A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (18 page)

He stepped past her, his scent of leather distracting her. “If I am not being too presumptuous, I will point you in the direction of books my sister has read. I often take books back and forth for her to read, and I have started putting them in the same place. She just finished reading this one.”

Cecily recalled the stack of novels she saw in Rebecca’s room.

He handed a volume to her.
The
Tales
of
a
Fashionable
Life.
“Have you read it?”

She flipped through the pages. “No, I have not.”

“Rebecca said it was amusing. There are a few other books by the same author here. And there are some older works by Byron and Wordsworth on the opposite shelf. My sister is fond of them.”

She tucked the book in the crook of her arm. “And what about you, Mr. Stanton? Are you fond of them?”

He shrugged. “I have read them a bit, but I find most of my reading is occupied with much more exciting topics like husbandry and agriculture.”

She laughed. “I am surprised, pleasantly so, to find that Mr. Trent was fond of such poets.”

His countenance sobered. “Mr. Trent spent many hours in this room, but you will find that Mrs. Trent rarely comes in here.”

“Why ever not?”

“This was her husband’s personal library. I suppose the memories are too much to bear. You will learn soon enough that Mrs. Trent is particular with some things, and this is just one of them.”

“Yes, I wondered why she did not show me this room herself, or, in the very least, have Clarkson show me. It is so very close. I apologize again for taking you away from your duties.”

“I assure you, Miss Faire, this was much more pleasant than the other tasks I have waiting for me.” His smile brought a flush to her cheeks. “I will leave you to your exploring, then. If you need anything else, I will be in the steward’s office, which is just next to the north entrance. Mrs. Trent’s private rooms are through that door there.”

She hesitated. Had Mrs. Trent not said she should ask Mr. Stanton about Manchester?

“Before you go, I was hoping to ask you one other question.”

He stopped in the doorway and raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

Suddenly, the idea of sharing her personal journey with a stranger made her arms feel weak.

“It has nothing to do with the library,” she muttered, feeling the room grow warmer with each syllable, “but I was sharing a slight family matter with Mrs. Trent, and she suggested that you might be able to help me.”

He stepped back into the room. “I am at your service.”

“How far are we from Manchester?”

He scrunched his face, as if surprised by the question. “Manchester? Oh, probably a few hours by carriage, if the weather is fine. Why? Do you have business in Manchester?”

“I have reason to believe my sister is there.”

“Reason to believe?” he repeated. “Do you not know?”

She shook her head and looked down to the plush carpet beneath her boots. “We were separated when I was sent to Rosemere, and we have lost contact. I received a letter indicating that she had taken a position as a dressmaker there. I have never been to Manchester, but Mrs. Trent said that you have business there every so often.”

“I do. Granted, I do not often interact with dressmakers, and it
has been some time since I was there last, but I will help however I can. What is your sister’s name?”

A shiver of hope shot through her. “Leah Faire. At least, I think it is still Faire. I do not know if she has married.”

“Do you have any other information about her?”

“Not much. I believe she might have stayed with my aunt, who lives—or lived—in south Manchester.”

He shook his head. “That is not much to go on.”

“I know, but it is all I have. I am determined to find her and would be eternally grateful for any assistance you could offer, little or great. I do hope to travel to Manchester soon to look for her myself.”

His eyebrow shot up again, and he folded his arms across his chest, his expression morphing to that of amusement. “Does Mrs. Trent know about that plan as well?”

Cecily shook her head, feeling almost like a child being asked about her actions. “No, sir.”

“Well, Miss Faire, I would have to advise you to stay away from Manchester. It can be a dangerous city. No place for a lady on her own.”

A
lady
on
her
own.

How long would those words shock her? Being called a lady.

Well, she could keep up this charade if it helped her find her sister.

He must have noticed a change in her demeanor, for he smiled a kind smile. “But I will do my best. I will mention it when I next write to a colleague in Manchester and see if he can be of assistance. He is a man who knows everything about everyone, and if anyone knows how to go about such a search, he would.” He turned to leave, but then stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “Leah Faire. Manchester. Seamstress. Correct?”

