A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (19 page)

The injustice of the thought sickened Cecily.

Clarkson was waiting for them in Mrs. Trent’s chambers. The sun, which they had enjoyed that morning, had traveled to the west, and with the heavy brocade curtains drawn, the hour seemed later than it was.

After her first full day of trying to impress Mrs. Trent and keep her feelings in check at seeing her long-lost fiancé, Cecily was worn.

Once Clarkson finished her duties and quitted the chamber, Cecily drew a heavy, wooden chair next to the bed. “Shall I read to you?”

Mrs. Trent settled into the bed, her frame rather tiny in the sea of bedclothes and pillows. “Yes, dear.”

“Any requests? I have a book of Wordsworth’s poems from the library. What of that?”

Mrs. Trent’s breathing sounded labored. “No. Not tonight. The Bible is on the cupboard there. Read from that, if you will.”

Cecily retrieved the Bible and shifted it in her hand. She could
not recall the last time she had held a Bible in her hands, much less read one. Childhood memories rushed her. Her mother had memorized several psalms and would recite them to her and Leah before bed. Her mother had insisted that Cecily memorize them too, but time had robbed her of the recollections. For some reason, her heart now yearned to remember them.

She flipped forward, then backward, through the pages. “What shall I read?”

“It makes no difference, child. Anything will do. Miss Vale used to read to me from this before bed, and I have grown quite accustomed to it. Your voice is a bit lower than hers, but I think it will suit me fine.”

Cecily cleared her throat. She opened the Bible to Psalms and started to read. The words were foreign—yet oddly familiar too. She tried to read the words without hearing them, to separate herself from them, and yet their cadence struck a chord within her—the knowledge she should heed the words she was reading. She hoped for it and feared it at the same time.

Nathaniel trudged home, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Even Gus seemed abnormally slow, his gait listless.

Normally, walks home at the end of a long day were pleasant, especially this time of the year when the evenings were neither cold nor hot, but a pleasant balance of comfort. But gathering clouds to the west hinted that storms might be headed their way again. He shook his head as he thought about the bridge.

More rain was the last thing they needed.

While nobody else would likely care if the bridge’s repair was delayed another week, he did.

Workers had demolished what was left of the existing stone
and timber bridge, and a dam had been constructed to restrain the flowing water so the workers could build footings. As of yet, all seemed to be going as planned. But any more rain might cause the makeshift sluice to give way, which would force them to start anew.

He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to release the tension stored there. Mrs. Trent did not seem to care about the progress. Neither did Mr. Moreton. It should not matter to him, then.

But it did. And he knew why. His father had dedicated his life to Willowgrove. And whether it was out of respect for his father, or just a result of his teaching, he could not turn his back on what he knew was right.

His body cried for a hearty meal and bed, for the next morning would begin before the sun rose.

He turned the bend in the road and approached Laurel Cottage, and within moments he was inside. Soft laughter came down from the upper rooms.

It felt good to be home.

He called up to his sisters from the bottom of the stairs and then turned to the parlor. He sat on the worn wingback chair—which had been his father’s—and removed his boots. He unfastened the fabric buttons down the front of his tailcoat and tossed it on a chair next to the fireplace. He tugged on his neckcloth to loosen it.

Suddenly, from behind him, a sweet voice sounded, so softly he was not quite sure he had actually heard it or only imagined it. “Good evening, Mr. Stanton.”

He whirled around. There, in the threshold, stood Mrs. Olivia Massey. She was, as always, a vision of perfection. Her dark hair was smooth and intricately arranged, and her gown of deep plum hugged her figure with precise proportions. Her eyes were fixed on him with brazen directness.

“Mrs. Massey!” Realizing he was not properly dressed to meet with a woman, he reached for his coat. “Forgive me.”

“Think nothing of it. My husband used to remove his coat in just such a manner at the end of a long day.” She stepped casually into the room, her hips swaying with each step. “You were not expecting company, I daresay.”

“Uh, no.” He pushed his arm back through the sleeve and stuffed his stocking feet into his boots. He looked over her shoulder. He did not like the idea of being alone with her in this way. It would be too easy to give a wrong impression. “Where are my sisters?”

“Rebecca and Hannah are upstairs. I just came down to retrieve some ribbons from my trunk. We will start preparations for your sister’s wedding gown soon.”

He followed her gaze, and sure enough, a trunk stood open at the foot of the stairs, overflowing with fabrics and lace. He’d not even noticed it when he entered.

Trying to think of how to get her back with his sisters, he said, “Would you like me to carry that up the stairs for you? ’Twould be no trouble at all.”

But she did not answer. Instead, she wove the ribbon she was holding through her fingers slowly and cocked her head to the side. “I hear there is a new addition to Willowgrove Hall.”

The reference to Miss Faire pricked his senses. Why, he was not exactly sure. But he did know one thing: He did not want to discuss Miss Faire. Not with Mrs. Massey.

She stepped closer, her bright eyes locked on him like a hunter on his prey. “Mrs. Trent’s maid sent a missive asking me to come by this week. It seems I shall have the privilege of dressing our new acquaintance. I understand from Clarkson that she is in dire need of new dressings.”

She paused, as if waiting for him to respond. But what could he possibly add? Her gowns were the last thing he would pay attention to.

When he did not speak, she continued, “I hear she is lovely, with titian hair and skin like ivory.”

She was clearly waiting for his assessment. The room seemed to grow warmer with every second.

She stepped closer. So close that the hem of her skirt swished against his leg.

Mrs. Massey was a charming woman.

But instead of flattering him, her attentions made him uncomfortable.

