A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (8 page)

Cecily followed Miss Rebecca Stanton to the table where she was ushered to a chair next to Mrs. Stanton. The two younger sisters sat across from her, and Miss Stanton took the seat next to her. Mr. Stanton sat at the table’s head. Candlelight filled the room, softening the space in its gentle glow.

The muscles in Cecily’s shoulders eased.

The woman Cecily assumed to be their servant brought in dinner and served the family. The steam from the thick lamb stew, piping hot vegetables, and warm bread made her mouth water.

“Thank you, Bessie.” Mrs. Stanton turned to Cecily. “We would have had something more substantial prepared for dinner had I known we would have company,” Mrs. Stanton said, somewhat apologetically.

“This looks lovely.” Cecily infused more energy into her voice than she felt. “I have not eaten much today.”

She inched to the side so the woman could serve her. The informality reminded her of school and put her at ease.

“I’d wager this is not how you imagined spending your first evening in our fair village,” Mrs. Stanton continued.

“No, it is not, I am afraid, but it has turned out to be a lovely evening just the same.”

Mrs. Stanton smiled. “Well now, you will need to stay the night here, my dear. And you are most welcome.”

Cecily really did feel welcome. She took a bite of the stew and found the flavor of the lamb and carrots delightful. She managed to take stock of the people around her in between bites. Mrs. Stanton, despite her graying hair, boasted a young smile and a bright complexion. Mr. Nathaniel Stanton was the eldest, followed by Miss Rebecca Stanton, whom Cecily learned was only one year her junior. The two younger girls, Charlotte and Hannah, seemed younger versions of their older sister with their flaxen hair and dark eyes. Cecily took another bite, and while she felt quite at home with the Stanton women, Mr. Stanton was another matter entirely. She tried to relax her jaw and take a deep breath, but was acutely aware of his every movement at the head of the table.

Mrs. Stanton bent toward her. “So, my dear, where is it exactly that you come from?”

“I was sent here from Rosemere School for Young Ladies in Darbury.”

The youngest girl, Hannah, leaned forward eagerly, her dark eyes wide. “What was it like? Were there a lot of girls there?”

“Yes, when I left, there were thirty young ladies, I believe.” Cecily smiled at the girl’s unmasked curiosity. “Several were about your size. Shall I see if I can guess your age?”

The little girl grinned and shrank back against her chair, clearly enjoying the attention.

“Hmm . . .” Cecily put her finger to her lips. “My guess is that you are sixteen years of age.”

Hannah burst into laughter at the obvious exaggeration.

Cecily held back her own amusement. “No?”

Hannah shook her head, wisps of blond hair swinging about her round face.

“Well then, I shall try again.”

Cecily squinted, leaned close, and pressed her lips together. After creating a dramatic pause, she held up seven fingers. “Seven.”

Hannah’s mouth fell open in awe, and her eyes grew wide before she looked to her mother and then her sisters. “How did you know?”

Cecily smiled. “I have been around a great many young ladies, and I taught girls your age to sew.”

The little girl eagerly jumped from her seat. “Will you teach me to sew?”

“Hannah! Be seated,” scolded her mother.

But the child paid no heed. “I’ll be right back!”

“Hannah!” her mother cried again, half standing from her chair. As Hannah disappeared around the corner, Mrs. Stanton sank back in her seat. “I do apologize for her manners, Miss Faire. I imagine they are quite a shock to you, but I assure you, I do endeavor to instill in her some sense of decorum.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Stanton. Children will be children. Make no mistake about it. Hannah is charming.”

But what Cecily did not say was how at home the girl made her feel. Talking with children was easy. Talking with adults, not to mention a handsome man, was another thing entirely.

Rebecca returned her fork to her plate. “Where is it that you are from originally, prior to your time at Rosemere?”

Cecily hesitated before answering. The question was innocent and appropriate enough. She wiped her mouth with the linen cloth. “Before my time at Rosemere, I lived to the south of here on the outskirts of Aradelle Park in Detham.”

