A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (36 page)

He did not like her words. They sounded too much like a farewell. “No, I—”

“Please. It is best if things are left as they are.”

She could not hide the sadness, the hurt in her eyes. How he wanted to grab her, to hold her until the stubbornness in her subsided, to finish what they started in the corridor.

“I am happy for you, Mr. Stanton, and wish you great success at Lockbourne.”

Perhaps if he were better versed in the ways of women, he
would have known what to say to keep her there, keep her within close distance.

“This is not how you have to leave.”

“Mr. Stanton, I am not the lady you suppose me to be. I cannot stay.”

33

T
hat night, rain pelted the windows. Cecily’s chin shook not with grief, but with anger.

How could she have been so foolish? She had not allowed Mr. Stanton to finish his thoughts. She was so quick to push him away.

And why?

As much as she wished it weren’t true, the painful reality met her. Mr. Stanton had touched her heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands to her forehead, but even then she could not forget the look of compassion in Nathaniel’s eyes. What had she done, turning this man away?

The memory of his arms around her, warm and strong, scared her. How, after all this time, could she turn to another? She did not know how. But how her heart ached for it! If she were to be completely honest, it was another matter that scared her. She would be forced to confess her past transgressions—that she was not a lady. That she had given herself to another many years ago.

What she had done was unforgivable. She could never keep such a secret from someone she loved, and yet her fear of his rejection was far too strong to allow her to risk exposure.

She stood up and went to the small teak box on her dressing table and retrieved the letter from Mr. McGovern. Day after day slipped by, and still she’d received no responses from the letters she had written. She could not stay here. Not any longer. Nor could she return to Rosemere. But as she opened the letter and read the fine writing, address after address, another idea burned brighter.

She had feared her father. His role in her life had been pivotal. But he was gone now, and unless Leah had married, she was likely alone . . . just like Cecily. She had to find her. She had to.

Later that night Clarkson entered her room, a tray balanced in her hands. “I have not seen you all day, Miss Faire. I brought you some herb soup.”

“Thank you, Clarkson.” Cecily turned from where she was sitting at her writing desk and scooted back to make room for the tray. As the scent and warmth of the soup met her, she sobered. Now, with Mrs. Trent gone, it felt pretentious to have someone bring her dinner. “I can go down to the kitchen to eat. There is no need for you to bring it to me.”

“Don’t say that, not a lady like you.”

Cecily’s laugh sounded forced, even to her own ears. “I am not a lady, Clarkson.”

“You are to me.” Clarkson broke form and softened her expression.

Cecily folded her arms across her chest and turned to look at the lady’s maid. The past several days had broken down the invisible walls between them. They had been fighting the same fight, praying the same prayers. And now their time together would soon come to an end. “Are you going to stay on at Willowgrove?”

Clarkson plopped down on the bed next to Cecily. “I doubt the new Mrs. Moreton will be in need of a lady’s maid when the time
comes, and I have been doing this for so long I’m not quite fit for any other role here. But do not worry for me. I have saved me some money. Mrs. Trent was generous, so I can find a nice, quiet cottage somewhere and live out my days in peace.”

“Do you have family to go to?”

“I have a sister down in London. Her daughter died last year, rest her soul, and she is looking after her grandbabies. Four of them! She could use the help. I could use the company. And you?”

Cecily shrugged. “I am not certain. But first, I am going to try to find my sister.”

“A twin, right?”

“Yes, my twin.” The words wrenched her.
My
other
half.

“Where are you going to start looking?”

“I have received word she is in Manchester.”

“Manchester can be a dark place, miss.”

Cecily recalled Mr. Stanton’s warning. “So I have been warned. But I am determined. I need to find her.”

“And if she is not there?”

Cecily sighed. She did not want to consider failure as a possible outcome. “Then I will most likely return to Rosemere and decide my next steps.”

“I have a cousin what runs an inn in south Manchester. It is not the fanciest place, certainly nothing like Mrs. Trent would have approved of, but when I stayed there, I was comfortable.”

Clarkson rose, went to the desk, helped herself to a sheet of paper and Cecily’s quill, and wrote something. “If your travels take you there, ask to talk to Marianne Dotten. She’s my cousin. If she knows you are a friend of mine, she’ll put you in her best room.”

Cecily didn’t hear anything after the word “friend.” Did Clarkson consider her a friend?

Emotion tightened Cecily’s chest. She took the slip of paper and studied the address. Was this the confirmation she needed?
Yet another push from the nest to take her further down life’s journey?

Clarkson turned to leave. “You learn a lot about people in a position like mine. I have spent my life serving the needs of others. Even though I do not interact with them a lot, I watch. And I have watched you, miss. Do not allow pain—or pride—to blind you to what is right in front of you.”

34

I
t was raining when Cecily left Willowgrove. But instead of the dark, rainy twilight of spring that had greeted her upon her arrival, it was the dark predawn of early autumn that shrouded the landscape. Instead of the hopeful thrill of optimism, weariness settled around her.

It was easiest to leave now, before the estate sprang to life. Cecily had informed no one about her plans to leave, with the exception of hinting at her plans to Clarkson. Now that she had seen to all of her duties pertaining to Mrs. Trent, it was best that she leave.

She had packed her things in the black of night with only her candle as her guide. She wrote a farewell letter to Clarkson and one to Rebecca. She wrote a letter to post to Mrs. Sterling at Rosemere, to keep her abreast of her whereabouts. But as much as her heart wanted to write final words to Mr. Stanton, propriety stopped her.

