A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

The next morning was Saturday. Cecily rose even before Clarkson came to wake her.

  The last thing Cecily wanted was to oversleep on her first full day as Mrs. Trent’s companion. And, if truth be told, she hadn’t really fallen into a good night’s sleep. Andrew weighed heavily on her mind, and ghostly dreams of herself as a child with her mother and sister had plagued her during the midnight hours.

  She must have drifted off at some point, for she woke to a cheerful fire in the fireplace and fresh linen next to her washstand. She noticed her wardrobe door was slightly ajar. As she opened it, the scent of lavender met her, and her gowns were hung inside, clean and pressed.

  She pulled out the blue one and held it at arm’s length. The morning sun filtering around the brown drapes highlighted the fabric. Cecily marveled at it. The fabric looked like new. A small tear in the lace on the bodice had been repaired, and a small stain of stubborn ink had been removed from the sleeve.

  She placed the dress on the bed and washed her face in the bowl of lukewarm water, cleaned her teeth, and sat down at the tiny writing desk. Dawn was breaking just outside of her window, spreading light on the flooded grounds. Despite the fact that the water should not be there, it was quite beautiful. A morning mist hung over the standing water, making the tranquil scene appear more like a painting than real life.

  As she was enjoying the morning view, there was a tap at the door and Clarkson stepped inside.

  “Oh. You are awake.” The older woman’s countenance seemed not to have improved since the previous evening. “Next time you wake, pull that cord and I’ll come straightaway.”

  Cecily followed Clarkson’s direction and located a velvet-covered cord next to the bed.

  “I’ve only just woken.”

  Clarkson did not respond but went about straightening items in the room.

  Was it something Cecily had said? Perhaps Clarkson had been close to Miss Vale and resented Cecily’s presence here, but even that seemed unlikely. Whatever the reason, Cecily’s hope of finding a comrade in the woman seemed improbable.

  “Mrs. Trent has awoken. Says she isn’t feeling well this morning and will take breakfast in her room. She wants you to take breakfast with her.” Clarkson pointed her thumb at the gown Cecily had placed on the bed. “This the one you want to wear, miss?”

  Clarkson was silent as she began dressing Cecily. No inquiries of how Cecily slept or if she was settling well. The maid helped Cecily into her stays and petticoat and then into her gown and laced the back.

  Cecily lifted her hair so Clarkson could fasten the buttons. “I wanted to thank you for cleaning and repairing this dress. I don’t think it has looked so lovely since the day I first received it. You even removed the spot of ink from the sleeve. I am most appreciative.”

  Clarkson’s hand slowed at the compliment and then resumed the buttoning with fervor. “’Tis nothing a little juice of sorrel, lemon, and vinegar will not take care of, miss. Although it is always best to treat such stains straightaway.”

  When the woman had completed the task, she said, “Mrs. Trent’s breakfast will be up shortly. I suggest you be quick about things.”

  And with that, she walked out, leaving Cecily standing in a quiet room. She tried not to be hurt by Clarkson’s abruptness. At Rosemere, the servants were like family, practically on equal ground with the staff and students. Here, the sentiment toward servants seemed much different. Cecily assumed Clarkson had been at Willowgrove for quite some time. Perhaps Cecily would be wise to follow Clarkson’s lead.

  Cecily used the water from her washbasin to dampen her hair and then used her fingers to loosen the tangles. After pinning it up away from her neck and shoulders with a comb that Mrs. Sterling gave her many years ago, she stood back and observed herself in the looking glass.

  She could not help but wonder if she would see Andrew today. No doubt he would think her much changed. She no longer looked like an adolescent. He would recognize her dimple. The hue of her eyes. But her hair was slightly darker now, not quite so coppery as it had been in her youth. Her figure had changed, and she was taller. But it was not just her appearance that was different. Her heart was not the same.

  Her countenance.

  Her mannerism.

  And hopefully, her restraint.

  A quiver coursed through her, but it was no longer one of newfound love. During the quiet hours, she had inspected her heart.

  She feared seeing him, not because she feared rejection, but because he blurred her present with her past. He was a physical, constant reminder of the mistake they had made.

  That she had made.

  He knew far too much about her.

  And that made him dangerous, to be sure.

  She would be expected to eat her breakfast, but her stomach was tied into such knots she doubted she would be able to keep a morsel down. She tried to muster confidence, but homesickness for Rosemere overtook her. Mrs. Sterling, in her calm way, would soothe her spirits. Pray with her. It always seemed to help, but Cecily rarely prayed on her own. She would never know what to say.

