A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (33 page)

Cecily forced herself not to look away.

Bumps rose on her arms. Her pulse quickened. “I am not certain I understand your meaning.”

Mrs. Trent raised her eyebrow in a knowing expression. “My dear Miss Faire, I suspect that someone your age may think me oblivious, but I am not as unobservant as you think.”

Heat rushed to Cecily’s cheeks, to her neck and ears. She had been lying to Mrs. Trent. Not an outward lie, true, but a lie of omission was still a falsehood. Mrs. Trent deserved the truth.

Cecily paused to muster her courage before speaking. “I have known your nephew for most of my life.”

Mrs. Trent’s lips curled slowly in a hint of triumph. “You see, I might be old, but I am not wholly unaware.”

It was what Mrs. Trent did not say that extracted more words from Cecily, for the ensuing silence jabbed harder than any words could. “My father was a blacksmith. He was employed by Mr. Moreton at Aradelle Park for many years. He saw to the needs of the estate and the tenants. Our cottage was on the property.”

“Why did you never mention this?” Her tone was patient.

Cecily selected the answer that would pass her lips with the least resistance. “Because I know you want me to be a lady. I-I was not sure you would approve of a blacksmith’s daughter as your companion.”

Mrs. Trent drew a labored breath. “We all come from somewhere, Miss Faire. What matters is how we take our circumstances and make them our own.”

The burning truth ached for release. She looked down at her intertwined fingers. “But there is another reason I never mentioned my past connection to Aradelle Park.”

She wanted the truth to be out without having to actually say the words. She had never said them to another living soul. And here she was about to say them to the one person who possessed the power to cast her away from Willowgrove if she should be so inclined. But Cecily felt that, in some inexplicable way, Mrs. Trent might actually understand.

After taking a moment to collect herself, Cecily spoke. “I have known your nephew, but our relationship went beyond that of a casual acquaintance. Our history, such as it was, is quite complicated.”

Mrs. Trent angled her head against the pillow. “I know his history very well.”

It was as if the words were a lead rope, guiding the conversation and pulling the words from her as one would a horse through a gate. “Mr. Moreton and I had a relationship, a romance, if you will, when I was but sixteen. It was when my father discovered our romance that I was sent to Rosemere.”

There.

For better or for worse, it was out.

Cecily had hoped that by saying the words a magical peace would cloak her in its healing relief, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, her anxiety wound tighter around her heart, squeezing it and choking the confidence from her.

She had never felt more exposed.

Every sound in the room was amplified.

The ticking of the timepiece on the mantel.

The staccato pop of the lazy afternoon fire.

Like a thief awaiting a verdict, she held her breath.

After the seconds ticked past at a maddeningly slow pace, Mrs. Trent spoke. “I thought it might be you.”

At this, Cecily jerked her head up.

Mrs. Trent’s expression grew distant. “I knew of my nephew’s past, Miss Faire. Andrew is my brother’s child, after all. When we learned of his ways, his father requested that he stay with me here at Willowgrove to remove him from the situation. Of course, I could not refuse such a request. But as it relates to you, go look in that trunk over there.”

Cecily obeyed and moved to the trunk, which she had oft seen but never knew the contents. Her legs felt uncertain and her
balance was slightly off. She knelt and lifted the lid. Inside, she found stacks of letters bound by satin ribbons.

Mrs. Trent’s voice was growing thin. “For years I kept every letter I received. A testament to my life’s story. I did notice my nephew’s change in behavior after your arrival. He’s always been of an affected bent, but I did think the alteration of his demeanor odd nonetheless. As I was rereading some letters, I came upon a few my sister-in-law wrote me around the time Andrew came to reside at Willowgrove. While she did not mention you by name, she did refer to the girl as being the daughter of their blacksmith by the name of Faire. From that moment on, nothing could have been plainer.”

Cecily let the trunk lid close. “I do apologize, Mrs. Trent. I should have been more forthcoming. I confess I did not tell you because I was afraid of what you would think of me. I feared losing my position as your companion. But as our acquaintance grew, I did want to tell you. I wasn’t sure how.”

