A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (6 page)

She didn’t see the animal until it was quite upon her. It was small. And black. A fox? A small wolf? Heaven help her, with her frayed nerves and total exhaustion, her mind could run away with her.

She did the only thing she could think to do.

She screamed.

5

N
athaniel walked down the lane to his home, his leather satchel flung over his shoulder and his hat pulled as low as possible to keep the rain out of his eyes.

Mrs. Trent and her traveling companions would be arriving in the morning. He had written to her of the flooding to prepare her for the shock, but he doubted the letter would have reached her. Indeed, he doubted she would even read it if it had, such was her way in matters concerning Nathaniel.

The rain fell in sheets now, one belligerent wave after the other. In the distance, yellow light winked at him from the windows of Laurel Cottage, his family’s home. Nathaniel quickened his pace.

Gus, his pointer, bounded ahead of him. Normally, Nathaniel would call the pup back by his side, teaching him to stay with his master, but after the day’s troubles, he felt more lax than normal.

But then the animal stopped in the road and cocked his ear.

Nathaniel whistled low to call the dog back, but instead of obeying, Gus barked a series of high-pitched howls before abandoning
their path and diving into a small copse of trees that separated the lane from the main road to Willowgrove Hall.

He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Gus! Come!”

Gus barked. Then barked again. No doubt the dog had tracked some unsuspecting hare or rodent. “Gus!”

But it was when he heard a shriek—a human, feminine scream—that he dropped his bag and raced through the thicket. The wet branches and leaves tugged at him as he forced his way through the thick brush.

Despite his wide-brimmed hat, raindrops latched onto his eyelashes, and he slid the rough sleeve of his woolen coat across his eyes. But in the split second it took to wipe the moisture away, he was through the brush. Standing before him was his dog . . . and a woman.

He stood, momentarily captivated, his movements slowed by the sheer shock of seeing her standing alone, in the road, at this late hour, and in this weather.

If anyone, he’d expected to see his sister, or perhaps one of the townspeople.

But this woman was a stranger.

Nathaniel stepped closer. His youngest sister’s stories of enchanted woodland fairies catapulted to the forefront of his mind. Especially when she was younger, his sister would pretend to see them on their walks through the forest.

But no, this woman was very real.

The stranger was cloaked in a pelisse that was so wet it appeared black and a straw bonnet with a thick ribbon that sat askew on her head. He could only see her profile in the night’s shadow, but her wet hair hung in clumps about her face and shoulders. She stood a few feet from the dog, hands at her chest, eyes fixed on Gus. When the dog moved closer, she scurried behind a tree trunk.

She had not yet noticed Nathaniel, but her shouts at Gus pulled him from his trance.

“Get away! Go!”

Nathaniel rushed to Gus and pulled the small dog back.

“I am sorry, miss,” he said, kneeling to hold the dog by the collar. “Did he harm you?”

The woman drew several breaths. Her eyes flicked from the dog back to him. “Y-Yes. I mean . . . no. He caught me by surprise, is all.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a sharp gust of wind pelted them with more rain.

“He is harmless. Merely excited.”

They stood silent for a few moments, each staring at the other. When he did speak, his words came out rougher than intended. “I do not believe we are acquainted.”

She clutched her pelisse closer. “No, sir, we are not. I am traveling to Willowgrove Hall.” She offered no additional information, only eyed the dog bouncing at its master’s feet.

Nathaniel thought it odd that a woman should be traveling alone, but if she were a guest on the property, he needed to make sure she was safe. “I am Nathaniel Stanton, steward at Willowgrove Hall. May I be of assistance?”

She drew a deep breath and met his gaze directly. “I am Cecily Faire, and I thank you, sir, but I am quite well. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Willowgrove Hall, I will continue on my way.”

“Impossible.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the wind racing through the branches above them. “It is far too dark to walk in this weather. You’ve still about half a mile.”

He thought he noticed her chin tremble. “If I may ask, how is it you came upon this road? Most do not travel it on foot.”

She returned her gaze to the trunk by her feet. “The carriage delivered me at the gate, but the driver said he could not continue through to Willowgrove on account of an impassable bridge. He suggested I walk.”

“His advice to continue on foot was misguided.” Nathaniel nodded toward the main house. “What is your business at Willowgrove?”

“I am to be a lady’s companion to Mrs. Trent.”

At the moment, he was not sure which surprised him more—meeting a young woman on such a secluded road or the fact that Mrs. Trent had acquired yet another companion. She had an unusual habit of bringing guests and not informing him. Such details would be helpful at times like this, when unfamiliar young ladies showed up unannounced.

Nathaniel tilted his head to see around the curve in the road. The sky grew darker by the minute, and the road beneath him had turned to mud. He could neither allow her to stay here nor to continue on.

Unsure of how to proceed, he assessed her. She was not a common person, but rather a lady, sent to be the mistress’s personal friend. Even her pelisse, albeit wet and dark, appeared elegantly trimmed and cut.

Inwardly, he groaned. The last thing he needed was to have any interaction with Mrs. Trent’s companion. But she looked so young. So fragile on so rough a night. He was not about to leave her in the wind and rain.

“My home, Laurel Cottage, is through those trees. Would you consider accompanying me there? My mother and sisters are at home, I am certain, and once out of this weather we can decide the best course.”

Miss Faire frowned and looked back over her shoulder, lifting a delicate, gloved hand to shield her eyes. “But Mrs. Trent will be expecting me. I’ve no wish to disappoint her.”

“Mrs. Trent is away. She will be returning tomorrow. Besides, the driver was correct. The bridge is impassable; the supporting beams were washed away. There is a makeshift footbridge, but that is for the workers and the brick masons. I’d advise against crossing it with wet shoes and in this weather.”

