A Gentleman's Daughter: Her Choice (15 page)

When Cecilia, her father, and Mr. Thornhill later rode out to tour his estate, she was giddy with the pleasure of being outdoors and seeing the sun shining its pellucid light on the dewy landscape. The magical quality this imbued upon the grounds made her want to caper about like a wood nymph, but she had enough sense to refrain. Instead, she showed herself an able horsewoman; at least in this area she was able to use quick, capable judgment. The three all enjoyed the ride and Cecilia and her father greatly admired Lionel Hall. The house, of mellowed red stone, sat on a grassy slope overlooking the river, with beautiful woods behind and meadows all around. They could only gain a full view of the house and grounds on horseback. Unlike Middleton House, the grounds were too extensive to be traversed on foot in a day.

When they reached the clearing near the cottage on the hill, Mr. Thornhill directed the groom to stay with the horses. The picturesque two-room dwelling was kept solely for the purpose of picnics or shelter in storms.

“Oh,” Cecilia exclaimed as they approached the low, whitewashed building, its walls laced with trailing vines and blossoming roses. Mr. Thornhill smiled at her as she clapped her hands together and ran ahead to discover this new place. Would that they were alone…Mr. Wilcox cleared his throat and the manservant carrying a basket of food supplied by Lionel Hall’s able cook, Mrs. Bell, opened the door. Cecilia had disappeared around the side, probably even now finding the mossy verge dotted in violets Mr. Thornhill wished to show her.

“As you see, Mr. Thornhill, my daughter retains the enthusiasm of youth.” Mr. Wilcox nodded as he preceded Mr. Thornhill into the cottage.

“She is wholly unspoiled.” Mr. Thornhill clenched his hands. He had said it about other women, who had proven themselves to be otherwise. Glancing at Mr. Wilcox, he was reminded of his uncle, Lord Nefton, for a moment; Mr. Wilcox stared at him with a similar shrewd appraisal. “Would you care to sit, sir? Mrs. Bell has prepared a few of your daughter’s favorites.”  And Mrs. Bell had been none too pleased about his insistence on her preparing all the dishes he knew Cecilia enjoyed, either. His staff was loyal to a fault; his future wife might have some difficulty convincing them she was worthy of being Mrs. Thornhill. They did not know, save Jennings, it was he who was undeserving of an innocent like Miss Wilcox. But there was still time to right things.

“Thank you.” Mr. Wilcox eased into an armchair by the fire, which burned low. “Perhaps you would find my daughter before she wanders too far? I won’t find a quiet interlude in such a snug spot amiss.”

“Certainly. I will return shortly.”

Mr. Wilcox nodded and eased his legs out. Mr. Thornhill needed no further encouragement. He did not know why Mr. Wilcox gave him this opportunity to be alone with Cecilia, but he would not question it.

He strode out, inhaling deeply the crisp air. White clouds obscured the sun, so that as he traversed the path he assumed Cecilia had taken, delicate shadows danced before him. Soon he came to a shaded meadow behind the cottage, the tall grass strewn with buttercups. He stopped, watching. Cecilia, bent forward, trailed her fingers through the grass, the smooth skin of her décolletage gleaming, highlighted against the darkish green of both her dress and her surroundings.

Stretching, she rose and gazed about. She smiled when she saw him. He stood still, dazzled by her radiance. Surely her glowing beauty, her artless appreciation for simple pleasures, was unaffected—such a one as she had nothing false about her.

“Did you play here as a child? How I should love to picnic here.” She glanced overhead before training her eyes on him. “Or to lie in the grass, seeing the sun filter through the reaching branches…” She laughed. He shifted his position, realizing he must look a statue. “You must think me a fanciful child.” Her eyes lost some of their light and she rubbed her hands together.

“Your father asked me to find you.” A flood of words rushed in his mind, but none of them should be said.

“Is he unwell? He ought not ride so much…” She moved toward him with quick steps. He grasped her arm.

“He is well. I believe he was enjoying the solitude.” He felt her soften and lean closer to him. Her scent, fresh as the blooms under them, promised more, something secret, a note as yet unsung.

“Yes, I suppose he might after escorting my mama and aunt all day. And having to tend my worries.”

“I am sure the latter is no burden.” If it was, he would gladly take it from Mr. Wilcox. Mr. Thornhill loosened his hold on Cecilia. She moved closer to him, her face upturned. He fought the urge to enclose her in his arms, make her his own.

“I have never been an ideal daughter. After his fall last year, and the death of his dear friend, Mr. Partridge, I feel I ought be more dutiful.” She spoke in a hushed, confessional tone. He placed his hands on her arms, the closest he would allow himself to come to his desire.