Had she failed at Willowgrove Hall? Cecily contemplated the question on the walk down the main drive—the very drive she would have walked down had Mr. Stanton and his dog not
discovered her. She had done what she came to do . . . to be a companion to an ill woman and make her final days more comfortable. But in doing so, she had lost a little piece of herself.

As Cecily rounded the bend, Laurel Cottage could be seen through the trees. A light filtered through one of the back windows. He would be up by now. She could stop. Explain everything. But then, what good would it do? She could never love another without expressing the truth about her past, and he would surely reject her for it. What good would a confession do now? The pain of losing someone who adores you is nothing compared to the rejection of one who has stolen your heart. No, it was best to guard what she had left. She would find her sister.

This was the only way.

The next morning Mrs. Trent was buried in the family plot alongside her husband and daughter. A thick fog hung and swirled in the early-morning breeze. A few men had gathered for the burial, Andrew Moreton included, but beyond that the gathering was small. Nathaniel had not seen Miss Faire, but he needed to tell her that whatever was in her past, it did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the future he wanted them to share.

As soon as the burial was complete, he hurried back to Willowgrove. As he walked the great hall, a throng of people milled about.

He didn’t want to talk with them.

He wanted to talk with her.

Their conversation on the lawn had not ended well, and since that time together, he’d sought her out, but she was nowhere to be found. He had not said what he had wanted to say. And now that his inheritance was nigh and he was free to make plans, he did not
have the peace and excitement he had expected. His heart was no longer in it, for his heart no longer belonged to him alone.

He decided to go to his office. He made his way from the stairs through the hall, but at the back entrance of the main hall stood Clarkson.

He barely recognized her.

Instead of the gray dress she normally wore, she was dressed in a gown of black, and instead of the white cap, her head was uncovered and her graying hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. She was pale.

Her rough voice cracked as she spoke. “These are sad days, Mr. Stanton.”

He nodded, still a little surprised she had sought him so boldly.

“I’ve only come for my last wages. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re leaving? So soon?” He turned to his office. As Mrs. Trent’s personal staff, Clarkson was not under Mrs. Bratham’s purview, like the rest of the female staff. This week, in the midst of all the abnormalities, he’d forgotten.

“I am no longer needed here,” she said. “And I’ve family to go to.”

“I thank you for your service to Mrs. Trent. I know it is because of you that she was so comfortable.” He went to fetch the money from the locked box at the back of the room. “I am certain that if you still want to stay on at Willowgrove Hall, Mrs. Bratham will find a position for you.”

“No, sir. It is best I leave. I’ve seen to Mrs. Trent’s personal affairs, and it will be up to the new master what he will do with them.”

“Where will you go?”

“To London. My sister is there.”

He gathered money from the box and also pulled out a letter of recommendation that Mrs. Trent had the foresight to write. He
handed it to her. “Mrs. Trent also wanted you to have this. It’s a letter of recommendation. Mrs. Trent said she thought you wouldn’t stay after she was gone, and it seems she was right.”

Clarkson accepted the money and the letter and tucked them in her bag. And then she pulled something out. “Thought you might want to see these. I found them in Miss Faire’s room this morning.”

His eyes fixed on the letters. From here, he could see the black ink in delicate loops and curves. He swallowed. He took the letters from her outstretched hand. One was addressed to Clarkson. The other to Rebecca.

But Clarkson did not leave. Instead, she stood looking at him, making him wonder if there was something he was forgetting.

She finally spoke. “I have been at Willowgrove since before you were born. I remember the day with clarity.”

Nathaniel stiffened. He had suspected Clarkson was aware of the truth about his parentage, but nothing had ever been said. He should stop her. She had no business speaking to him as such. But his curiosity got the better of him.

“I have watched you grow from a boy to a man. I saw the way you were treated by the Trents.”

He was not sure how to react. Part of him wanted her to stop talking. But what a relief to know that another knew. He folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t realize that you knew the details.”

“Of course I knew. I knew about your situation since before you were even born. I took your mother’s post, after all. When I was a young girl, I worked at Mrs. Trent’s family’s estate. When she needed someone, she called me, and I was happy to come. I am loyal to Mrs. Trent, mind you. But I saw things. I know things. And if you are the type of man I think you are, then you are going to need one thing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?”

Clarkson produced one more slip of paper and handed it to him.

He turned it over. Scratched on the back was an address. A Manchester address.

“You might find something of interest.” She tapped her gloved finger against the side of her head. “And I know you did not ask for it, but here is a little advice from an old fool who has seen too much and heard even more. Do not let your pain and regrets from the past prevent you from your future.” She cracked a rare smile in his direction. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Stanton.”

“Thank you for your service, Clarkson. Best of all to you as well.”

She turned to leave, and he looked down at the opened letter to Clarkson in one hand. The address in the other.

Alone, in the privacy of his office, he placed the address on the table and opened the letter.

Dearest Clarkson,

My heart grieves with you. I know how difficult these past few months have been. I admire your strength and dedication, and you have become a dear friend.

By the time you read this, I will be on my way to Manchester. Thank you for the address, and I shall pass along your greetings to your cousin when I arrive. I do hope that we will meet again, but if we do not, I shall never forget my time at Willowgrove, and I shall not forget your friendship.

All the best,