A Gentleman's Daughter: Her Choice (14 page)

“Thank you, sister. How my daughter has become such an ungrateful, foolish girl, I know not,” Mrs. Wilcox began, soon admonishing Cecilia again for all her faults, especially her feelings for Mr. Cateret and all the possible concealments he and Cecilia could be plotting. The three argued for over an hour, until Cecilia could bear no more.

“I have said I will accept Mr. Thornhill when Papa allows it.”

“Do you love him, then, for you have declared you will never marry without love.”

“I’ll not discuss my feelings with you.” Cecilia crossed her arms.

“You are hiding something. I will discover it. Why will you not save us all the trouble and tell me now?”

“Please, I wish to rest again. Surely you would not have me looking worn when we arrive?”

Finally, the three women were in accord.

Rain and wind battered the servant’s umbrella as he held it over Cecilia. She could not view the outside of Lionel Hall, and her own inner storm clouded her observations. The vast hall was ill lit--though there was a generous fire--and cast an imposing gloom, reminding her of Mr. Thornhill in his sterner moments. That gentleman attempted to welcome his guests and get them all up to their rooms amidst the chatter of Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Higham. Cecilia was left silently standing, her hem dripping on the dampening rug. A jolt shot through her, as if waking her out of a dream, when Mr. Thornhill took her arm in his and guided her up the stairs to follow her aunt and mother. Though she was vexed and upset by their exchange that morning, as well as those with her mother and aunt, his quiet, commanding presence soothed Cecilia. They parted at her door to dress for dinner. Cecilia awaited the help of her mother’s maid, who appeared shortly, helping her change and freshen her hair.

As she readied herself, she was further calmed and cheered by the aspect of her room. The sky blue walls and linens, solid oak furniture, polished to a deep glow, and the crackling, blue-orange fire all infused Cecilia with warmth, as when Mr. Thornhill smiled at her. Musing how houses so often reflected their owners, Cecilia ambled downstairs, glancing about at the mellow walls and grand staircase. She noticed the age of the house and its stately charm. Lionel Hall was obviously at least a hundred years older than her home, yet it was very well kept, as Cecilia expected from such a meticulous man as Mr. Thornhill. As she joined the other three in the drawing room briefly, Cecilia’s stomach hollowed when she thought of herself as mistress of such a house, with its large rooms and tasteful furnishings.

The drawing room was more masculine than many, all greens and golds, with an Adam style, restrained in its classical motifs. A few sofas were scattered around, in cozy seating areas with cushioned armchairs and small tables, armless double curved back chairs upholstered in green and gold stripes accompanied an octagonal set of nestling tables, subdued landscape paintings dotted the walls, while a large gold-framed depiction of what she assumed to be Lionel Hall and its surrounding landscape graced the fireplace mantel. The grate and surround both echoed each other, with their classical, simple design of fluted jambs and lintels, a bull’s-eye in each corner, now shadowed or lit by the blazing fire within. Two full bookcases lined one corner, across from the pianoforte, while windows sashed with forest green silk drapes filled the space opposite the door. Double doors of glass and wood led outside, she imagined, though it was too dark to see. She clasped her hands while Mr. Thornhill answered her mother’s and aunt’s questions. How could she preside as mistress in such a room? Her old blue gown and graceless manners would never suffice.

Cecilia’s qualms deepened as she followed the others silently into the dining room for dinner. Candlelight flickered on the glossy surface of the expansive mahogany table, china, and silver. Though there was no ostentation here, Cecilia still felt small in such a grand old room, fit to entertain even a monarch. Pushing her food about her plate, she tried to attend to the conversation of the others, but instead a shiver ran through her, as if she were out in the chill, windy night.