“I could…perhaps…” His mind was a whirlwind; he tried to catch some kernel of a sensible idea among the chaff of dreams and impossibilities. “You are welcome to stop at Lionel Hall as long as you like.” A light blush suffused her cheeks. He teetered on the edge; he would not be able to withstand the temptation, surely, of her continued closeness.

“What said my papa? How long--”

He removed his hands from her and clutched them behind his back. “He will not allow an engagement. He said only you are too young to marry.”

She ducked her head, her body inched inward, as if she would crumple to the ground. A sharp pain shot through him. He could assuage both their suffering with one action. One horribly dishonorable act. No, he had committed enough wrongs.

“We ought return. I assured Mrs. Bell you would sample her currant buns and spiced apples.” He offered her his arm, which she took with the same look of gratitude she had at his uncle’s dance.

“My favorites.” She smiled.

“There will be strawberry fool this evening.” He was the fool. But with her arm in his, strolling along the path, his lands sloping around them, the sun breaking free from the clouds, he could pretend all was as it should be, if only for those few moments before they entered the reality of her father’s presence.

Mr. Thornhill was able to enjoy his time with Mr. Wilcox and Cecilia, even with the knowledge that it might be the last time he would be able to do so. They spoke of local matters, the crops and unseasonable weather, the new prison in Abingdon and Mr. Wilcox’s duties as a justice, the influx of navy men now unneeded in this new peace, and the upcoming quarter day.

Too soon, the skies signaled the lateness of the hour. They walked downhill to the horses and mounted, riding back toward Lionel Hall.

As they neared home, Mr. Thornhill studied Cecilia. His pulse quickened, flames flickered, ignited by her fine seat, her glowing cheeks, her shapely figure accentuated by her form-fitting riding habit.
The deuce take honor
. He stopped his study of her and dismounted. Lifting Cecilia from her horse, he shuddered as she brushed against him. He dwelt in fire.

The intensity in Mr. Thornhill’s deep eyes caused Cecilia to falter and step back. His was a hungry stare, as a lion might give a gazelle before consuming it. Her head lightened. She wished him to capture her. Mr. Thornhill turned as the groom questioned him. Placing her hand on her forehead, she squeezed her eyes shut. Her father rushed to her side and inquired if she was unwell. For a moment, she could not speak, but upon seeing his concern, she regained herself.

“Perhaps I ought to rest before dinner, Papa.”

So the three returned to the house, whence Cecilia retired directly to her room, not looking at Mr. Thornhill again, afraid what she might see, or to what she might be tempted.

Chapter Fourteen

C
ecilia was later glad of her absence for she missed the call of Mr. Thornhill’s nearest neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Hookham, who, much to her mother’s pleasure, had gone to school with her. They had lost contact, as girlhood friends often do, but, as is also often the case, they quickly chattered away like a couple of fresh school misses. Invitations were exchanged; the Hookhams would make a party with Cecilia’s uncle, Captain Wilcox, and his wife in the first weeks of July. Cecilia smiled for she too enjoyed company. But her smile soon faded as her thoughts went again to Mr. Thornhill, who had absented himself on business.

When she reentered the drawing room before dinner, dressed in the same pink gown she had worn on their first meeting in town, Mr. Thornhill appeared more alive and real than any of their company, who faded in her vision, watercolor figures to his oil portrait. Dinner was spent in enjoyment; she basked in the warmth of Mr. Thornhill’s attentions. Her performance on the pianoforte when the party gathered together after dinner in the drawing room elicited hearty applause. Mr. Thornhill made a point of sitting with her as the others played whist and he complimented her on her singing and playing. Thanking him, she thought to change the subject from herself.

“When might you join us at Middleton House, sir?”

“I hope to arrive the first week of July and stay for a sen’night. Your uncle, Reverend Wilcox, and his family will arrive a few days before, I understand?”

“Yes, they move into the parsonage the first of July, if they are not delayed. I have missed them, especially my cousin, Miss Jane Wilcox.”

“She has a brother and sister?” He leaned back, but his expression showed interest and his eyes remained on her.

Cecilia glanced away so she could frame her response. “Yes, John and Miss Felicity. He stays in India to continue his father’s missionary work. Miss Felicity, though closer in age to myself than her sister, is an unreliable correspondent. I am sure we will have many happy times together, though, as we did when we were girls. Miss Felicity and I used to romp all about, causing our mothers no end of consternation and everyone else much amusement.”

“I look forward to meeting them and hope you will do me the honor of showing me your beloved home.”

