A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (21 page)

17

T
he rain continued through the night, and the next morning Cecily awoke with a throbbing in her temples and tightness in her neck. She’d woken once at dawn when a chambermaid came in to tend her fire and couldn’t fall back asleep. She pressed her hands to her forehead and drew a deep breath. Her first thought was of Andrew. Their odd interaction in the blue drawing room left her with more questions than answers. But her second thought, of equal intensity, was of Mr. Stanton. And her heart gave a little leap. The kindness in his expression was so different from the wild uncertainty she had found in Andrew’s.

A quick glance at her timepiece confirmed the hour was early. With today being the first time she attended church with Mrs. Trent, she did not want to be late.

She rose and rang for Clarkson. She poured some of the icy water from the pitcher to the bowl and washed her face and cleaned her teeth. The lady’s maid came in as stoic as ever.

“Which dress will it be, miss?”

Cecily looked at the few gowns hanging in her wardrobe. They all paled in comparison to the dress that Miss Pritchard had worn at dinner. She sighed and pointed to her Sunday dress—a simple yet delicately cut gown of yellow muslin, on which she had embroidered a pattern of light-pink flowers along the neckline. “That one will do.”

After helping Cecily dress, Clarkson propped her hands on her hips. “Shall I dress your hair?”

Cecily shook her head. She’d always done her own hair, and she’d been told that the curls made it difficult to arrange. “No, thank you. I can do it myself.”

“As you wish. I will go wake Mrs. Trent. She does not care to be rushed on Sunday mornings. She will be ready for you in a few minutes, I am sure.”

Cecily paused to view her reflection in the looking glass, then retrieved her comb and dressed her hair. Once the task was complete, she smoothed the satin piping along the bodice of her gown and adjusted a white chemisette at her neck. Moments later the sound of Mrs. Trent’s high voice reached her even out in the hall, and she hurried from her chamber.

Mrs. Trent was sitting upright in bed, her sleeping cap tilted to the side, her face pale.

“Good morning, Mrs. Trent. How did you sleep?”

Mrs. Trent waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I never sleep well, child.”

Cecily smiled. Each morning the woman responded with the same words.

“Never,” Mrs. Trent continued. “Draw those curtains, will you?”

Cecily obeyed, pulling back the long, heavy curtains and allowing the morning’s early rays to flood the space. “Would you like to get dressed and take breakfast in the breakfast room?” Cecily asked, sweeping her hair from her face.

“La,” the older woman grunted. “No, we will enjoy our breakfast here, in my bedchamber. I will take dinners with them, but breakfast, no.”

Cecily poured a cup of tea that had been left by one of the servants, carried it to the bed, and sat next to her. Her heart tugged at the woman’s apparent frustration. “Why ever not?”

Mrs. Trent’s jowls shook with emphasis. “Because they are vultures, horrid creatures, waiting for me to die so they may have Willowgrove to themselves, to do with as they please.”

Cecily straightened, a little shocked by the bluntness. Yet she could not argue. The dinner the previous night had been difficult to endure. Guilt was starting to tug at her. She had a past with Andrew, and yet she kept it a secret from Mrs. Trent. The closer Cecily grew to her, the harder it would be to conceal her past. It felt as if she were lying.

She extended the teacup toward Mrs. Trent. “Here, have some tea. I will have Clarkson bring up some breakfast. Do you care for toast and fruit this morning? I, for one, say you need to stay healthy and strong for a good, long time and beat them at their own game.”

The older woman laughed. “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Full of spunk. Twenty-one years of age, you say?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So much ahead of you. So many exciting adventures to anticipate. I envy you, Miss Faire.”

Cecily looked to the window, down to the carefully manicured lawns below. An older man walked along the garden wall, a rake propped over his shoulder, a bucket in his hand. “Is that the gardener?”

The older woman stretched her neck to follow Cecily’s gaze. “Yes. ’Tis Silas. Been here since before I married Mr. Trent.”

“He must be very skilled to have retained the position for so long.”

“I suppose. But that was my husband’s way.” She accepted the tea with shaking hands and then kept her eyes on Silas as she watched him saunter across the lawn. “When he developed a fondness for someone, he was loyal. Loyal to a fault, I used to tell him. Once he struck a bond or promise, he would never go back on his word. It was a fault he had, and don’t you say otherwise.”