After dinner, the four retired to the drawing room, where Mr. Thornhill once again forgot all his concerns about their situation in his admiration for Cecilia’s loveliness. He was struck by her simple elegance in a two-toned celestial blue tunic gown with petal sleeves and delicate frilling which decorously exposed her ample décolletage and sleek arms; she embodied that mixture of innocence and enticement which so stirred him. As she sat at the pianoforte, he was further enraptured by the delicate blush of her cheeks and the softness in her eyes. She sang his favorite song, her sweet voice suffusing him with surety, about his feelings and her own.

After she finished, he led her to a small dark green sofa near the windows, where he used to read as a child. He sat beside her. Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Higham occupied Adam chairs across the room, playing cards at the octagonal table and talking unceasingly. Now he and Cecilia could speak somewhat freely, both fell into silence, for he at least could not think of the proper words to say. Cecilia colored and lowered her eyes, fingering the sofa cushion.

Mr. Thornhill, realizing his less than pure thoughts might be apparent in his expression, broke their silence.

“I believe you know me better than you think. Certainly you have witnessed my pride, temper, and jealousy,” he said quietly with a half smile as he studied Cecilia. Her pink glow stirred him, knowing all he could do to deepen her blush.

“I cannot blame you, considering what my own behavior has been. Especially for the last, I have given you ample reason. Please know I do not mean to argue with you. When we spoke this morning, I did not have in mind that gentleman. I truly do not know my father’s thoughts in this matter,” Cecilia replied. He grasped her hand which was on the cushion and she gazed into his eyes. “I know he wants me to be happy. Surely he will approve when he sees I am so with you.” He squeezed her hand gently and smiled, waiting until her lips curved, cheeks dimpled, matching the spark in her satin brown eyes.

“Thank you,” Mr. Thornhill said as he gazed at Cecilia. He leaned toward her, she was so radiantly beautiful, she could quench the roaring blaze within. Yet one kiss would consume them both. He sat back and crossed his arms. Love had rarely, if ever, rendered him so fervent and forgiving. If only she would return his feelings in kind, he would do everything to ensure her happiness, including the exclusion of previous pleasures. Already he was faithful to her, he hoped his trust was not misplaced. Studying her innocent countenance, her wide, questioning eyes, he could not believe she was false, though observation had taught him looks could be deceiving. Still, he was pleased she believed her father would consent. Of course, there was still the problem of his own niggling doubts about her feelings and faithfulness.
No small matter, that
. He studied the tightly drawn drapes. Reason must guide him. Anything else would lead to disaster. He rose and strode to the window. After a few moments, Cecilia’s dress whispered as she moved.

“Good night,” she said, her voice tight with feeling.

Mr. Thornhill stood still at the casement, vaguely aware of the continuing chatter of Mrs. Wilcox and Mrs. Higham. His senses numbed, unable to truly see or hear, images of Cecilia, her voice murmuring sweetly, drove him to the edge, ready to leap into the abyss. He leaned his head back and clenched his hands. Cecilia appeared again in his mind, an otherworldly vision at her window. Unable to settle himself last eve, he had walked in the park. She had caught his eye, but when she raised her hand to the pane, he saw Mr. Cateret below her window. His first instinct had been to thrash Cateret, but he quickly thought better of it, especially considering his doubts about Cecilia. These, of course, accounted for his turns of attitude toward her that day, as he had experience enough of being dealt with falsely to be wary of its repetition. He almost hoped she was merely tired, rather than in low spirits, for if it was the latter, he believed she must care for Cateret more than she claimed. Mr. Thornhill knew he would have to wait until the morrow; he hoped her spirits would be improved, or not only would he lose faith in her, but also her father would never approve their engagement with Cecilia so downcast. Perhaps that would be for the best. He pulled the curtain open and stared out the drawing room window. The pane drizzled with raindrops, the black seeped into him.
I will not be betrayed again.