  She nearly jumped when the large cabinet clock in the corridor struck the hour. Cecily patted a wayward curl into place, pinched her cheeks for color, and tidied up the mess she had made. She left her room, closing the door and securing the latch behind her.

  A young maid with an empty tray was leaving Mrs. Trent’s bedchamber. Her face was red and she was shaking her head, oblivious to Cecily’s presence. Cecily’s heart began to race. She hoped that it wasn’t a harbinger of her mistress’s mood.

  She tapped on the door, and within moments Clarkson opened it wide enough to step through.

  Cecily nearly caught her breath when she entered the room. The previous day, the heavy curtains had been drawn. She had noticed few details in the dim light. But today, the curtains were pulled and several windows were open, flooding the grand space with light and cool swirls of fresh morning air. Sunlight glittered off the gilded frames on the overmantel mirror and danced on the red floral wallpaper. It shimmered off the silver tea service on the table where Mrs. Trent was seated and reflected down from an ornate chandelier.

  But it was another view that stole her breath, for the window framed a majestic landscape that put the view from her bedchamber to shame with its vibrant hues of emerald green and pastel blooms. She beheld a masterfully planned garden with pathways and shapes spread before her as a maze. A long reflection pond divided the landscape into two halves. The garden ran all the way to the forest’s edge, and beyond that, the moors, dressed in shades of purple and green, stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Mrs. Trent motioned toward a chair. “Do be seated, child. It makes me nervous to have you up and moving about like that.”

  Cecily took the chair opposite of where Mrs. Trent was eating breakfast. There would be time later to explore and appreciate all the beauty around her. “I hope your sleep was restful, Mrs. Trent.”

  “I rarely sleep well, child, as you will soon learn. My rheumatism bothers me greatly, but all in all, a decent night.” Mrs. Trent, with a shaking hand, applied jam to a roll. “Help yourself.”

  Not wanting to appear insolent, Cecily took one of the rolls and placed it on a plate before her. “Do you often prefer to take breakfast in your room?”

  “No, not always. I find the breakfast room too warm, and my nephew will not rise this early to eat. I daresay his intended and her mother will not either. You will meet them all later. Perhaps at dinner this evening.”

  Cecily took a bite, trying not to react to the mention of Andrew.

  “I am glad you are here,” Mrs. Trent said after a pause, her voice rough. “It is nice to have company. You might consider it odd that I wrote to Mrs. Sterling for a suitable, well-bred companion. Most ladies I know have companions who are relatives or family friends. But I find selecting trustworthy companions difficult. I have been burned in the past by those I have trusted, but I have grown to rely upon Mrs. Sterling’s judge of character.”
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  Cecily nearly winced at the words “well-bred.” As the daughter of a blacksmith and a seamstress, she would hardly be a typical lady’s companion. But something told Cecily that Mrs. Trent was beyond worrying about societal expectations. At least, she hoped that would be the case.

  “This morning I would like you to accompany me as I meet with Willowgrove’s steward.”

  “Mr. Stanton?” Cecily blurted out before recalling his warning that it might be best to leave out the fact that she had already visited Laurel Cottage.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Trent’s white eyebrows rose. “Are you acquainted with the man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ah, well, then you must know that he is rather unpleasant.” Mrs. Trent shook her head with emphatic disdain and returned her cup of tea to the table. “But nevertheless, he is my steward here, and is part of a long legacy of stewards who have served Willowgrove.”

  Cecily seized the opportunity to learn more of the family that had offered her such kindness. “I am surprised to hear of his shortcomings. He seemed kind.”

  “Oh, I suppose he would seem that way, but I have known him and his family for a very long time. If you were as well acquainted with him as I, I daresay you would think differently on the matter.”

  “If I may ask, how long have the Stantons served as stewards here?”

  “Oh, mercy me. His father and grandfather were the stewards before young Mr. Stanton, for as long as I can remember, and they have always seen to the care of the estate and managing the servants and accounts and such. Willowgrove has never had a separate land steward or bailiff, and so the Stantons have always seen to the needs of the tenant farmers. It is a very serious undertaking.”

  “If you are not pleased with Mr. Stanton’s work, then why not hire another?”

  “I did not say I was not pleased with his work. The Stantons have contributed greatly to Willowgrove’s success. I adored my husband, but his head was not one for figures, and I daresay that Mr. Stanton’s father guided the estate through some very trying times. No, my esteem for his work is entirely separate from my opinion of his personality.”