“Oh, child,” Mrs. Trent said, motioning her to come back to the bedside. “We all have past indiscretions that haunt us. Life has handed me my share. More than I can count. Such a secret can be a blessing in that it preserves normalcy. But it can be a curse. You must learn to discern the difference, a lesson I myself wish I would have learned long ago.”

“Now that all is confessed, I am relieved to be free of it.” Cecily offered a little laugh. “Now it seems almost silly to have feared your response.”

“One more thing I must discuss with you. There are secrets in these old halls, and they will live on long after I am gone. You shared with me your secret. I shall confess mine.”

Cecily stiffened, a little frightened of what she might hear. “You do not have to tell me.”

“Yes, I do. For you were brave enough to speak with me. I
should do the same.” Mrs. Trent looked to the window, as if seeing the distant past. “I do. Otherwise it will haunt me from now into the afterlife. I am old, but I am no fool. I am dying, Miss Faire.”

Cecily opened her mouth to protest, to tell her she should not say such things, but the older woman lifted her frail hand to silence her. “Please, at least give me the decency of honesty. I have known Dr. Collingswood a long time, and I recognized the look on his face.” She looked to her left, at the portrait of her husband. Longing filled her eyes, a look of love and warmth that Cecily had not seen before. “It is the same expression he wore when my husband was dying.”

But with a sudden sniff, Mrs. Trent snapped from her trance. “No doubt you have noticed my disdain for Nathaniel Stanton.”

The mention of Mr. Stanton took Cecily by surprise. “Ma’am?”

“I have never cared for Mr. Stanton, but I suppose it can hardly be his fault.”

Cecily bit her lower lip with the anticipation of what she was about to hear. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Stanton is my husband’s illegitimate son.”

Cecily held her breath, unsure she had heard the words correctly.
“Illegitimate son?”

“Now that I have told someone, it hardly seems like a secret worth keeping.” It was Mrs. Trent’s turn to grumble a nervous laugh of her own. “What lengths I went to in order to make sure the secret was never found out.”

Cecily wished she could unhear what she’d heard. She felt like she had intruded on a place he’d not invited her.

For it meant that Mr. Stanton was not who he said he was.

Or who she thought he was.

But should that matter?

For was she no different, clinging to her own secret in desperate fear that someone might learn the truth?

The words were slow and dry as they passed Mrs. Trent’s lips. “My husband was an honorable man, Miss Faire. But he was not immune to errors of judgment.”

Cecily looked up at the painting, making little effort to hide her assessment. The painting was of Mr. Trent in his youth, perhaps slightly younger than Mr. Stanton. It had been moved up from the blue drawing room several days past. The man in the portrait was not smiling. Instead, his expression looked cold and austere, so different from how she saw Mr. Stanton.

“As soon as the result of his actions was evident, he wanted to claim the child for his own. But I would not allow it. He desired to bequeath the entirety of Willowgrove to the child and raise it here, as Willowgrove’s heir, but I would have none of it. My husband was a strong man, Miss Faire. Do not misunderstand. I was the one person who could sway him. He would not send the child, or his mother, away, but instead allowed him to be raised by our steward. Nathaniel Stanton’s mother betrayed me, and to this day, I am uncertain as to whose betrayal sliced the deepest.”

Suddenly it made sense. Mrs. Trent had mentioned that Mrs. Stanton had at one point been her lady’s companion. This was the source behind her scorn.

Cecily remained quiet, suspecting Mrs. Trent needed to finish her confession.

“Mr. Stanton did not know the truth about his identity until a few years ago. I daresay he has been trying as hard as I to keep the secret. My husband admitted his wrongdoings, yet he wanted to do right by the mother and child. I fought it, and it was my resistance, not the child, that tore us apart. I channeled my anger into trying to force the young Mr. Stanton to leave, but Mr. Stanton is loyal. How foolish I am for having fought it all these years.”

Mrs. Trent’s voice cracked, and she began to cough.

Cecily reached out and took the woman’s hand in her own.
“That was so very long ago, Mrs. Trent. You cannot punish yourself now.”

The words were easy to say to another. But how could she give advice that she was not willing to take herself?

Cecily studied Mrs. Trent’s face, twisted with the pain of unresolved conflict. “Perhaps you would rest easier if you set things right with Mr. Stanton.”

