Clarkson left, Cecily rested her hand against the cool glass and looked out of the window at the crisp morning. Gone was the water that had pooled on the landscape for so long. The fog was beginning to lift, and now vivid green hills gave way to lush forest. Skylarks swept across the azure sky, weaving in their course and disappearing from sight. The aged gardener was in the far corner of the west garden, tending to a wisteria in full bloom. Cecily could not help but wonder if he knew of their mistress’s state.

She turned to look at the far window and noticed that the gate to Mrs. Trent’s garden was closed. After being in Mrs. Trent’s dark room for so long, a walk around the grounds was just what she needed. She combed her hair as quickly as her stubborn curls would allow and used two combs to pin it atop her head, washed her face and cleaned her teeth, stuffed her feet into her cream kid slippers, and grabbed her shawl and a basket.

She took the servants’ stairs down to the back entrance and circled around the buildings to the garden. She nodded at the scullery maid gathering vegetables in the kitchen garden. The morning breeze was fresh and invigorating, and despite how good it felt to fill her lungs with clean, cool air, her heart remained heavy, her eyes still hot from tears.

The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, and Cecily made her way to the flowers. Mrs. Trent enjoyed the abundance of roses. She may not be able to do anything to help Mrs. Trent’s physical state, but perhaps these would help brighten her mental state. Cecily would fill her room with them.

Ivy claimed the garden’s outer walls, obscuring the gray stone walls. The garden was immaculate—a testament to Silas’s care. A
statue of the Greek god Athena stood in the center of the curved path surrounded by brilliant blooms. With her next inhale, the tantalizing scent of fresh lavender met her.

She pulled the scissors from her apron pocket and moved to a bush full of lush magenta roses. She cut the stems as long as she could and used her scissors to trim the leaves and thorns. The sun felt warm on her uncovered hair and shoulders.

Bloom after bloom she trimmed and placed in her long basket. Her thoughts drifted to a great many things . . . Her friends at Rosemere. Her sister. Mr. Stanton.

She heard movement outside the wall, which was not unusual. On an estate this size, someone was always going about their duties.

She heard the gate creak.

Her heart leapt. She saw a booted foot and then a dark sleeve enter.

She held her breath.
Mr. Stanton.

But it was not Mr. Stanton.

She was shocked to see before her Mr. Moreton.

His gaze was direct. “I was told I could find you here.”

Cecily lifted her head from her task. Would her stomach always give an odd lurch whenever she encountered Andrew? She straightened and wiped her hands on her smock. “Mr. Moreton. You’ve returned.”

“Yes. Mr. Stanton wrote to me about my aunt’s condition. I felt it only right to come see her.”

“Mr. Stanton?” she repeated, wondering why he had not mentioned it. Clarkson’s warning played fresh in her ears. “When did you arrive?”

“Only just. I wanted to see you straightaway. I inquired after you, and one of the footmen saw you come in here.”

She looked toward the gate. “I am sure your presence will be a great comfort.”

An awkward silence followed. For surely they both knew her statement was a lie.

In an effort to mask the pause, she said, “Are the Pritchards with you?”

“No. They are at their home outside of London for the time being.”

The sunlight filtered through the flowering trees, dappling his dark hair.

“I take it you have been at Aradelle Park, then?”

“I have.”

“And did you find everything in order?” She tried to hide the eagerness in her voice. He’d promised to make inquiries on her behalf.

He smiled, an expression that made him look like the boy from years ago. “Oh, I don’t need to tell you how things are. Everything is exactly as it was when you left, even after all this time. Mother is happy as long as her opium is near, and Father is happiest when I am not present.”

Her shoulders slumped. Perhaps he had forgotten her request. And yet, despite her frustration, she felt sad for him. This was how his life had always been. “Those are strong words. One might mistake them for self-pity.”

“Self-pity?” He laughed and straightened his green double-breasted waistcoat. “Dear Cecily, you know me far too well. You know my faults. Why should I endeavor to hide them?”

She was uncertain how to answer. “I knew you five years ago. You were a boy. Much can change with time.”