Cecily frowned. “I do not see how that could be a fault.”

Mrs. Trent lifted the teacup to her lips before responding. “I loved my husband. Make no mistake. And would never speak ill of him. But he allowed himself to be swayed, to be taken advantage of.”

Cecily stood and poured herself a cup of tea into a delicate teacup and added a lump of sugar. “I suppose I can see how that could happen.”

“It
can
happen, Miss Faire, and it did.” Mrs. Trent’s eyes widened. “He’s been gone six years now, and this estate is still darkened by such alliances.”

Cecily wondered what Mrs. Trent was inferring, but thought it best not to linger on it. “Fortunately, there is always hope for fresh beginnings.”

“When you reach my age, I fear hoping for change diminishes. But I imagine once I die, all will be vastly altered at Willowgrove.”

Cecily was not completely sure what Mrs. Trent meant, but she did not like talking about death. It opened up too many questions. She forced a smile. “Well, I think you need to stop with all this talk of death. You are going to live a long time.”

Mrs. Trent patted Cecily’s hand, as if amused by the idea. “Foolish girl.”

“No, in all earnestness!” Cecily said. “Come, it’s early. What do you say to a walk in the garden before services?”

The older woman laughed. “My dear child, I haven’t been on a walk to the gardens in months.”

“Then it is time, is it not? It will be short. The clouds are
clearing and the weather is fine, and we will walk down, select some fresh roses for your vase over there, and then return in a quarter of an hour. A beautiful way to greet the morning.”

A flush of color tinted the woman’s withered cheek. “You may need to help me.”

Cecily smiled. “That is why I am here.”

“I’ll call for Clarkson to help me dress—”

“There is no need for that. I can—”

But the woman’s sharp words cut her off. “No. Clarkson dresses me.”

The woman’s tone changed in an instant.

Cecily nodded. She stepped away from the wardrobe, feeling like a scolded child, and pulled the bell cord. She lowered her hands to her sides. She was quickly learning that Mrs. Trent was very particular about certain things, and her dressing routine was one of them.

Within moments Clarkson was at the door. Cecily stood by as the lady’s maid quickly set the woman’s stays and arranged her petticoats and gown. She adjusted her fichu just so, applied rouge and powder to her face, and dressed her hair in a chignon. She used curling tongs to create unnatural curls in front of each ear.

When Clarkson was done, she reached for a shawl and draped it around Mrs. Trent’s shoulders. Cecily gathered a basket for flower clippings and cupped Mrs. Trent’s elbow to begin their journey out of the bedchamber. It was then she was reminded of the extent of Mrs. Trent’s afflictions. The woman had great difficulty descending the staircase, and they paused for her to rest in a chair in the great hall before venturing out of doors. The elderly woman’s breathing was labored, and beads of perspiration dotted her brow. Cecily questioned the wisdom of continuing, but instead of growing discouraged, Mrs. Trent seemed to be more determined—a trait Cecily could not help but admire.

The morning’s sun sliced through the shifting clouds and slanted across the expansive lawn. “I haven’t been outside at this hour in so long,” Mrs. Trent said.

A crisp breeze swept over the manicured grounds, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and the suggestion of more rain to come. All around them, aspens and birches were budding in vibrant shades of green and white, and despite the standing water visible on various sections of the grounds, the lawns boasted brilliant shades of emerald and jade.

“It is a beautiful time of morning.” Cecily drew a deep breath. “Over the last couple of years, I have taken to walking on the moors at dawn. Of course, that was quite a different landscape, but this walk is very pleasant. Very peaceful.”

“And do you plan to continue your morning walks now that you are at Willowgrove?”

“If you will join me.”

Mrs. Trent laughed. “Oh, Miss Faire, I do believe you are medicine for my soul. Better than Dr. Collingswood and his elixirs and tonics.”

“And who, pray tell, is Dr. Collingswood?”

“You have yet to make his acquaintance. He is my physician. He is a frequent guest at Willowgrove and shall arrive in a day or so. One of the few friends who has remained loyal to me since my husband’s passing.”

The women walked arm in arm in comfortable silence to a garden gate, adorned with intricately woven vines of honeysuckle. Servants were bustling about the yard, tending to their tasks, and a stable boy was leading a horse down the path.