She smiled. His manner seemed so much more carefree now
than when in the presence of Mrs. Trent. A manner that she much preferred. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He gave a short bow, smiled.

Cecily watched him leave the room and then stared at the space he’d just vacated. She drew a deep breath.

If she was not careful, it would be easy to romanticize Mr. Stanton.

Very easy indeed.

15

I
t was the moment Cecily had dreaded all day.

From the time when Mrs. Trent informed her that they would be dining with Andrew, his intended, and his intended’s mother, Cecily could focus on little else. She’d been grateful that she and Mrs. Trent spent their day confined to the blue drawing room or her bedchamber, where she was in no danger of accidentally encountering Andrew. Now that the time was nigh, having been seated by Gordon, the butler, her hands trembled so that she could barely trust herself to lift her fork.

Despite her discomfort, the grandeur of the room was not lost on her. The silver serving dishes on the sideboard. The Chinese murals reaching to the molded ceilings. The flickering candlelight. She determined to appreciate the beauty around her, but in spite of her best efforts, her every thought centered on merely surviving this dinner with her dignity intact. Andrew sat directly across from her at the broad table. Beside him, Miss Pritchard. And beside her, Mrs. Pritchard.

Cecily tried not to meet his eyes. She feared what message she would find hidden there, or even worse, what he might see in her expression.

The dinner marked the first time she had seen him since their encounter on the path the previous morning. She sought him in her quiet, still moments, and yet she also wished to avoid him. And here he sat, in flesh and blood, the object of her thoughts for so long.

While he had aged, the carefree expression in his dark eyes had not changed. His laugh was still easy and light. But instead of the gangly boy she remembered, with long arms and a wiry frame, he’d grown into a man, with broad shoulders and a thicker frame.

Her ears flamed as she heard Andrew’s voice mutter something to the lady beside him and then chuckle.

At the sound, another feeling was emerging.

Hurt.

Andrew seemed oblivious to her presence. She did not expect any loyalty, for Cecily’s heart had long ago bid him farewell. But the fact that he never sought after her burned, and his current disinterest jabbed at her heart.

She looked to Mrs. Trent. Cecily had expected the older woman to guide the evening’s conversation, something that appeared to come naturally for her. But here, in the midst of their guests, the poker-straight footman, and the butler, the outspoken woman was surprisingly reserved.

As Cecily pushed the fish on her plate with her fork, it was becoming clear: Her presence here was not so much to be a companion but a buffer.

Cecily gathered her courage and looked up at Georgiana Pritchard, the woman Andrew was going to marry. From what she had gleaned from Mrs. Trent earlier in the day, the wedding date was to be soon.

It was odd—Cecily and Miss Pritchard had never been formally introduced. She was a beautiful woman, one who
looked
like she should be a mistress of a grand estate such as Willowgrove. Her glossy, dark hair was swept up from her long neck. Pearl earrings bounced with her every movement, and an intricate amethyst pendant graced her neck. Her gown was unlike anything Cecily had ever seen. Strands of silver were woven into the gray fabric—every movement shimmered, and pearls embellished the neckline. Far different, she could not help but notice, from the simple coral necklace adorning her own throat.

Lady Pritchard and her daughter shared little resemblance, for the mother’s features were much more severe. Like Mrs. Trent, Mrs. Pritchard dressed in black. Her hair was much lighter than her daughter’s raven locks, but her eyes held the same haughtiness.

The table had a clear divide, for Andrew and his guests seemed to focus only on one another. Was this typical behavior for Andrew? If so, Cecily could plainly see why Mrs. Trent would be in need of a companion.

She lifted a spoon of vermicelli soup to her lips.

“Miss Faire, I must say, you do live up to your name. You are lovely.”

Cecily held her spoon steady and lifted her gaze to see Miss Pritchard looking directly at her. Despite the smile, her eyes lacked warmth. They were dark. Hollow.

Cecily lowered the utensil and returned Miss Pritchard’s bold gaze. For even though she had a secret that she—and certainly Andrew—wanted to keep, there was no reason for her to pretend to be shy. “Thank you, Miss Pritchard.”

“It seems that we were not properly introduced.”