Cecily held her breath, half expecting a violent response.

The older woman looked at her husband’s portrait. “Too much time has passed, I fear. Nathaniel Stanton has done nothing to me personally. But as long as I punished him, I continued to punish my husband. Mrs. Stanton as well. What a silly waste of time. When I die, life will go on. Andrew shall inherit Willowgrove, but my husband did leave property in the north to Nathaniel. He will leave Willowgrove. He will likely never think of me again. No doubt he is eager for my demise.”

But Cecily had not heard anything after the words “property in the north.”

Cecily drew a breath so sharp it hurt. Mr. Stanton—leave? She did not know why this should shock her so. After all, would she not leave Willowgrove eventually as well?

But Willowgrove seemed to be woven into the very fabric of who Nathaniel Stanton was. Perhaps it was not so much the shock of his leaving that bothered her as the fear of being separated from him.

She swallowed and patted Mrs. Trent’s hand. “If you like, I can call for Mr. Stanton. I think you would feel much better if you could make your feelings known.”

29

L
ater that evening, as the long shadows were creeping over the planked floors of Willowgrove’s upper level, Nathaniel stood in front of Mrs. Trent’s chamber door. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

When Miss Faire had come to his office earlier in the day, he’d been pleased . . . until he learned that Mrs. Trent wanted to speak with him.

Such an occasion was rarely a positive occurrence.

He was having second thoughts about agreeing to see her. But after Miss Faire’s unmasked concern and insistence on the matter, he could hardly deny her.

Miss Faire’s voice met his ears before he even stepped foot into Mrs. Trent’s room. He was too far away to make out the words, but her voice was soft, like a lullaby.

Alas, he drew a breath.

He tapped his knuckles against the door before stepping farther into the chamber. Despite the slivers of white sunlight sneaking around the drawn curtains, the room was dark. A fire simmered in
the grate at the end of the room, producing oppressive heat, and two candles were burning near the head of the bed. Miss Faire was seated in a chair next to the bed, dressed in a gown of pale green and gold. She was angled toward the candles, head bent over her sewing. Her auburn hair was swept atop her head, and the candlelight flickered on her smooth, white neck.

Pretending she did not affect him was more difficult with each passing day.

At the sound of his knock, she lifted her head. “Mr. Stanton.”

He bowed and took another step in. “Is she awake?”

“No, she’s been asleep all afternoon.” Miss Faire stood and put the sewing on the table.

Now that he was closer to her, he observed how tired she looked. Dark circles rested beneath her eyes. Her fair skin was pale. She rubbed the back of her neck. “Are you all right, Miss Faire? Every time I pass this room, you are up here.”

She smiled and rolled her head to look at him. “I do not wish to leave Mrs. Trent alone.”

Nathaniel admired her dedication. But the toll must be hard on her. “Have you spoken with Dr. Collingswood recently?”

Miss Faire nodded and looked down to the ground. “Yes. He was up a few hours ago.”

“Yes, he just left my office.” He drew closer. “He told you, then? That we must prepare ourselves?”

He was surprised at how difficult the words were to say. Mrs. Trent had been against him his entire life, and yet she had been a constant. And slowly but surely, every constant was slipping free from his grip, setting him even further adrift.

She made no motion at the words, but stared unblinking at Mrs. Trent’s form. “I refuse to believe it. We had a lovely conversation earlier. I-I think there is hope.”

Miss Faire pushed the canopy back farther. As she did, a lock
of hair escaped her comb and brushed her collarbone. “Mrs. Trent, you have a visitor.”

When the woman did not respond, Miss Faire placed her hand on top of Mrs. Trent’s and spoke a little louder. “Mrs. Trent, Mr. Stanton wishes to speak with you.”

At this, Mrs. Trent stirred, and her eyes opened. She remained silent for several moments, and then, as if she just comprehended what had been said to her, she lifted her gray head. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the faint light. “Where is he?”

“He is here.” Miss Faire motioned for Nathaniel to draw near, and he obeyed.

At first, the look Mrs. Trent gave him was blank, almost indifferent. He knew her tendency toward confusion, and he regretted agreeing to the conversation. He cleared his throat. “You said you wanted to see me?”