A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (32 page)

He smirked and cocked his head to the side. The breeze caught his hair. “Do you find me changed?”

“I do.”

He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “Dare I say you have changed, too, Cecily. Do not judge too harshly.”

She let the rose she had been cutting fall to the basket. “I am well aware of how I have changed. And that is probably for the best.”

He turned from her, a silent indication that this topic of conversation was closed. When he turned back around, a sober light shaded his eyes, and he sat on the stone bench. “How is my aunt?”

“I am afraid she is not doing well.”

Andrew’s expression darkened. “How so?”

Cecily clipped another rose and let it fall to the basket. “She has had several strange episodes. Often she does not know who I am, or anyone, for that matter.”

He propped his foot on the bench. “That is most unfortunate.”

Cecily wondered if he spoke the truth.

“I have something for you that I hope will cheer you, all the way from Aradelle.” He reached in his waistcoat and pulled out a letter. “Here. It is a letter from Mrs. Sherwin.”

She jerked her head and stared at the letter, half doubting its existence. She looped her basket over her arm and, with the other hand, reached for the letter.

The blood began to swoosh through Cecily’s ears with all the force of the wind over the downs, drowning out the sounds of the birds chirping. The idea that she could potentially be holding the answers she sought for so long trumped all rational thought. She wanted to rip open the letter and devour the words, but she was acutely aware of how Andrew’s eyes were fixed on her. For whatever words she might find penned within, she wanted to read them in solitude.

She looked up at Andrew and attempted to remember her manners. Her tongue felt thick and dry when she spoke. “And how is Mrs. Sherwin?”

“She is just as you remember her, no doubt. She was eager for news of you, though.” He stepped a little closer. A smile tugged at
his lips. “She was always so fond of you, if you remember. She asked if you were as lovely as ever.”

She did not miss the shift of his tone. She looked down at the toes of her slippers, still damp from the dew.

He cocked his head to the side. “Are you not the least bit curious to know what my response to her was?”

She shook her head in protest. “Mr. Moreton, please, I—”

“I told her that you were every bit as lovely as the day you left. That the years had been kind. And it is true.”

She looked to the gate, roses forgotten. Had she not dreamed of this moment? Hoping that he, like a knight in shining armor, would ride in and right past wrongs and save her from her prison? Although she no longer felt as if she were in a prison. She was in a place of her own choosing, and she had a clear mission.

She lifted her basket and slung it over her arm. “Please do not think me rude, Mr. Moreton, but I am anxious to read my letter. Thank you for being so kind as to speak to Mrs. Sherwin on my behalf and bring this letter to me, but I am sure you will understand that I wish to read it in private. Please excuse me.”

She brushed past him and fled the garden, her steps much faster than her regular pace. She heard his voice call after her, but she fixed her eyes on the entrance to Willowgrove.

28

C
ecily could not get to her chamber fast enough. It was as if the letter were burning her very fingers and the floor beneath her were shifting, slowing each step.

Five years ago, almost to the month, everything she believed to be true ceased to exist. She had considered that chapter in her life closed and dead for so long now that this letter, even more so than facing Andrew, was a strange glimpse into a world that had closed its door to her. Her footsteps echoed on the stone steps of the servants’ staircase and her hands trembled.

The air was stiff and hot in the corridor outside her chamber. It hung about, as if quietly steaming, watching, waiting to see what would transpire. The discomfort it caused matched her mood. She studied the letter’s inscription, feeling as if she were holding her sister’s memory in her hand. Thoughts of the one person whom she truly missed choked her, the memory clutching her in its hot grasp. She fled to her window, turned the ancient handle, and pushed the leaded glass out into the late-morning air. Warm tendrils of an airy
breeze pushed their way inside, but did little to relieve her. With her foot she pulled a chair closer and then sat. She slid her finger beneath the seal, pulled it free, and unfolded the letter.

The handwriting was rough and jagged. Her handwriting used to look the same, before her time at Rosemere. Each stroke held remnants of a relationship that had been far too long stale. She took a deep breath.

Cecily-girl,

News of you came like a ghost from the past. Mr. Moreton told me of your situation. I was pleased as can be to hear you are well. He was most discreet, protecting you from the wagging tongues that still plague these halls. A testament to the friendship you once shared, no doubt.

I’ve no call to pretend that I know what has happened with you since you left. In fact, the only news I had was that you were at a girls’ school, and then news from Mr. Moreton that you were now a lady’s companion.

The day you left was a sad one. He told me you knew little about what happened afterward. Had you written in the months following the event, I would have had to decline to write you. The master was in fits about it and was most cross with anyone who made mention of it. But time, as you know, heals many things.

I have missed you. All the girls have. I could update you on them all now, but what would I have to write you in the future? I would ever so much like to stay in touch now that I have found you again.

I am happy and my life is very different, and I am eager to tell you of all things, but all these things I can share with you in good time. For Mr. Moreton mentioned that you were most anxious to learn about your family, so I will keep you in suspense no longer.

I do not know any news firsthand, mind you, but you know how Aradelle Park is. News travels as quickly as a bird from one tree to another. So I shall tell you the rumors that I heard regarding your sister.
Miss Bige, as you know, was a great friend of your sister’s. She reports that she went to live with your aunt in Manchester. But that was several years past, and I do not know what to believe. And then, this brings me to the difficult part of my letter. I heard a report through Cyrus Lindford, the new head groom, that your father died about a year ago in a town south of London. A letter had been sent here, looking for his relations, and sadly, no one had any information on your whereabouts or your sister’s. Your father was hard on you, but I know you loved him, despite all that happened. I am truly pained for you.

