A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (5 page)

Cecily had never been close to her aunt. Indeed, she had never even met the woman. All she knew with certainty was her name and that she lived in Manchester—at one time. After receiving Emma’s letter, she wrote to her aunt weekly, trying to locate her sister. After years with no response, she stopped. But now, perhaps if she earned enough money, one day she could travel to Manchester herself and look for her sister. It was her only lead—and she would cling to it, even from Willowgrove Hall.

4

Willowgrove Hall
Wiltonshire, England, 1819

N
athaniel Stanton stood on Grange Peak, the highest point on all of Willowgrove Hall property, and looked to the north at the main house. A filmy, late-afternoon fog hung in the air, layering the patchwork landscape in shades of pewter and blanketing the grounds with a chill. The spring rain had stopped, but the low clouds churned with ominous speed, and a grumbling to the east promised the arrival of more bad weather.

But it was not the weather that distracted him. Or the dampness in the air. He’d lived his entire life in such a climate. It was the standing water on the grounds below that held his focus.

Three days past he had awoken to news that the sluice at one of Willowgrove’s ponds had given way and flooded the southern grounds and surrounding field. It had wreaked havoc on the carefully designed irrigation system that provided water to their
tenants. But when Nathaniel had climbed up to Grange Peak, he was not prepared for the sight he beheld. Grazing land and gardens alike were beneath patches of water, and the water itself had made its way much too close to the main house and stables. The force of the water rushing from the pond down the Lennox River washed away the foundation of the bridge connecting Willowgrove’s main drive to the road that led to the village. Now, days later, the water had not receded. Indeed, days of rain had compounded the predicament, and before him stretched a broken sea with water filling in the low-lying areas and encroaching on the farther gardens and fields.

Silas Yeatsman, Willowgrove’s head gardener, stood beside Nathaniel, fists akimbo, surveying the landscape through hooded eyes. The hem of his threadbare coat and blue woolen work apron fluttered in the wind. Despite his pauper appearance, he was the most gifted gardener for miles, highly respected for his ability to make plants and trees thrive.

Nathaniel paused to pat Gus, his pointer puppy, before speaking to Silas, who was seeing the flooding from this angle for the first time. “What do you make of it?”

Silas whistled, long and low. “’Tis an ugly sight.”

Even though he knew better, Nathaniel had hoped for a more optimistic response. “Has it ever been this dire?”

Silas shook his head and scratched his uneven beard with pudgy fingers. “Nay. The same pond flooded, oh, maybe thirty years since, but the sluice wasn’t there then. Ne’er had a worry with it since.”

The words sank into Nathaniel and reverberated. As the steward of Willowgrove Hall, it was his job—his duty—to ensure all ran smoothly. But flooding of this magnitude weighed heavily. He thought of the damage it had done—it had crumbled the bridge that led from the main road to Willowgrove’s entrance and obliterated the early crops for the nearest tenants. And several of Willowgrove’s famed gardens were affected.

The thought of rebuilding was heavy enough. But the thought of explaining the entire situation to the older woman was almost unendurable.

“Mrs. Trent will not be pleased that her gardens and grounds are beneath water.” Normally, he would never speak freely of his employer in front of others, especially other servants beneath him. But Silas had known Nathaniel since he was a boy. He’d been his father’s closest confidant, and now Nathaniel considered him a trusted friend.

Silas pulled his hat low over his forehead. “You can’t control the weather any more than you can control the seasons. I’d wager Mrs. Trent no longer cares for such details, as ill as she’s been. It’s that nephew of hers what’ll care.”

Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the manner in which the wind caught in the folds of his greatcoat and billowed it behind him. Silas was right. There was a time Mrs. Trent would have grown irate at such a crisis, but time had intervened. After her husband’s death, she’d thrown all of her energy into learning the inner workings of the estate, but her vigor was now failing and, as a result, her days of such involvement.

But Mrs. Trent’s nephew, the future heir to Willowgrove Hall, was another situation altogether. He was a silly man, full of unrealistic plans for the future of the estate, and he would no doubt have words. Nathaniel tugged his neckcloth. “I had a conversation with him last autumn about having the engineer out to assess the sluice when we first began having trouble with it, but he thought the expense unnecessary.”

“He was a foolish boy, and he has grown to be a foolish man.” Silas sniffed. “Mrs. Trent’s not long for the earth, and then we will deal with him every day of our lives.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Nathaniel skimmed the horizon. “I’d say he will be here a few months out of the year and spend the
majority of his time elsewhere. Mr. Trent might have preferred to have a hand in the day-by-day happenings at Willowgrove, but I daresay his replacement will have naught to do with it. At least such an arrangement will leave us to go about our business in peace.”

“Days of peace are over, lad. Everything is changing.” Silas adjusted his footing on the wet carpet beneath him. “’Tis a shame. All this hard work. And it could have ended so differently.”

Nathaniel caught the look Silas flung in his direction before he turned to survey the land. As if intercepting Nathaniel’s thoughts, Silas slapped him on the shoulder. “I am sure you will figure it out, lad. I will tend my gardens. You see to the rest.”

Nathaniel could not resist one last question. “What do you think my father would have done in this instance?”

Silas huffed. “Which one?”

Nathaniel stiffened at the reference, for Silas had struck on the truth that he’d kept hidden from the world. Only four living souls knew the truth, and Nathaniel needed to keep it that way. Silas was a trusted man, but referring to it in such a lighthearted manner irked Nathaniel, especially when the weight of responsibility already pressed upon him.

Silas’s withered face fell when Nathaniel did not join him in a chuckle. “My apologies. Did not mean to offend.”

“You did not offend me,” Nathaniel said, propping his foot on a nearby stump and then leaning on his knee and staring off to the distance. “Truths are truths.”