Cecily stiffened at the obvious jab at Mrs. Trent. A fire began to simmer within her. Mrs. Trent was an old woman. Her attentions to such detail were clearly not as she was certain they had
been in the past—a reason to overlook the slight impropriety. Miss Pritchard seemed resolved to point out such oversights. Cecily kept her eyes on Andrew’s betrothed.

“And where are you from, Miss Faire?” Miss Pritchard said in a honeyed tone.

Cecily returned her napkin to her lap. “Most recently I was at Rosemere School for Young Ladies in Darbury.”

“A ladies’ school? How fascinating. And were you a pupil?”

“At one time, yes, but more recently I was a teacher.”

“And what did you teach?”

“Embroidery, among other subjects.”

Cecily did not need to see Andrew’s face to know that her response had affected him. For the first time during the dinner, he fixed his eyes on his plate, pushing the stewed celery to the side.

When they were younger, and very much in love, Cecily had embroidered him a handkerchief with his initials. He had carried it with him always. It was a silly, romantic gesture, and in hindsight, brazen. But what about her behavior back then had not been?

Cecily doubted that Andrew would ever share such private details, and yet Miss Pritchard’s tone seemed to hold a note of challenge. “And who is your family? Perhaps we have encountered them at some point.”

Cecily’s blood ran cold.

It had not been that difficult to share with Mrs. Trent that she did not know much about her family. But the silent judgment balanced in Miss Pritchard’s words was unmistakable.

Cecily pressed her napkin to her lips before speaking. “A tragedy separated me from my family a few years ago.”

Miss Pritchard’s hand flew to her throat, and she looked to her mother. Either the display was in earnest or a show of false sympathy. “My condolences.”

Cecily had not even realized she had glanced over to Andrew
until their eyes locked. She quickly returned her attention to Andrew’s betrothed.

Miss Pritchard forced a smile and adjusted the amethyst hanging around her neck. “Well, Miss Faire, I do hope that we shall be able to get to know each other, if even just slightly, before we depart for London in a few days. We have been invited to stay with the Langleys for the next week.”

Miss Pritchard spoke as if Cecily should know of the Langleys, but if it was an effort to impress Cecily with their connections, it was beyond her.

As the volume of the conversation rose above the tinkling silver, sudden pity for Mrs. Trent pricked Cecily. Andrew had asked Mrs. Trent about her day at the start of dinner, but other than that, no one spoke to her. Cecily knew what it felt like to be excluded. Mrs. Trent may be eccentric and opinionated. But she was also kind. And lonely. The day had taken a toll on the woman, for the shadows beneath her eyes were more pronounced.

Cecily reached out and put her hand on top of the older lady’s. “Can I call for anything, Mrs. Trent? Perhaps a bit more soup? Or an apricot tart?”

Mrs. Trent looked toward Cecily and smiled. “I am tired. These long days are a bit much for me. I think I shall retire.”

Cecily frowned and glanced through the window, where the sun had not even yet begun to set. “Are you certain?”

“Like I told you yesterday, my dear, I need my rest.”

Suddenly Mrs. Trent seemed fragile. Cecily took note of her plate, which still held a complete lamb cutlet and untouched asparagus. “Surely you mean to eat something. You’ll fall ill.”

Mrs. Trent ignored Cecily and glared across the table at Andrew. “I shall retire now,” she announced. “Miss Faire will see me to my room.”

“But, Aunt, it is early.” Andrew’s protest came too late.

“I bid you good night.”

Cecily jumped up and hurried to retrieve Mrs. Trent’s cane when the older lady attempted to stand on her own. She then instructed a footman to send Clarkson to Mrs. Trent’s chambers before casting an apologetic smile to Miss Pritchard and her mother. Secretly, she was grateful to be leaving the confines of the room.

Mrs. Trent moved slowly, one shaky step in front of the other, and Cecily held her arm as the two left the dining hall. She was certain she could feel the heat of gazes drilling into her back, yet she continued to keep her head high and her arm steady.

In the hall to the foyer, the air felt cooler, a welcome relief from the hot pressure they’d just escaped. Voices and laughter resumed from the dining hall. No doubt the occupants inside were eager to be free of Mrs. Trent.