A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (37 page)
Cecily Faire
N
athaniel had to see for himself. Once Clarkson quitted the office, he watched as she walked through the tradesmen’s foyer and out Willowgrove’s east door. For all the span of time he knew her, he knew very little of her. But as he watched the old lady’s maid walking down the path for the last time, he felt a twinge. Clarkson had been a part of Willowgrove for as far back as his memory could reach. Whether he liked it or not, his world—and the world of those around him—had been spiraled into change he was not sure he was ready for. His heart began to beat harder, faster. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow. He had to see. He had to see for himself.
He hurried up the grand staircase and through the corridor to the gold room and knocked on the door.
No response.
He burst into the room.
It smelled of rosewater. Of her.
The curtains were pulled back. The room was flooded with
light. There was no sign of her. The bedcovers were tightly made. The armchair was pushed against the small rosewood writing table. All the contents were neatly arranged. The wardrobe door was ajar, and he opened it. Empty save two quilts and bedcoverings folded in the lower corner.
His chest began to tighten.
How could she have left? Without saying good-bye? Or at least informing him of her decision?
Nathaniel knew she felt it. The attraction. He could see it in the flush of her cheek. The shallowness of her breath. The directness of her gaze.
He was about to leave when something on the rug caught his eye. He reached down and picked it up. It was a letter. Addressed to her. He lowered it. He should not read it. But it burned his fingers. He lifted it and read.
It was a letter from someone named Mrs. Sherwin informing Miss Faire of her father’s death. Of her sister’s absence.
He tucked the letter in his waistcoat. He had made a mistake. He should have been more direct in making his feelings known. And now it may be too late.
He took the steps two at a time as he hurried back down to the ground floor. The space was alive with reverent whispers and visitors, but nothing seemed to matter as much as getting to his office. The thought of her in Manchester alone alarmed him.
But as his foot landed on the marble floor at the bottom of the great staircase, another woman appeared.
Mrs. Massey strode toward him, dressed from head to toe in black and shades of gray. “There you are, Mr. Stanton. I have been looking everywhere for you! Where is Miss Faire? I’ve searched high and low, and I cannot find her.”
Miss Faire’s name on Mrs. Massey’s lips agitated him. He looked above her to the people in the great hall. “She has left Willowgrove.”
Mrs. Massey’s eyes widened. “What? Already? Without bidding us farewell?”
He propped his fists on his waist, growing frustrated. He doubted her sincerity, but did she not have a right to be here? For she had visited Willowgrove almost daily in Mrs. Trent’s final days, only to be told by Collingswood that she was too weak for visitors.
Mrs. Massey’s lips had turned down into a frown. “Mr. Stanton? Are you quite all right?”
He needed to maintain composure. For a little longer. “I believe she has gone to Manchester.”
“Manchester? That seems odd. I am sorry to hear it.” Her lashes fanned her cheeks as she looked to the ground. “I-I know you had grown quite fond of her.”
Had it been that obvious? He tried to grasp at something—anything—to say. But there was a look in her eye. Mrs. Massey was always forward, but today she was acting almost timid. She fretted with the edge of her gray lace reticule, her pale skin peeking through her black gloves. She gave a little laugh and a shrug, but kept her eyes diverted. “I’d begun to think the two of you had an understanding. But perhaps I was wrong?”
“An understanding?” He shook his head. “No. No understanding.”
But as he looked at the concern in Mrs. Massey’s face, it hit him.
She was a dressmaker. Not that far from Manchester. Might she know of any leads? And shops? At the moment he had no idea what he would do with such information, but it was worth a try. With renewed hope, he shifted. “I would like to beg your assistance, if you are willing.”
She blinked at him. “Anything, Mr. Stanton.”
He saw the expectation in her eyes. Now was the time for honesty. “Miss Faire and I did not have an understanding, but I must go find her.”
As the meaning of the words sank in, Mrs. Massey’s face reddened ever so slightly. “You mean you-you . . .”
She looked away, as if pausing to summon her courage, and offered a smile. “I will do what I can.” And she hastened to add, “Out of respect for your family and the kindness you have shown me.”
“Are you familiar with any dressmaking shops in Manchester?”
“Why, yes, there are several, especially with the cotton business so strong there. Why would you need to know?”
“Could I trouble you to provide me with a list of the names of the shops you know of in the area?”
Her pleasant expression seemed to fade before him. He knew her feelings for him. And he knew what he was asking her.
She opened her mouth to speak and then snapped it shut, as if selecting her words. “You do realize what message your actions will convey to Miss Faire, do you not?”
He nodded. His actions would be forward. Yet he was compelled. “I do.”
She took a few steps away from him. “I won’t pretend to know what course is best for you, Mr. Stanton. Only you can know that. I hope that you do not think me forward when I say this, but I am a widow, far too practical to play coy games. But I had thought—hoped—things would have ended differently.”
He knew of what she was speaking. He looked down at the paper in his hand. Had Miss Faire never arrived at Willowgrove, it was entirely possible that their futures would look different. But now that he had experienced the depth of what true caring felt like, nothing else would do. “I do apologize, Mrs. Massey, if I have behaved in a way that would make you think otherwise.”
She thrust her chin into the air. “Apologies are not necessary, Mr. Stanton. Indeed, we all must follow our own hearts. Isn’t that so?”
She adjusted her reticule, looped it around her arm, and gave a forced little laugh. “I will give you the names you requested, Mr. Stanton.”
He felt relief at her words—and a little hope. “Thank you, Mrs. Massey. I am most grateful.”
He led the way to his office, where he gave her a fresh sheet of paper and a quill. She sat at his desk and began writing.
She spoke as she wrote. “You might find this an odd thing for me to say, but the more I contemplate it, the more I find this to be a very romantic situation.”
