A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (30 page)

“Because we had not yet finished our conversation.”

The music started, and he bowed before her. Her eyes darted to the couples dancing around them. “I am not familiar with this dance.”

“Just follow me.”

She put her gloved hand in his. It had been a long time since he had danced. But when her hand touched his, he was willing to do whatever necessary to be close to her.

Miss Faire cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I do not think Mrs. Massey is pleased with me.”

He placed his hand on the small of her back as he guided her through the next step. “Mrs. Massey is not my concern.”

“I do not understand why you are asking me about my secrets, sir, for I believe you have some of your own.”

She caught his eye before she turned for the next dance step. She had him cornered. For she was correct. He did have secrets. He waited for her to complete a turn around another dancer before speaking.

“I suppose you are right.”

He accepted her hand as she returned from her steps. She moved very close to him. Her skirt brushed against his boot and her scent of rosewater teased him. “But how can I trust you with the secrets I may have if you cannot trust me with yours?”

Nathaniel was standing close to her, and Cecily felt as if she might faint. The movement around her. The warmth of the room. The effect of his hand on hers when it slid around her waist during the course of the dance. It took her mind back to another time.

But her growing feelings toward Mr. Stanton were quite different from the feelings she’d had for Andrew. She’d been a child then, who was looking at romance as a means of escape. Or of rescue from a life of unhappiness.

But the warmth in Mr. Stanton’s eyes was different. It made her
feel
different. No longer was she seeking escape. And that freedom opened her heart and mind to an entirely different type of emotion.

She knew well the pain of disappointment. But she had survived. That survival had given her strength.

The dance ended. The musicians paused their melody, and the dancers clapped and laughed. Mr. Stanton stood too long, looking down at her.

She did not want to move. On the contrary, she wanted to continue their discussion. She did believe she could trust him. He had proven to her in many ways that he was willing to help her. She wanted to share every detail of her past. To free herself from the chains binding her. But the words would not form. Her heart had paid the price once for trusting too soon.

She looked up at him and met his pale-blue eyes. “It is not easy
for me to share my past. It is not that I do not want to. It is that the words will not come.”

He spoke softly. “I understand, Miss Faire. Believe me, I do.” He offered her his arm and led her from the dance floor. “I am here to help you. Despite what you may think, you are not alone.”

25

Y
ou
are
not
alone.

The words rang in her head like a cadence. After she had arrived home, she had tried to sleep, but the magic of the night kept her awake.

Nathaniel Stanton.

Had she imagined it? The genuine look of concern in his eyes?

Dare she even think it . . . affection?

Cecily had not spent the duration of the evening with Mrs. Massey, as she had planned. Instead, the Stantons had folded her into their family. Mrs. Massey seemed to disappear. Several times she had sought out the seamstress, only to find her deep in conversation with someone.

She had prepared herself for the realization that Mrs. Massey and Mr. Stanton might be involved romantically. Mrs. Massey had made her opinion of Mr. Stanton quite plain, and based on that information, Cecily probably should have declined Mr. Stanton’s offer to dance, if only to protect Mrs. Massey’s feelings. She could
not have done so, however, without offending him. It became evident over the course of the evening that Mr. Stanton did not share Mrs. Massey’s affections. And even though Cecily had spent most of the evening in the company of the Turner and Stanton families, Mrs. Massey’s lack of conversation and pointed stares during their carriage ride home spoke volumes of the woman’s annoyance with her.

She pushed the thoughts of Mrs. Massey to the back of her mind, for another memory battled them for dominance: the memory of Mr. Stanton’s hand on hers.

Whatever secret he was hiding, whatever reason it was that Mrs. Trent did not care for him, no longer mattered.

No, it was not reckless disregard she was feeling. She knew well the difference. Her heart was trumping her rational side. She would be careful. Would be slow and intentional.

She wanted to jump from the bed, dress quickly, and find him—he was certain to be on the grounds somewhere. And just knowing that he was close set her imagination alive with possibilities for the future.