Chapter Thirteen

B
reakfast was a dull affair, though Mrs. Higham and Mrs. Wilcox clucked away like two well-fed hens. Cecilia was an early riser, who was usually cheerful greeting the day, but a gloom had fallen over her and it was not only the ashen sky outside. Cecilia, sitting quietly at the smaller table in the pale yellow and pink morning room, had been studying Mr. Thornhill. He, however, made this difficult as he was half hidden behind the newspaper he was reading. She gave up, only to find her mother and aunt giving her a similar scrutiny to hers of Mr. Thornhill. She tried to give them a smile, but it was not a convincing one. If she had to endure any more scolds, pity, or sternness, she would surely quit the house, rain and mud be there. Glancing again at Mr. Thornhill, heat washed over her as she thought how difficult he was being. If she was with ‘Ret, he would no doubt be enraptured, he would not ignore her. Pushing back her chair, which made a disturbingly loud scraping sound, she excused herself and exited the room.

As she entered the hall, she realized she did not know the house at all and had no idea where to go, save back up to her room, which she did not want to do. Hearing the others about to quit the morning room, however, she hurriedly took the stairs, not looking back until she reached the door of her room. Hastening inside, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it as she exhaled, trying to collect herself. She would have to return downstairs shortly, or the others would assume she was unwell and she did not wish to further concern Mr. Thornhill. Pacing the floor, she thought again about ‘Ret, but Mr. Thornhill’s image broke into her musing. She stopped mid-stride and gave an exclamation. Her thoughts were pushing her places she did not wish to go. If only she could talk to someone, if only she could speak to Mr. Thornhill. But he was being difficult and she could not, did not wish to, speak to anyone else. Facing the mirror, Cecilia smoothed her new pale pink morning dress, tightened the running string in the décolletage, and patted her cheeks before making her way back downstairs.

Cecilia was disappointed upon entering the library some moments later. Despite the weather, Mr. Thornhill had gone out riding, ostensibly to inspect the grounds and check on some tenants. Cecilia took in the room, similar to the drawing room, save the darker color scheme and entire wall lined in books, as well as special angled tables for study or drawing. This room also contained a long bank of windows, though again not much was visible on such a dark day. This left Cecilia little choice but to respond to her mother’s summons to join them, as she claimed to need help on a gift for Fanny. Apparently what she actually needed was to scold Cecilia.

“Well, girl, I hope you are satisfied,” Mrs. Wilcox began.

“I cannot think what you mean, Mama.” She gripped her hands behind her back.

“Can you not?” sighed out that much-aggrieved lady. “You shall soon lose another suitor. How many must I be obliged to find you before you can secure one? Or have you already?”

“I am obliged to you and my aunt Higham for introducing me to Mr. Thornhill. He is the man I will marry, if Papa approves.” She stood awkwardly before her parent. Her feeling of powerlessness increased.

“Oh? And yet you would have said the same of Mr. Cateret a few weeks ago,” Mrs. Wilcox retorted. Cecilia gripped her hands together harder; her delicate fingers went white with the pressure. “See that you settle on someone soon, daughter, or we shall all lose patience with you.”

“Mama, I thank you for your concern, but I doubt Papa and Wil would be so censorious of my choices.”

“Perhaps not, more fool they. Most men are not, however, so understanding and indulgent.”

“Then we are both fortunate, are we not, Mama?” Cecilia said, trying to turn the course of their conversation. 

Mrs. Wilcox ignored this statement and chose instead to admonish Cecilia to make herself useful and read to them. Though Cecilia saw many other books she had rather read, she chose that favorite of her mother’s youth,
Evelina
. As Cecilia hoped, this eventually softened her mother’s mood and so passed a pleasant enough hour or two.

Mrs. Wilcox was so agreeable to Mr. Thornhill when he returned he appeared puzzled, his eyebrows raised for a moment. He asked to speak to Cecilia and her mother consented. Leading her into his study, Cecilia warmed, though once they faced each other in the privacy of his sanctum, she clasped her hands and widened her eyes. This must be his private place, all dark woods, forest green, and burgundy, an unfamiliar forest, foreboding yet enticingly mysterious. What secrets might be contained in the drawers of his desk? What favorite books nestled on the shelves?

“Sir, you wish to speak with me?”