He drew a sharp breath.
Romantic
was hardly the word he thought of.
Scary
and
alarming
were more accurate. But as his plans wove themselves into being, it became increasingly clear what he needed to do.
He paced as she wrote the list. When she was done, she stood and held it out to dry it. “Here, I am not sure of all the addresses, of course, but here are some names.”
He took the paper from her.
She fixed her eyes on him. “Best of luck in your searching, Mr. Stanton. I wish you every happiness.”
Renewed purpose flowed through his veins, awakening his sense of duty and energizing him. He would find her. He would marry her. Together they would start a life at Lockbourne. But first she must say yes.
When Nathaniel returned to Laurel Cottage, the hour was late, and Rebecca was waiting for him in his small bedchamber off the kitchen.
She had been crying. The candle’s glow reflected from the tracks of tears on her cheeks. Not knowing what else to say, he
removed his coat and hung it on the peg opposite of the bed. “I can’t recall the last time you were in this room.”
But the sadness lurking behind her dark eyes told him that she had not come here simply to check on his well-being. “Mother told me everything.”
Like a large stone dropping into a pond, a sickening sensation sank within him. “Everything?”
Rebecca’s expression quickly became an accusing one. “About Mr. Trent being your father. I am in shock. Utter shock. How long have you known?”
Nathaniel sat down on the chair beside his bed and propped his elbows on his knees. “Since the night before Father died.”
“All this time? How could you not tell me? Do you think so little of me? It pains me that you did not take me into your confidence on something as important as this.”
“Father specifically asked me to tell no one, including my sisters. I am surprised Mother told you.”
“She also told me about Lockbourne. You cannot seriously consider relocating.”
“I am not just considering it, Rebecca. I am going to take up residence there as soon as arrangements can be made.”
“But why? Your life is here! With us!”
“That is just it, Rebecca. It is not my life. It is Father’s life. Now you must be able to see it. Ever since Father told me the truth, it seems I have been living another man’s life. If I stay here, my lie will continue, for I would never expose Mother, nor you and our sisters, to any kind of prejudice. But I need to find my own way now. I have lived with this burden for long enough. I can’t help but wonder what my life will feel like when I am free to be me.”
“So we are a burden?”
“That is not what I meant and you know it.”
She sniffed. “And when were you going to tell us about this?”
“After Mrs. Trent passed. I did not expect Mother to tell you.” He hesitated. “I really did want to be the one who told you. I was hoping my family would come with me to Lockbourne. That we could all start over.”
Rebecca shook her head emphatically. “I am not leaving Mr. Turner.”
“I am not suggesting you do.”
“And I am not letting you take Mother away from me. I could not bear it.”
“The decision is now Mother’s. I will understand if she wants to remain.”
“And what about Mrs. Massey?”
“You, of all people, with your romantic heart, must have the discernment to know that I am not at all connected with Mrs. Massey.”
Rebecca lowered her eyes. “It is Miss Faire, is it not?”
“She is no longer at Willowgrove. Apparently she departed sometime during the night.”
His sister nearly jumped from her seat, her face twisting in further disbelief. “What? Without saying good-bye to me? To the girls? Why would she leave so abruptly?”
He wished he knew the answer to that. He retrieved the letter that Miss Faire had written to Rebecca and handed it to her. “I’m going after her.”
Rebecca winced in disbelief, as if he had just told her he was going to jump off of the Westminster Bridge. “What?”
“I believe she has gone to Manchester. And I am going to find her.”
Rebecca stared at him, mouth agape. She broke the seal on the letter, unfolded it, and leaned toward the candle lamp to read it. “You are right. She says she is going to find her sister and she will write again when she is settled.”
She lowered the letter. “That still does not answer why she left so suddenly.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat and rested his hand on the edge of the bureau. He could guess why.
Rebecca tightened her shawl around her and placed the letter next to her. “So, am I to understand that you are following her because you have feelings for her, or have you another reason?”
He folded his arms across his chest, pausing to contemplate his answer. “I think she is looking for her family, looking for a place to belong. But I want us to be her family, and she belongs with me.”
T
he carriage ride to Manchester was a short one compared to the journey from Darbury. The countryside flashed by in shades of green and brown, but Cecily barely noticed. All she could focus on was the bizarre ache in her chest.
She felt like that lost girl again, regretting past actions, hurting over losses, and fearful of what lay around the bend. But now the panic she had felt that day those many years ago was a more mature melancholy because she was leaving her heart at Willowgrove.
She had paid the driver an extra sum to deliver her to the address that Clarkson had provided. And when the coach turned off of the main road down a shadowed alley, fear began to creep in. She had always led a sheltered life. The quiet country life on Aradelle’s grounds. The small, tight-knit community at Rosemere, where her comings and goings were carefully monitored. And then at Willowgrove, she rarely left Mrs. Trent’s side.
But now her direction was hers alone.
She noticed immediately that everything was dirty. Smoke
and fog in strange hues of gray and brown hung in the air. The stench of rotting food and manure surrounded her. She was far from Manchester’s fashionable end. This must have been what Mr. Stanton had tried to warn her about. But she could not begin to regret her decision.
As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a narrow, two-story building, Cecily drew a sharp breath and nearly choked on the putrid scents in the air. She looked at the address on the door and then looked at Clarkson’s note. The same address. She clutched her valise tightly to her chest and called on every ounce of courage she possessed. She stepped out of the carriage, trying not to notice the way her foot sank into the mushy ground below. Night was falling quickly. A lamplighter scurried past her followed by a small boy who could be no older than Hannah, covered in ash and soot. Men dressed in rough, smeared clothes eyed her, and her fear heightened.