Mr. Stanton, who had been a silent bystander to the conversation up until this point, responded so quickly that Cecily checked
herself to ensure she had not said anything inappropriate. “Aradelle Park, you say?”

Cecily forced herself to meet his direct gaze. “Yes, sir. Do you know it?”

Mr. Stanton lowered his spoon and glanced at his mother, his eyes drawn together. “I do.”

The tension was eased slightly when young Hannah came running back into the room, blond hair bouncing against her back, something pink and white in her hands.

“Merciful heavens, Hannah, do not run!” her mother said.

But the reprimand seemed lost on the girl, for she rounded the table and thrust the item toward Cecily with childlike vigor.

Cecily, grateful for the interruption, turned her full attention to the child. “And what have we here?”

The child hopped from foot to foot, her cheeks pink. “I made it! Rebecca helped me with the legs, but I did the rest.”

Cecily took the doll from the girl and turned it over in her hand, examining the simple, uneven stitches. But she could not help but smile at Hannah’s pride in her needlework and her readiness to share it. “I think it is lovely. A job well done.”

Hannah gripped the arm of Cecily’s chair in her excitement. “Will you teach me how to make more? Like your students?”

“Of course, dearest. Anytime you like.”

Charlotte, whom Cecily judged to be about fourteen, spoke for the first time. “Hannah, Miss Faire will be very busy, just like Miss Vale was. She will be far too busy for such things.”

“No, she will not. She just told me.”

The child’s temper was starting to flare, and her mother stepped in. “I’ll have no bickering at the table or anywhere else in this home. Is that understood?”

Then, amid the chime of feminine tones, Mr. Stanton’s rich baritone voice again echoed from the plaster walls and filled the space.

“So how is it, then, that you came to be Mrs. Trent’s companion?” Mr. Stanton’s gaze was unfaltering. His voice, steady. “Are you in some way acquainted with the Trent family?”

Heat crept up Cecily’s neck. She was unsure of why these questions should make her uncomfortable. In fact, she should grow accustomed to them, for undoubtedly as she became more acquainted with the people at Willowgrove, they would make such inquiries. She could not place her finger on it, but there seemed to be something in Mr. Stanton’s tone that hinted at more than mere graciousness. She returned her napkin to her lap. “No, sir. Mrs. Trent’s former companion, Miss Vale, had attended Rosemere, and when she married, Mrs. Trent wrote to our headmistress for a replacement, and, well, here I am.”

His drawn eyebrows and set jaw made him appear suspicious. If her thoughts weren’t so muddied by the events of the day, her intuition might be more focused.

As dinner was coming to an end, the eldest Miss Stanton placed a cup of tea in front of Cecily. Cecily wrapped her fingers around the hot cup, allowing the warmth to spread through her fingers. The room, although small, exuded peace. She allowed her posture to slack ever so slightly.

But she could not completely relax.

How she had hoped, wished, prayed for a family very much like this one. As she watched the scene, a distant—although welcomed—outsider, her heart ached. As she did dozens of times each day, she thought of her sister. And the flame to find Leah grew brighter.

And even as thoughts of her sister tugged at her heart, there was another factor compounding the situation.

She cast a glance at Mr. Stanton from the corner of her eye.

Heaven help her. He grew more handsome every time Cecily looked at him.

She pressed her lips together and redirected her gaze to the delicate blue teacup in her hands.

She must keep her emotions in check.

She had no choice, for had she not once thought another man handsome? Those thoughts—and the actions associated with those thoughts—had led to her ruin.

No, she was here for a very specific purpose. Her chance at romance had passed, and besides, if he knew her history, he would likely have nothing to do with her.

7

A
fter Rebecca took Miss Faire upstairs to retire for the evening, Nathaniel sat by the glowing fire in the parlor, still making sense of the odd turn the day had taken. The house was unusually quiet, save for the occasional snore coming from the dog by his feet.

His mother had taken up her mending and was now sitting in the chair opposite him. The years had been kind to her. It was only since his father died five years ago that strands of silver had intermixed with her flaxen hair, and wrinkles creased at the edges of her eyes and around her mouth. “I do wish you would leave that animal outside,” his mother mumbled. “He smells to high heaven!”