“Thank you. I hope you will find our hospitality as ample as yours has been. I have been meaning to ask you about the portraits in the hall upstairs. Will you tell me more of them?” Cecilia inquired and was rewarded with a lengthy reply. Mr. Thornhill told her more of his younger brothers and his mother. Clearly, his father had adored his mother and their marriage sounded blissful. Mr. Thornhill seemed almost wistful when he spoke of them. Obviously he desired a love match; again Cecilia wondered at his mysteries, for it seemed odd such a seemingly steady man would choose a wife solely based on shifting emotions, for Cecilia began to feel romantic love was too quick-changing. Indeed, Cecilia wondered at his choosing her at all. She had thought herself to be more like Mr. Cateret, or what she believed him to be, someone with a passionate sensibility, who reveled in both wit and sentiment. Yet he was, perhaps, also capricious, flirtatious, and careless of practical matters. Mr. Thornhill seemed none of these things, but appeared quite the opposite. Was this not why she had chosen him and not Mr. Cateret? If he was such a man, however, she did now wonder why he had proposed to her, for she did not think herself the proper sort of wife for such a man, when she was reasonable about it.

“Miss Wilcox?” Mr. Thornhill said, breaking her reverie. “You were lost in thought, I believe.”

“I am sorry, sir, sometimes my thoughts do run away with me,” she replied, smiling a small bit.

“I understand. I purchased some
Irish Melodies
while in town. I thought you might like to have them. Perhaps on my visit to Middleton House you might favor me with a new song.”

“Why, yes, thank you, if you wish.”

He excused himself and she was again left to her thoughts. Of course, she had made the right choice. Cecilia smiled brightly at the returning Mr. Thornhill and the two fell to discussing books and the relative merits and follies therein.

Cecilia felt capricious that night, for she tossed and turned half the night thinking of Mr. Thornhill and Mr. Cateret. She realized she was always too quick to give one all the virtues and the other all the vices. The truth was they were both men, each with his own fineness and faults, his own kindnesses and indiscretions. So good did she consider her father and brother that she assumed most men, unless they were clearly otherwise, were as blameless as they appeared. Clearly it was not so. She knew of Mr. Cateret’s indiscretions, of course, but she had not until recently understood the full implications of them. Mr. Thornhill too must have had his own share of imprudent actions; he was a man of the world, for all he enjoyed country life.

The very thought of him loving another woman made her feel ill; she had never been so much affected by Mr. Cateret’s flirts. What if both were no better than Mr. Mainmount, seeking pleasure elsewhere while they claimed to love only her? No, she would not think of that. Yet she saw both men could be overwhelmed by their feelings as well as being capable of controlling them. Mr. Cateret had tried to act honorably, but ultimately claimed his feelings overwhelmed him while Mr. Thornhill must have been temporarily overcome by his when he proposed to her.  Puzzle as she might, all Cecilia’s musings only served to confound her, not enlighten her.

The next morning, Cecilia, her father, and aunt accompanied Mr. Thornhill on a stroll toward the river. Truly, Cecilia was sure she had never seen such a happily situated house, with the meandering river so close, woods and fields aplenty. She and Mr. Thornhill were soon well ahead of the other two and, as they neared the river, he stopped, facing her.

“I cannot find my own words to tell you how I shall miss you. Another wrote, the flowers ‘they were but sweet, but figures of delight / Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. / Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away, / As with your shadow, I with these did play.’ I know there is nothing for it, we must part, yet I wish…” His eyes bored into hers. “You think of him still, do you not?” he said, his tone now bitter.

Cecilia could not reply directly, for he was correct. The sonnet he spoke from was the pair of the one Mr. Cateret had intoned when he gave her the posy of violets those few weeks ago. “Please, sir, if only you would listen--”

“I see I am correct,” he said. He watched the river, speaking as if she was a shadow. “I suppose I cannot place all blame on you, as I knew your age and inexperience.” Here they were interrupted by the approach of her father and aunt, who asked if all was well. “I was merely agreeing with your assessment, sir, that your daughter is perhaps too young to become engaged just now.”

“Yes, it seems she is. Young and unsure. Certainly in light of this we will not hold you to any promises you feel you may have made. There has been no engagement, so both of you are free to do as you wish.”

“But, Papa, I am not unsure. I--”

“Daughter, I said, we do not hold Mr. Thornhill to anything he may have said, do we?”

“No, Papa,” Cecilia whispered, looking down at her boots while her father grasped her hand.

Mr. Thornhill was as a statue, cold and stony.

Her father continued. “My invitation to Middleton House still stands, Mr. Thornhill. We hope to continue your acquaintance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilcox,” Mr. Thornhill said as Mr. Wilcox led Cecilia back to the house, to make their farewells.

Cecilia had no opportunity to speak with Mr. Thornhill again, save for the general pleasantries of leave taking. He seemed to look through her as they said goodbye. Her steps slowed while they walked to the carriage, as when she had once fallen in the river and trudged home, sodden and sullen.