But instead, Cecily spent the quiet, predawn hours writing letters of inquiry to the dressmakers on the list. With each one, her heart soared with optimism. She would find her sister.

The door opened and Clarkson entered, interrupting Cecily’s reverie. “You are awake. I am surprised, as late as you returned. How was last night, Miss Faire?”

Cecily stood, a bit surprised at the maid’s unusual friendliness. She turned to look at her and noted the dark circles beneath her eyes. Cecily cocked her head to the side. “It was lovely, thank you for asking. How is Mrs. Trent today?”

“She woke just a few minutes ago,” Clarkson said, adjusting the bed coverings. “She had a difficult night, I’m afraid.”

Cecily frowned. “You should have woken me. I would have sat with her.”

“No need, miss.” Clarkson helped her dress in a gown of blue silk that Mrs. Massey had made. Once dressed, Clarkson stepped back, propped her hands on her hips, and assessed Cecily’s gown.

She pivoted to look into the mirror. Mrs. Massey had done a splendid job on the dress, and with the adjustments she had made herself, the gown was about flawless. Her figure looked transformed when she shifted from the shapeless school gowns to a lady’s wardrobe. She smiled and looked over her shoulder at the back of the dress, where the lacings down the bodice gave way to a simple bow.

She was starting to feel like a lady. But it was more than just her exterior that was changing. She picked up her comb and began to work it through the tangles.

Clarkson gathered Cecily’s nightclothes and put them in the wardrobe. “I’ll bring up Mrs. Trent’s breakfast. You can go on in. I know she will be anxious to hear about last night.”

Cecily nodded, gave Clarkson the letters she had written to post, and once her hair was pinned loosely up off of her shoulders, she slipped her feet into matching slippers and left the room.

When she entered Mrs. Trent’s room, she saw no sign of the older woman.

Cecily frowned. Every morning, Mrs. Trent sat at the table beside the window. Today, the sunlight slanted over an empty seat.

“Mrs. Trent?” she called.

Silence.

She poked her head inside the dressing room adjoining the main bedchamber.

Empty.

But as she turned around, she spied the toe of a black stocking poking out from the other side of the bed. She ran to the woman’s still form and dropped to her knees, gripping her shoulder. Mrs. Trent’s eyes were open, but they were vacant.

“Clarkson!” she shrieked.

Cecily struggled to help the woman to a seated position. “It’s going to be all right, Mrs. Trent. Let’s get you into bed, and I think—”

But Mrs. Trent pulled away, swatting her hands at Cecily. But her words were sluggish. Slurred. “Stop it, Lorna! Stop your screeching.”

Cecily jerked her hands back as if she had been burned. “It’s Cecily. Cecily Faire.”

The older woman struggled to get up, her small frame surprisingly strong.

The wild expression in Mrs. Trent’s eyes alarmed Cecily. “Clarkson! Come quickly!”

“Stop that shouting, Lorna, at once!” Mrs. Trent said.

But Cecily ignored her. She was in the process of trying to help Mrs. Trent into the bed when Clarkson came bustling through the door, tray in hand.

“Whatever happened, miss?”

“Thank goodness you are here. I came in and found her on the floor. She is talking nonsense.”

Clarkson dropped the tray to the table and rushed to her mistress.

Mrs. Trent’s eyes were closed now, but her breathing came in labored puffs. Her skin was ghostly white. Cecily had seen her disoriented before, but never like this. Never this dramatic.

Clarkson leaned over, put the back of her hand to the older woman’s forehead. “Mrs. Trent is worn out, she is.” She cut her eyes to Cecily. They held nothing but a warning.

Cecily shook her head, alarmed at Clarkson’s simple assessment. “No, there is something more.” Her voice grew louder. “She needs her physician.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she remembered. Dr. Collingswood had returned to Manchester two days earlier. Panic besieged her.

Mrs. Trent was now looking past both of them, mumbling nonsensical words and shaking.

Clarkson straightened. “Very well. I will ask Mr. Stanton to send for him.”