Mrs. Massey’s husband had died two years ago of a fever. Nathaniel had been great friends with Mr. Massey, and out of duty and respect for his departed friend, he had done everything he could to help the widow begin a new life. He had helped her establish her business. Assisted with repairs to her home. And somewhere along the line, he assumed that she had misinterpreted his service for romantic intentions.

But the more she pressed, the more he digressed. How could he court a woman and keep the truth about his true identity? Perhaps it would be different if he felt any inclination toward her, but it would take a great deal of trust to share a secret he had kept so long hidden.

No. If he were ever to marry, he needed to wait until he was settled at Lockbourne.

Not before.

And not with a woman as forward as Mrs. Massey.

If Mrs. Massey noticed his growing discomfort, she did not let on. “I will be at Willowgrove the day after tomorrow to meet our lovely new friend. At least, I hope I shall be friends with her.”

He looked up from the toes of his boots, met her eyes briefly, and then looked to the door behind her.

Her smooth voice was barely above a whisper. “Shall I see you at Willowgrove?”

Before he could respond, Hannah came bounding down the stairs. “Nathaniel, you’re home!” She ran over and hugged his waist.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and knelt down to look at his sister at eye level. “And how was your day?”

“Good!” She thrust a handful of ribbon into his face. “And look, Mrs. Massey gave me these ribbons. Aren’t they lovely?”

He looked at the tangle of satin and cotton strips in every color of the rainbow. “Yes, very pretty.”

“I shall add them to the dress I am making with the fabric Miss Faire gave me.” Hannah smiled and turned toward Mrs. Massey. “Mother wondered what was keeping you and sent me down to see if you needed any help.”

Nathaniel spotted his opportunity. He reached for his hat and, without making eye contact, stepped back toward the foyer. “I will let you ladies get back to your business. Hannah, tell Mother I will be in the cowhouse.”

Without waiting for a response, he stepped outside into the damp night.

Later that evening, after Mrs. Massey had quitted Laurel Cottage, Nathaniel sat with his mother in the gathering dark of night. His sisters were upstairs. Giggles and chatter wafted downstairs. He was always grateful for this time of day. A time when he could sit and be still.

But tonight he felt restless. A voice nagged at him, and yet he could not make out the words. It was . . . confusing.

Across from him, his mother’s features were pointed, her frustration written in her furrowed brow and pursed lips. And he knew why. She adored Mrs. Massey, and since the day the young woman’s husband died, she had pegged the widow as Nathaniel’s future wife. Everyone had.

He had avoided Mrs. Massey while she was here. He didn’t come in for dinner.

His actions may not be considered gentlemanly, but how much worse would it be for him to give her false hope?

Many months ago, he had been tempted by Mrs. Massey’s charms. For a brief time, he thought himself enamored with the manner in which her cheek dimpled when she smiled. But then, as he grew to know her character, his emotions seemed to cool until it became evident: Mrs. Olivia Massey was not the woman he wanted to marry.

And yet the more reserved he was, the harder she pushed.

The harder everyone pushed.

He was able to consider it little more than a minor inconvenience, but for some reason, today was different.

For whether he liked it or not, he had encountered a woman who intrigued him.

Miss Faire, with her entrancing hair and radiant green eyes.

She brought with her an air of mystery, a depth of character. Ever since he left her in Mr. Trent’s library earlier in the day, he had been able to think of little else. The earnest expression. Her concern for her sister. It was driving him to utter distraction. The lingering memory of her haunted him. And even now, she dominated his thoughts. They’d spoken of secrets. What secret was Miss Faire keeping? he wondered.

And what was even more frustrating—it was nonsensical. He’d spent little time in her presence, and yet from the moment he’d encountered her alone on the road, he felt an undeniable sense of connectedness.

He could not help but wonder if she felt it too.

But even if she had such an inclination, she was unreachable. Destined never to be a part of his world. For she was Mrs. Trent’s companion. If history taught him anything, it would be that Mrs. Trent would have Miss Faire turned against him in a matter of days.

The thought incited frustration within him. Yet another facet
to his secret. He was like a puppet on a string, tethered to Mrs. Trent’s personal vendetta.

A future with Miss Faire would never be. He needed to keep his sights set on his duties at Willowgrove, his responsibilites toward his family, and his future at Lockbourne.

“You are distracted.” His mother’s words were more a statement than a question.

He stretched out his booted leg and expelled the air in his lungs. “No. Just tired.”

She looked up from her needlework. “How were things at Willowgrove today?”

“The workers cleared much of the old bridge, but we must wait until the water levels subside before we go much further. The engineer will be here before the week’s end.”

“Your father would be proud of you for the way you are handling all this.”

Nathaniel stared into the fire, watching the dying flames of orange and white as they popped and sizzled. His mother always did this . . . brought Thomas Stanton up in conversation. Would it ever get easier to discuss his father with his mother?

Fortunately, she changed the topic. “Mrs. Massey was lovely today.”

“She always is.”

“It is a shame you did not join us for dinner. She was quite disappointed that you were not present.” She lowered her sewing. “I do not understand your opposition to her. She is the kindest, most affable woman I have had the privilege of knowing. Life has handed her much difficulty, and yet she exhibits naught but grace and dignity. And I do believe she is quite taken with you.”

At this, Nathaniel leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve no intention of marrying her or anyone else. Shall we leave it at that?”

She lifted her sewing again. “You say that now, but you will change your mind one day.”

“One day, possibly. You know my reasons. I promised Father I would not—”

“Oh, stop.” She pointed her finger at him. “Your father would not want you to not seize life by refusing to live it. As I told you before, he told you so you know the truth about who you are. You needed to know.”