“May I not ride home on your horse, Papa?” she asked again.

He shook his head. She had known what his answer would be. The carriage door thumped shut. She did not glance back.

“Well, Mr. Wilcox,” her mother said. “I cannot understand why you insisted we leave today. Mr. Thornhill seemed pleased enough to have us stay and his neighbors all welcomed our company.”

“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox, that is true. However, I will not have you continue to use the hospitality of one gentleman while you spin your plans and schemes for Cecilia. Do not think me ignorant of your new desire to see her engaged to young Mr. Hookham. No wonder she is so confused of late with you pushing this and that gentleman at her and insisting she become engaged when she is clearly too young for such a step.”

Cecilia sat, dumfounded by this new information.

“Too young, sir? She is eighteen, many women marry at eighteen. Your own mother did so. I am only trying to do what is best for her, as well you should know. She is my only daughter now and I would see her marry well. It is not my fault she is fickle in her affections.”

“Madam, enough! I say again she is confused and troubled and it is mostly your doing. Yes, my mother married at Cecilia’s age, but, as you well know, her father arranged the match and she liked my father well enough. Perhaps you would like us to arrange Cecilia’s marriage too, but things are not as they were in our parents’ day. I will see our daughter marry well, yes, but I will sooner see her a maid forever than unhappily wed. She needs time to consider what she wishes to do as I need time to decide what is in her best interest. She will stay with the Partridges until my brother arrives.”

Mrs. Wilcox did not bother to argue with her husband; she knew when to concede defeat. Cecilia, on the other hand, felt as if flames blazed around her heart. She had to speak her mind or she would be incinerated by her own anger.

“Papa, why do you speak of my fate as if I am not even here? You still treat me as if I am a child.”

“You are my child, Cecilia, and I do not see your behavior warrants my treating you otherwise.”

“But you have just said Mama…” Cecilia leaned toward her father, to make herself better heard over the rattling carriage.

“Yes, I know what I said, but a woman would have been more sure of herself, would not be so easily swayed.”

“But I am sure, Papa. Yet you would not let me tell Mr. Thornhill so. He must think I do not care,” Cecilia said. Why had she not confessed all to Mr. Thornhill when they had been alone? Had she not been so concerned with what her papa thought, she could be with Mr. Thornhill still.

“I am sure he knows you care for him. However, I do not think anyone, including yourself, knows the depth of your feelings. I do not wish to speak of it further. You will stay at Partridge Place so you may have some quiet to decide your feelings and wishes. We will discuss it again in a few weeks.”

Cecilia nodded her assent and resigned herself to silence. It was a long two hours in the carriage but Cecilia could not help but marvel it was the first time she had known her mother and aunt to be silent for so long.

As soon as they reached Middleton House, Cecilia’s parents and aunt exited the carriage and sent her on her way to the Partridges’. They would see Cecilia on the morrow, when they would dine together at Partridge Place. Cecilia felt content enough with this plan, for it was as much a home to her as her father’s house and here she would be undisturbed by her mother’s scolds and inquiries. Perhaps she could even be of use to Polly, who was busy not only sewing gifts for her cousin, who had recently become engaged to Mr. Drake, but was also readying her own needs for her marriage to Wil.

Also, with Polly increasingly away on her work at the church and in town, where she continued planning for a village school, Mrs. Partridge found Cecilia’s presence welcome both for her company and her aid in Mrs. Partridge’s extensive still room. Mrs. Partridge spent much time gathering and preparing ingredients for her remedies, for which she was known throughout the area. Even their local physician turned to her for assistance on occasion and often credited Mrs. Partridge with making possible his leisure time, for she spared him the necessity of being called out on every occasion, when everyone knew they might turn to Mrs. Partridge for comfort, advice, and practical care, without the bother of having to pay. Cecilia had always been interested in the plants Mrs. Partridge used, but she became a more dedicated pupil when she assisted Mrs. Partridge in healing her father’s leg after he fell from his horse the previous year. So, between her assistance to Mrs. Partridge and her work with Polly, both at home and in town, Cecilia was busy enough to forget, for a time, her own troubles.

After two weeks of cheerful work and roaming the familiar fields and woods, Cecilia’s melancholy returned. No one had heard from Mr. Thornhill. Cecilia had asked, even her aunt, who had known him longest. On a ride with her father, she decided she must act. They dismounted to survey the valley, which contained unusual brown patches from the unseasonable frosts and rain.

“Papa, may I not write Mr. Thornhill?” Cecilia asked, though she knew her father’s answer.

“No, child, it would not be proper.”

“With your consent--”

“I do not like to refuse you, but these are different matters than your former requests to walk to town by yourself or ride to Partridge Place or the Fordhams’. He will join us in three weeks. You may wait.”