“Yes, thank you. Are you well today?” His eyes, deep and murky, told her nothing.

“I am rested, thank you.” She shifted her feet and searched his posture for some sign of feeling. He stood unmoving, save a slight throb in his temple.

“I suppose you would be with no late night visitors to disturb you.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Cecilia asked, the color draining from her face as she realized what he might imply.

“I think you know very well what I mean. I saw Mr. Cateret outside your window the night before we left London. I also saw you at your window. If I did not know better, I would have believed you to be signaling him.” His rushing, bitter words belied his calm appearance.

“You sound as though you believe that is what I was doing, sir. Must you think the worst of me as well?”

“As well? Who else believes you in love with Cateret?” he asked, staring at Cecilia, who swallowed, hard, and willed herself not to cry. “Who else?”

“My mother. She has accused me of using you to hide some secret plan I have with him,” Cecilia said, sighing, her voice trembling. “Do you believe me capable of such deceit?”

“If your own mother believes it of you, should she not know you better than I? Is he not the reason you have been confused in your feelings? Can you deny it?” His arms strained, as if he wished to reach out to her, but still he stood unmoving.

“No, I cannot. I have told you I care for him, but it is you I will marry,” Cecilia said, walking toward him.

“Then why do you put his feelings above all others? For that is what you have done, even if you rejected his suit.” His voice rose, edged in steel, threatening to cut her.

“If I put his feelings above all, I would not be here now. Do you not think I thought to accept him when I saw how despairing he was without me?” Cecilia’s hands fluttered as wildly as the sound of her heart beating in her ears.

“Why did you not, then? I have told you before I have no desire to love one whose affections are divided or unsure,” Mr. Thornhill said, his eyes dark and wrathful. “You say you chose me, yet your behavior shows your true feelings.” He retreated from her and stopped before the window. Trees shadowed the landscape, grey and brown.

“No, I have been truthful with you. Why would I have told you all if I wished to deceive you? It is you whose behavior shows indifference, not mine. Perhaps I have behaved foolishly, but when I look to you for guidance and forgiveness, I am met with distance and jealousy.”

“Perhaps? And perhaps I have been a fool,” Mr. Thornhill said more to himself than Cecilia. He pressed a hand to the window pane.

“You could never be a fool, sir. Can you not forgive me?” Her arms dropped, as did her hope.

“I do not know.”

Mr. Thornhill stood still. Cecilia sank into the sofa, sobbing quietly. Her tears were as warm and bitter as she felt. A knock on the door broke the growing silence; the man announced Mr. Wilcox. Before the two gentlemen could finish greeting each other, Cecilia rose and, with a tearful glance at her father, went into his waiting arms. Once Cecilia calmed herself, Mr. Wilcox asked to speak to her alone, though he did, of course, also wish to converse with his host. Mr. Thornhill bowed, saying he would await Mr. Wilcox’s summons. Sitting together on the settee, father and daughter greeted each other properly and Cecilia composed herself.

“Well, my girl, what has happened? It seems much more than anyone’s letters have told. I should like to know what is troubling you. Perhaps you should start at the beginning, child.”

So it was Cecilia told her father all about her troubles and triumphs in London. She even explained about Mr. Cateret, though not all the details, for she did not want her father to think too ill of him, even still. Mr. Wilcox sat serenely listening to the whole tale, though often his eyes became steely or soft, depending on the subject of her discourse.

“Oh, Papa, I have been such a fool. I ought have told you all before and I should have behaved better. Now Mama shall be right and I will lose Mr. Thornhill.”

“No, my girl, it is I who am to blame. I should have gone with you to London, or perhaps I ought to have kept you at home. And if Mr. Thornhill cannot forgive your innocence and inexperience, as that is the reason for your so-called foolish behavior, then he is not worthy of you. I must tell you, Cecilia, I had no intention of giving my consent so soon in any case and I shall certainly not do so for some time in light of what you have told me. As to Mr. Cateret, I will write to him, for I cannot like his behavior and he should know it.”