“It pains me to see the water. Shameful. I do wish Mr. Stanton would hurry with the repairs.” The older woman’s voice shook. Cecily paused to soak in the beauty around her, but Mrs. Trent seemed intent upon focusing on the negative.

“I am sure he is doing his best. I would imagine such things take time.”

“You are kind, Miss Faire, to give him such credit, but you will soon learn that he is not as capable as you may think. Here”—Mrs. Trent pointed to the walled garden—“let’s walk in here.”

The iron gate creaked and groaned with the effort as Cecily pushed against it. But once inside, Cecily nearly gasped at the sight she beheld. Hundreds of spring blooms of scarlet and violet met her in each direction she looked. They cascaded over the walls. The intoxicating scent of roses teased her, transporting her back to happy childhood times with her mother in their own modest garden.

Cecily followed Mrs. Trent farther into the garden. Mrs. Trent’s steps were slow and labored, and she leaned heavily on her cane in order to reach a rose petal with her trembling hand. “My husband had this garden planted for me my first spring here. And so it continues even after his death, as enchanting as it ever was.”

Cecily kept her tone light. “How thoughtful.”

“Yes, he always saw to it that roses were in my rooms. Those days are long ago.”

Cecily lifted the scissors from the basket they had brought with them. “Well then, we must see to it that you still enjoy them. Which roses do you fancy?”

The woman looked around her before pointing her unsteady finger in the direction of a tall, climbing bush with vibrant crimson roses just starting to bud on their stems. “Those.”

Cecily clipped several roses, careful to avoid thorns and to remove excess leaves from the stems. After she had gathered enough for a bouquet, she placed them in the basket and turned. “There, that should do.”

A smile tugged at Mrs. Trent’s lips—sheepish and distant. It was a true glimpse into the older woman’s heart.

They walked back through the garden gate to the south lawn,
and before long, Cecily spied Mr. Stanton walking across the property, toward the tradesmen’s entrance. When he noticed them, he paused and tipped his hat. Cecily smiled and nodded back, but Mrs. Trent’s expression, which moments before had been soft and vulnerable, became stern.

Cecily continued to watch him cross the lawn, dressed every bit as the gentleman in gray breeches tucked into black riding boots, a gray frock coat, and a beaver hat, which was quite a change from the wide-brimmed hat she had grown so accustomed to seeing him in. He seemed so young to manage such an estate, but as he paused to speak to a footman, the respect he garnered was evident.

She must have slowed her pace, for Mrs. Trent gave her arm a nudge. “Is it Mr. Stanton you are watching?” Mrs. Trent gave a little snort. “You may as well grow accustomed to his presence, for you will find that Mr. Stanton is always present, whether he is welcome or not.”

Cecily held her arm steady as Mrs. Trent struggled to approach the stairs at Willowgrove’s entrance. Her confidence was growing. The majority of her interactions with Mrs. Trent had been pleasant, so perhaps she could take this time to get to know her a bit more. “I still do not understand why you dislike him so. He has always seemed congenial.”

At the top of the stone stairs, Mrs. Trent turned to Cecily and met her gaze directly. “I am sure that I will be the first to tell you that things—and people—are not always as they seem. You have not been at Willowgrove long, Miss Faire. There are secrets within these walls, ghosts locked behind the doors. You need not know my reasons. Just heed my words.” She paused and tipped her cane in Cecily’s direction. “I caution you. Do not be fooled by his dashing smile, child.”

The intensity of her stare sent an immediate rush of heat to Cecily’s cheeks. “I was not, er, that is, I did not intend—”

But Mrs. Trent’s glare silenced her. “Do not think that I do not remember what it was like to be young. Oh yes, it was a long time ago, and I do forget a great many things. But that I do not forget.” Her expression sobered. “You are a bright, beautiful young woman, Miss Faire. You are destined for things greater than the likes of a man such as Mr. Stanton. Set your sights on higher ground.”

She looked out again to Mr. Stanton, who was closer to them now.

Perhaps Mrs. Trent would think differently if she knew of Cecily’s own secrets, for she imagined they could rival any of those lurking within Willowgrove’s halls.

As he drew closer, his profile became more focused. The breeze lifted the edge of his coat. His strong jawline was set in determination, silhouetted in the morning sun. The memory of how he looked when he stepped from the tree line haunted her. It was as if he were stepping from a fairy tale.