Nathaniel smiled. Their age-old argument. He leaned over the arm of the chair to tousle the dog’s fur. “He’s not such a wild beast, see? He will calm down in due time. Mark my words.”

His mother responded with a click of her tongue and a shake of her head. “La, you men and your hounds.”

Nathaniel indulged one more pat on the dog’s head and leaned back again in his chair.

He would be quite content to enjoy a slice of silence, but as usual, his mother seemed intent upon conversation. She bent to retrieve a bit of thread that had fallen and settled back in her chair. “Miss Faire. What a lovely surprise she turned out to be.”

Nathaniel had wondered how long it would take for his mother to point out Miss Faire’s charms. He chose not to respond; rather, he stared up at the painted beams crossing the room’s low ceiling. He tried to think of something else, of how the smoke soot needed to be scrubbed from the ceiling, or how he should bring in more dry wood from their covered store.

She lifted an eyebrow. “You do not agree?”

Lately, the town seamstress, widow Mrs. Olivia Massey, had been her selection for him.

Nathaniel, however, was much more practical. His opportunity for love might come one day, but for now, he had responsibilities. Someone needed to lead their family, especially with their father gone.

He’d worked too hard. Sacrificed too much.

Nathaniel adjusted his position in the chair. “Miss Faire is to be Mrs. Trent’s companion, and you know all too well Mrs. Trent’s opinions of our family. I suggest you encourage Hannah and Charlotte to leave Miss Faire be.”

“Oh, nonsense. Miss Faire seemed quite content with Hannah’s company. Besides, she may not share Mrs. Trent’s beliefs.”

Nathaniel huffed. “If she wishes to keep her post, she will.”

His mother said nothing, but her lips pressed together in a firm line and her countenance darkened.

Katherine Stanton did not like to speak of Mrs. Trent.

And for good reason.

His mother would often seem to pretend that Mrs. Trent did not exist and that their paths were not interwoven. But over time,
Nathaniel’s frustration at her approach had given way to a more mature respect for her feelings. He would not push her.

His mother kept her eyes fixed on her sewing. “Well, regardless, we shall encounter Miss Faire about town, to be sure, just as we did Miss Vale. We might as well be civil.”

He would not speak of interacting with her socially, but there was one thing their guest had said that he could not ignore. “Did you not hear Miss Faire say she was from Aradelle Park?”

His mother did not look up from her work. “To what point?”

Nathaniel frowned. His mother seemed to have forgotten the Trents’ connection to Aradelle Park.

If she did not recall it, he was not about to remind her. He pulled off his boots and let them fall with a thud to the floor before leaning back in his chair and staring into the fire.

He was far from an alarmist, and yet the facts were too coincidental. Miss Faire seemed sincere and honest enough. But he had to be careful. Not just for himself, but for the well-being of his family. “Something about this entire situation seems amiss.”

“For heaven’s sake, Nathaniel, you are resolved to surmise the negative, whether it be appropriate or not. You grow more and more like your father every day.”

The words “your father” hung in the air like stagnant fog, dampening the lightheartedness of their conversation.

She lowered her eyes.

Clearly she regretted the words.

A dozen sharp retorts blazed through his mind, but he could not say them to her. For her regret had been enough. She—and he—had both paid the price tenfold.

At one time the idea of securing his parents’ approval had been all that mattered. But time and experience had hardened him. He still held stock by them, but now other things pressed for his attention. Like his three sisters. With their father dead, it was
Nathaniel’s lot to provide for them and to ensure they married well. And it all was within his reach. He didn’t need anything—or anyone—interfering . . . especially an attractive stranger who he feared possessed the power to disrupt the delicate balance of everything he held dear.

For his mother’s sake, he would speak no more about this. But day after day, year after year, the tides of time lulled them into change. Mrs. Trent was growing older, and each day her health became more uncertain. When the will was read, everything would change. Had his father not assured him of an inheritance? Of Lockbourne House? Although it was in poor condition, it would be his own, and furthermore, it was far from Willowgrove Hall. And for that, he would continue to play the part.