I am eager for us to get reacquainted, but in light of my last bit of information, I shall save such news for another time. I hope now that we are reconnected, you will write. I am eager to know of you.

Cecily forgot to breathe, and truth be told, her eyes only skimmed over the end of the letter. As if acting on their own accord, her eyes sought out the word and clung to it.

Died
.

She tried to picture her father, with his broad shoulders, hair the color of fire, so like hers, and ruddy complexion. But her recollection had grown dim.

She tried to remember the father of her youth prior to her mother’s death. The laughter. The happy times. But all she could recall was the way he made her feel. Frightened. Flawed. Insignificant. Her memories of him smiling had faded, and all that remained was his angry scowl. But even as the unpleasant memories outweighed the good, her child’s heart still wanted to cling to him, with the hope that her memories were incorrect.

She read the letter again.

Surely it could be a mistake. But the logic seemed sound, and hardly from someone who would tell a falsehood. After all, Mrs. Sherwin had comforted her and Leah after their mother died. She snuck them special treats from Aradelle’s kitchen and even gave
Cecily a new pair of boots when hers had worn through. What reason would she have to lead her astray?

Cecily did not want it to hurt so badly.

For this was the man who sent her away. Rejected her.

But if the truth were to be told, her situation improved once she left Aradelle. In fact, she was treated better at Rosemere than her own father had treated her, and she had been given an opportunity that surpassed any she could have received had she lived out her days on Aradelle’s grounds.

She felt numb.

She had been right about her sister. Where else but their aunt’s house would she go? Their mother’s only sister. But Cecily’s grandmother had died when her mother was young, and the sisters did not stay close. Cecily could barely recall her aunt’s Christian name. Perhaps it was Lucy. Or Lucille.

It was hard to tell if they were tears of agony or defeat that slipped down her cheeks and blotted the letter. While the letter had connected her with a dear friend, it had destroyed a hope that she had fought for years to keep alive.

Somehow she made it to her bed. Her last cognizant thought before succumbing to sleep was that she was now utterly alone.

Cecily splashed the icy water on her cheeks and looked at the small looking glass. Her eyes were red. Her skin, blotchy and pale. And with her hair, well, she just looked red all over.

She blotted her face with the linen towel. She could cry no more. Her heart ached. Her head pounded. But as she was about to read the letter again, someone knocked at the door.

Clarkson poked her head in. “I think you should come. Mrs. Trent is asking for you.”

“How is she?”

“She is all right, for the time being. She seems lucid.”

“Thank you, Clarkson.” Cecily placed the letter on the top of her bureau, retrieved the basket of roses, and then hurried from her room.

When she entered Mrs. Trent’s room, it was dark and warm. No sound. No movement.

She swallowed hard. Each time she came to check on the woman, she feared the worst.

But as she stepped into the room, a weak voice sounded from the bed. “Come over here, Miss Faire.”

Breathing a little sigh of relief, Cecily moved to the chair next to the bed, just as she had so many times before.

“I brought you these from the garden.” Cecily lifted her basket so Mrs. Trent could see the contents. “The garden is quite lovely this morning. Perhaps soon you will be well enough for a walk. The irises are starting to bloom.”

“I fear my days of walking the garden are past me.”

“You shouldn’t say such things. You seem a bit better today, and tomorrow you shall be stronger still.” Cecily placed the basket at her feet.

Mrs. Trent drew a shallow breath, loud with the effort. “How optimistic you are.” A coughing fit racked her feeble body. When Cecily offered to help adjust her against the pillows, Mrs. Trent waved her away. When the coughing subsided, she added, “I fear I do not share your optimism. But I am a bit stronger today, I think. And you are here to keep me company.”

After the news of her own father, Cecily’s heart was heavy. Her nerves were raw. She could not watch another person die, and now, as she watched Mrs. Trent struggle, pain stabbed her. She could deny the truth, pretend that Mrs. Trent would be better after a good night’s rest, but it would change nothing.

Cecily weighed the wisdom of each word before speaking. Perhaps it was selfish to burden Mrs. Trent with such an admission now for no other reason than to release herself from her own regret. “I know you are unwell, but I was hoping to speak to you regarding a matter that has been weighing quite heavily on me.”

The older woman opened her eyes, but her expression remained still. “Oh?”

Cecily interlaced her fingers. “I have not been completely honest with you, and I was hoping to set things right.”

Mrs. Trent shifted to adjust herself against the pillows. “I see.”

The words were spilling out of Cecily’s mouth before she had time to consider what she would say next. “That is to say, I am not the lady you think me to be.”

Mrs. Trent remained quiet, her rheumy eyes expectant.

Cecily drew a deep breath. She felt like a child, waiting for her father’s wrath after having done something wrong. “I was a student at Rosemere, but I was not sent there to become a lady, as one might presume. I was sent there as punishment. My father disowned me and left me in Mrs. Sterling’s care. I have heard naught from my family since that day nearly five years ago.”

Cecily kept her gaze low, waiting for a gasp of shock, but instead, Mrs. Trent reached out and covered Cecily’s hand with her own.

“I have wondered what your secret was. But there is more, is there not?” Mrs. Trent drew a jagged breath, and the rustle of the bedclothes seemed unusually loud as she adjusted herself against her pillows. “So, if I may ask you, exactly how long have you known my nephew?”

Mrs. Trent’s direct stare froze Cecily.