She looked back over her shoulder again and then turned her eyes toward him. In the gathering darkness, in the shadow of the elms lining the drive, her eyes shone green. Even with wet hair and a soggy cloak clinging to her narrow shoulders, she was very becoming.

Yet another reason he should have nothing to do with her.

He released Gus, paused to ensure the dog did not rush the new companion, and stepped forward to pick up her trunk. He spied the long strap she had tied and lifted it. “What’s this?”

“My trunk was damaged when it was dropped from the carriage, I fear. I tied the strap so I could pull it.”

Mud and mire caked the battered trunk. He was already soaked. What harm would a little mud do? He hefted the trunk onto his shoulder.

He whistled to Gus, who trotted over, tail wagging, and then turned to her. “Follow me. Mind your step, miss, and stay close.”

Feeling more preposterous than ever, Cecily followed Mr. Stanton through the low-lying brush and thick branches. Mr. Stanton was but a black silhouette before her, outlined in the shifting shadows of the wind-tossed forest. She was unaccustomed to walking in such dense forestry. At Aradelle, she had spent many hours exploring the wooded lands around the estate, but those days were distant memories.

How she wanted to hesitate, to inspect where she was putting her feet to be sure the ground was solid. But Mr. Stanton was traveling at such a pace that she had to trust him, despite that every sensibility within her was screaming a warning.

Cecily tried to heed his caution and stay as close as possible, attempting to follow his footsteps to the letter, but she winced as
she felt her foot sink into something soft. Her breath caught in her throat when she stepped too close to a branch and it caught on the straw of her bonnet. She paused to free herself.

When they finally emerged on the other side of the trees, she noticed yellow light spilling from two windows up ahead.

Mr. Stanton’s voice was low, and he pointed toward the structure. “Laurel Cottage. There.”

Cecily drew a deep breath and wiped the rain from her eyelashes. Nestled in a clearing stood a cottage, the white walls of which seemed to glow almost blue in the darkness. Upon closer inspection, the cottage was unlike any she had ever encountered. It was a large, symmetrical building, and the entrance was situated between two projecting wings with steep gables. The exterior appeared to be a mixture of stucco and weatherboarding. Dark timbers crossed the frame, and a steep, thatched roof gave way to stone chimneys jutting black into the night sky, the smoke puffing from them becoming one with the rainy haze. She paused to take in the sight, but Mr. Stanton continued ahead. Nerves danced within her. He had said he was the steward of Willowgrove Hall and that ladies were in the house. She should trust him, should she not?

The dog came running back from behind them and wove around his owner as he walked toward the cottage. She gathered her skirts and hurried to catch up.

Mr. Stanton called out to signal their arrival, and within moments the door swung open.

And then chaos ensued.

A young girl in pale green with blond hair gathered in a large, pink ribbon darted past her to the dog. A heavy woman in a white apron hurried to Mr. Stanton, and two young ladies clad in printed dresses stared at her for several moments before one reached forward and tugged on her arm, gently escorting her inside.

Once inside, the older lady stepped in front of Mr. Stanton in
obvious assessment of Cecily. “Oh, my dear! What is the meaning of this?”

Mr. Stanton removed his coat, flicking water onto the clean wood floor, and handed it to the little girl bouncing beside him. “Allow me to present Miss Faire. We met on the road to Willowgrove. She is to be Mrs. Trent’s new companion.”

Not knowing what else to say, Cecily self-consciously ran her hand down her pelisse, dipped in a curtsey, and tried to recall every bit of the polite conversation skills she had been taught at Rosemere. “My apologies for the intrusion. I fear I must look a sight.”

But the lines on the woman’s face softened, and she motioned for Cecily to move closer. “Oh, you poor soul! You are soaked through! Come with me.” She took Cecily by the arm and pulled her deeper into the house, which, with the heavy wool skirt, was quite a feat in itself. “Charlotte,” she continued, “go tell Bessie to get some tea, and quickly.”

Cecily allowed herself to be led into a room off the main hall, which she assumed to be the parlor. She scanned the room as discreetly as possible, trying to get a sense of her surroundings, for everything about her was in motion. The low-ceilinged room was centered around a large, stone chimneypiece with oak shelves stacked with tomes. A calico-covered sofa and two wingback chairs atop a woven rug formed a sitting area around the fire. Lobby chairs, a small table, and a long-case clock sat against the back wall.

The older woman’s high voice recaptured her attention. “Well, who can believe this weather? A fine greeting for you, is it not? Here, permit me to take your bonnet, and we shall set about getting you dry.”

Cecily had not realized she was trembling until she attempted to untie the soggy ribbon fixed beneath her chin. The knot felt too tight, her hands too weak. She looked around her. Two, no three females watched her with wide eyes.

Cecily tilted her head. The steward still stood in the hall, his broad back to them, and removed his hat, revealing wet black hair. The sight surprised her, for judging by the depth of his voice, she had expected him to be graying, like the woman who had answered the door.

One of the young women brought her back to the task. “Here, allow me.” The tallest girl, with fair hair and skin, and eyes that reminded Cecily of the color of chocolate, stepped forward and within a matter of seconds had the satin ribbon hanging freely.

Cecily stole another glance at the steward. Thick, wet hair hung over his forehead, but it was when his brilliant blue eyes landed on her that her pulse quickened. It was the first time she’d been able to see his face. The start of a beard’s shadow darkened his chin, highlighting a strong jaw and broad mouth. She grew self-conscious of how her own hair must be disheveled and the awkward manner in which her clothing hugged her form.

As if interpreting Cecily’s timidity, the older woman stepped forward. “Introductions can wait until after you are dry and tea is made. Rebecca, take Miss Faire upstairs and get her into something dry, will you? It will be easier to assess the situation once everyone is comfortable.”