Cecilia opened her mouth to speak, but her father put up his hand.

“Do not worry, child, you know I will not be too harsh. And, if you are agreeable, perhaps it would be best if he and Mr. Thornhill join us for a visit next month, so you may be sure of your choice. You are very young still and I will not have the pain of seeing you unhappy in your marriage. Will you be able to join your mother in the library? I do need to speak to Mr. Thornhill.”

“Yes, Papa. I will try to listen to you thenceforth, though sometimes my own voice is too loud for the proper hearing of yours,” Cecilia said with a tiny smile.

“Perhaps we should send you to the Partridges for a time, then, for they are more familiar with the art of quietude than we Wilcoxes,” Mr. Wilcox rejoindered, kissing Cecilia’s brow.

Mr. Thornhill had little to say in his conversation with Mr. Wilcox. Though he was pleased to learn Cecilia had told her father so much of what had occurred in London, disappointment constricted him that Mr. Wilcox considered his daughter full young to be contemplating marriage. Mr. Thornhill wondered again why Mr. Wilcox allowed her to go to London at all. He soon realized the reason and also could not help but agree with Mr. Wilcox that Cecilia’s inexperience and indecision made it unwise to let her become engaged, however much he might be pained by this, for he had decided it was his own jealously and past experiences which colored his view of Cecilia’s behavior. He did not see clearly, his judgment muddied by deceit and desire.

“I do appreciate all you have done for my daughter, sir,” Mr. Wilcox said as they came to the end of their conversation. “My son and I could not have done more and I shall always be grateful for your care of her and apologize I was not there to protect her myself.”

“I am happy to be of service to her, Mr. Wilcox. I wish you to know I had no intention of proposing so soon to your daughter. I am afraid I let my feelings control my actions. However, I am sincere in my suit but will do as you wish in the matter.” He ought leave off now, but the thought of never seeing Cecilia again filled him with sickening dread.

“Thank you. We are glad of your acquaintance and hospitality.”

Mr. Thornhill bowed. “I hope we may all enjoy this visit.” Not that he could fully take pleasure in what he wished to. He followed Mr. Wilcox to the drawing room.

Cecilia, on their tour of the house that afternoon, saw more similarities between it and Mr. Thornhill. Both had a stately charm, imposing presence, hidden places, cheerful spots and gloomy recesses. It could take Cecilia years to know either well enough to suit her. For now, she was easily confused in the maze of rooms and four staircases of the house just as she was puzzled by Mr. Thornhill’s complex personality and turning behavior. Of course, she could not help but be pleased with the comfortable charm and elegance of the house and Mr. Thornhill’s obvious solicitation of her opinion. Many of the rooms had been redone since Mr. Thornhill’s father’s time; the library with its light gothic tracery, the morning room and drawing room with their restrained classical motifs, and the solid, tasteful furnishings throughout impressed the whole party.

Cecilia especially enjoyed an upper hall with its bank of windows overlooking the landscape, with a view down to the river and a few family portraits, including one of Mr. Thornhill’s mother and another of the three remaining brothers before two had left home. As her viewings of these were accompanied by more of Mr. Thornhill’s tales of his childhood, Cecilia felt that same security and warmth she had on their drives out together in the beginning of their acquaintance. Though his silence on his brother Gregory’s current situation seemed odd, considering how close Mr. Thornhill seemed to his younger brothers.

Smiling at some remark of his, Cecilia glanced at Mr. Thornhill and again it was as if he held an invisible cord which he wound about her and back to himself. She could physically feel the tugging of it, and this simultaneously spread a heat and a chill through her. Looking away, she rubbed her stomach and willed herself not to think about it, for it was too unsettling and the more she appeared uncomfortable, the less likely it became that her father would approve of their engagement. As she went to her room to change for riding, Cecilia wondered which upset her the most: her unsettling feelings for Mr. Thornhill or the thought of being without him because of them.