“Most men only have one father. You were blessed with two.”

Nathaniel grunted. He rarely spoke of this matter with anyone. “Blessed? I cannot see how.” Nathaniel straightened. Silas was getting too close.

As if sensing Nathaniel’s discomfort, Silas cleared his throat and returned to the topic at hand. “As for what your father, old Mr. Stanton, would have done, it is simple to say. He would have done
what was best by those who depended upon him. And that is the farmers whose livelihoods rest on the grounds they tend. He would have fought to get the sluice fixed posthaste and do whatever necessary to see such an event did not repeat itself.”

Nathaniel drew and held a deep breath. Silas was right. Nathaniel, and his father before him, were stewards, but without a separate land steward or bailiff to oversee the relationships with the tenants, the responsibilities of managing the house and the tenants fell to him. It was the part of his occupation that he found the most satisfying, but at times, seeing to the needs of the tenants could put him at odds with the mistress of the estate. He released his breath. “Well, there is nothing we can do by staring at this. We had best get to work.”

Thunder growled, and Silas turned his pale eyes heavenward. “Don’t think you’ll make much progress ’til tomorrow.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Nathaniel scratched his puppy’s ear again and turned to take the path back down Grange Peak. “Well, we’ll not get anything done if we do not get started now.”

And with that, he strode back down the hill.

Cecily gasped as the coachman tossed her trunk to the ground from atop the carriage.

“Do be careful!” she shouted, struggling to be heard above the howling winds and rustling branches.

But her words were carried away with the gusts, and her trunk fell to the soggy ground below with a thud, splashing up mud and bits of earth. She shrieked when the brass latch popped open, spilling two of her clean dresses onto the waterlogged road. She scrambled to save them from the puddle and as she did, hot tears blinded her eyes.

No, no, no!

The entire day of traveling from Rosemere to Willowgrove had been uncomfortable at best, and now, after hours of traveling on rutted roads, Cecily’s nerves were as raw as the bitter spring wind.

She attempted to latch the trunk, but the leather strap had torn away from the side.

She looked up at the coachman, expecting assistance of some sort, but the driver adjusted his flapping, caped greatcoat, climbed back to his perch, and gathered the reins in his thick, gloved hands.

“Where are you going?” Cecily demanded, straightening her posture. “How am I supposed to get to Willowgrove Hall?”

The driver nodded his head toward a gate. “Willowgrove Hall is through that gate, down the lane, and you will curve through the woods. From there you will not be able to miss it.”

She frowned as she assessed the gate he referred to. Beyond it, the dark, twisting road curved into a forest thick with a shifting evening fog.

She was not about to step a single foot into such a place.

Around her, rain started to fall in fine, misty waves. Cecily shielded her eyes and looked back up at the driver. “Then you must take me there.”

“’Tis not possible. Bridge is washed away. I’d never get the horses through.”

“What do you mean the bridge is washed away?” she asked, almost laughing at the ridiculous statement. “Then how am I to get across?”

The driver jerked the reins in apparent frustration and adjusted his collar.

When he did not respond, Cecily continued, “Well, surely there is another entrance. This cannot be the only one.”

“This is not a private carriage, miss, and we have already gone off our main route. We’re late as it is.”

Cecily’s chin began to quiver. Now was not the time to be demure. She was expected at Willowgrove Hall, and she needed to find a way to get there. In her most authoritative voice, she said, “This is not acceptable. I insist that you take me on to Willowgrove Hall immediately.”

“Hear me.” The driver spoke to her as an adult correcting a child. “That bridge is gone. I’m not about to take my horses for a swim. Now, either I can take you into Wiltonshire for the night, or you can walk on to Willowgrove Hall yourself. Makes little difference to me.”

Cecily hesitated. Her money was limited. It would hardly be prudent to pay for a night’s lodging. For what if she needed the money another time? She did not have time to give it another thought, for within the span of time it took for her to consider her response, the carriage groaned into motion. She looked up to see the driver flicking the reins on the horses’ wet backs.

“Wait!” she cried. She tried to run after them, but the clingy folds of her skirt tangled around her legs, making it impossible to take another step without falling face-first to the muddy earth.

As the carriage disappeared around the bend, she wiped the rain away from her face and gave a little sob. This was not how it was supposed to be.

I
will
not
cry.

She forced herself to look in the direction the man had pointed and blew out her breath. The gate, black and shiny from the rain, loomed before her. As she stood lamenting her situation, a clap of thunder echoed from the trees and a streak of spring lightning sliced the darkening sky. She clutched her skirt, lifting it above the mud.

She reassessed the open iron gate and sniffed. She could either stand here in the rain or commence walking.

Feeling rather resourceful, she removed one of the leather straps from her trunk and looped it through the handle, and with
a sharp tug, angled it appropriately and began dragging it through the gate and behind her. Once she had walked a couple hundred feet down the road, she rounded a curve. As she did, a silhouette of a cupola appeared above the tree line, standing stark against the churning sky.

Willowgrove Hall.

She had no idea how long her walk would take, but the stirring clouds urged her to hasten her step. If she kept her eyes down, the brim of her traveling bonnet kept the rain from her face.

As she took another step, she caught a glimpse of her mud-caked hem. Her shoulders sank. This was no way to meet Mrs. Trent, damp and soiled, dragging a broken trunk. She was supposed to be a well-bred lady. Or at least, that was what she wanted Mrs. Trent to believe. At present, she feared her appearance resembled more a vagabond than a proper lady’s companion.

Somewhere to her left an owl hooted, its clear call rising above the steady pound of rain. And then, as she was about to turn another bend, a small animal lunged from the tree line, howling, and circled her. She gave a short scream and hugged the leather strap to her heart with one hand and clutched her skirt in the other. “Shoo!” she cried. “Be gone!”