Cecily recognized the wildness in Mrs. Trent’s expression. It was the look that her mother had when she had been delirious with fever those many years ago. Tears were gathering in Cecily’s eyes as she immersed a linen cloth in the bedside water basin. Her own hands were trembling as she pressed the cloth against Mrs. Trent’s forehead.

But Mrs. Trent would have none of it. In uncoordinated movements, the unsteady woman pulled the cloth away, her actions more like that of a sick child than an adult.

“Mrs. Trent,” Cecily said, “you must leave it there.”

But Mrs. Trent fixed her eyes on Cecily, the intensity of which froze Cecily to her core.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Mrs. Trent hissed.

Fear trickled down Cecily’s back. She lowered the linen cloth at the woman’s cryptic words. “What do you mean? I’m here to help you. I’m your companion.”

“But you’re dead. You died.”

Cecily shook her head. “I am not dead. Mrs. Trent, you don’t know what you are saying.”

“I know what I know. Have you come to take me? Or to haunt me?”

An eerie shiver assaulted Cecily. “You are ill, Mrs. Trent. Please, lie down.”

The woman’s eyes rolled closed. Beads of perspiration lined her withered forehead, and her breath came in shallow puffs.

Hurried footsteps sounded in the hall. Within moments, Clarkson, followed closely by Mr. Stanton and Mrs. Bratham, rushed into the room.

Mr. Stanton was in first, his lips pressed in a line. He pushed past the other women, practically jogging to the bed. He sat down next to her.

At the motion, Mrs. Trent’s eyes flew open, and they fixed on Mr. Stanton.

“You,” she seethed. Her eyes took on an anger unlike any Cecily had seen before. “You have done this. It is all because of you.”

But Mr. Stanton remained controlled. “Stop now. You’re unwell. You need to rest.”

“Rest? Ha! I will never rest. You would like to think I am unwell. You ruined it. You ruined everything.”

The inflection in her tone was cruel. Hateful. Cecily could not bring herself to make eye contact with Mr. Stanton. Instead, she stepped to the other side of the bed and sat down. She took the woman’s hand in her own. “You do not mean that, Mrs. Trent. Mr. Stanton is merely trying to help.”

Mrs. Trent ripped her hand from Cecily’s grasp, her glare never leaving Mr. Stanton, her jowls shaking. “You’ll never know what he did!”

Mr. Stanton rose from the bed and adjusted his waistcoat. His expression remained stoic. “Get some laudanum to make her comfortable. I’ll send for Mr. Collingswood immediately.”

A flurry of activity ensued. Clarkson adjusted Mrs. Trent’s blankets. Mrs. Bratham fetched the laudanum.

Cecily stood from the bed, gripped her hands before her, and stepped toward Mr. Stanton.

The lines around his face softened, and she noticed how he glanced around, assessing the situation. His composure calmed her nerves.

He leaned in, his voice low enough that the servants could not hear. “What happened?”

“I am not sure.” Cecily folded her arms across her waist. “I
came in to join her for breakfast, just as I always do, and she was there, on the floor. And when I went to her, she was angry. She kept calling me Lorna.”

At the mention of the name Lorna, a flash of recognition shone in his eyes. He diverted his gaze toward the window.

He
knows about
Lorna.

They had spoken the previous evening of secrets.

Well, she was growing weary of them. Weary of keeping them. Weary of having them kept from her. And now, emotion tugged on her as she watched Mrs. Trent grow more delirious.

“Who is Lorna?” she blurted.

He forced his fingers through his thick hair and fixed his eyes on her.

“Please, now. We talked of not keeping secrets,” she reminded him. “Tell me.”

He blew out the air he had been holding, propped his hands on his hips, and nodded to a small painting tucked in the corner. “There.”

Cecily turned and took a few steps forward to get a better view. After all the time she had spent in this room, she had never really taken notice of this small painting. The painting was of a young girl, probably twelve or thirteen, with piercing blue eyes and long, black hair that fell over her shoulders. She was a pretty girl with high cheekbones and a pleasant smile.