  Cecily took another bite of brown bread, ready to let the topic pass, but Mrs. Trent continued, “Furthermore, before he died, my husband asked that I never dismiss Mr. Thomas Stanton, or his son after him, citing the service his family has performed over the years. I am a woman of my word, Miss Faire. I have complied with this request, begrudgingly at times.”

  Cecily wondered about the source of Mrs. Trent’s disdain. Mr. Stanton had seemed quiet, distracted perhaps, but unpleasant? His manner was a bit gruff at times, but his sisters seemed quite fond of him. He was gentle with his mother. He had offered Cecily a service—even repaired her trunk.

  But perchance Mrs. Trent never saw that side of her steward.

  Or, more likely, she knew of a side of Mr. Stanton yet unseen.

  Mrs. Trent fidgeted with the black fichu at her throat. “The flooding of the grounds must be answered for. I have not seen it this bad in decades, Miss Faire. Decades.” She shook her head vigorously. “And having to enter the estate through the stable entrance? Unacceptable.”

  Cecily listened to the older woman prattle on about the grounds. The breakfast. Her time spent taking the waters in Bath.

  Cecily had never been to Bath. She had hardly been anywhere at all, but traveling did not appeal to her, especially to a city. She preferred the quiet countryside with trusted companions. The idea of throngs of strangers did little to impress her.

  “And tonight we shall dine with my nephew and his acquaintances. He will only be in town a few more days, and I feel it fitting to spend a little more time with him. At my age, every visit may be the last.”

  Cecily winced at the mention of Andrew. But the reference to her expiry could not be ignored. “Do not say that, Mrs. Trent.”

  The older lady laughed. “Ah, youth always thinks such things. But you see, I am not frightened of death. I am anxious to see my husband once more, and I have little on this earth left to stay behind for.”

  Mrs. Trent spoke the words so calmly it was shocking.

  “Have you experienced a lot of death in your life?” Mrs. Trent asked.

  Cecily put down her tea, uncertain of her ability to keep it upright. She fixed her eyes on the delicate violets decorating the cup. This was a topic she rarely talked about, not even to Mrs. Sterling, who had tried to help her with the nightmares that accompanied her memories. She glanced up. Mrs. Trent’s dark eyes were on her, expectant.

  Cecily drew a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am. My mother died when I was but nine years old.”

  Mrs. Trent’s expression changed. “I am sorry to hear it.” She settled back in her chair and crossed her hands before her, as if preparing to hear a story. “Tell me of your family.”

  Cecily wished her chair would swallow her whole. Another topic she did not discuss, especially now that she knew Andrew was Mrs. Trent’s nephew. She thought it best not to mention Aradelle Park by name.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell.”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A sister.”

  “Is she older or younger than you?”

  “She is older. By twelve minutes.”

  “Ah, a twin.”

  Cecily looked through the window to the broad expanse of green, wondering if the woman shared the same opinion of twins as Cecily’s father. Mrs. Trent seemed relatively unshocked by the news.

  “And where is your sister now?”

  Cecily looked down at the bread on her plate. She did not want the woman to see her expression for fear that she’d read every emotion. Cecily’s story was full of injustice and sadness, but Mrs. Trent seemed to have an opinionated nature. She would never approve of Cecily’s past and upbringing . . . and Cecily needed this position.

  But the one thing she would let her pride fall on was finding her sister. At the thought, she began to feel nervous. Moisture gathered on her palms, and she wiped them on her skirt.

  She might as well know what the older lady thought of her plight, for without her support and understanding, finding Leah might be impossible. “I am sad to say that I do not know with certainty where my sister is.”

  Cecily forced herself to glance up and meet Mrs. Trent’s eyes. “You do not know where she is?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Trent leaned forward. “How can that be?”

  Cecily picked over all of the words jumbling about in her head, trying to arrange them to best explain without giving away too much of herself. “When I was sent away to school, Leah stayed behind. And we have since lost contact.”

  “Why, that is preposterous!” Mrs. Trent’s jowls shook as she spoke. “How on earth could you lose your sister?”

  A queer sort of panic settled in her stomach. “I am not sure, really. I wrote to an old friend not long ago, and she told me she heard that Leah was in Manchester. So I was pleased to learn that Willowgrove was in such close proximity to it. I-I was hoping to go there soon and see if I can locate her.”

  “What, alone? That will not do, I am afraid, for I am certain not to travel there. It is a dirty, vile place.” Mrs. Trent’s wiry hair blew against her face as she shook her head. “Manchester is no place for a lady. Not to travel to alone. Why, the idea!”

  Cecily bit her lower lip, crestfallen.

  “But, if you are determined, say something to Mr. Stanton. He travels to Manchester periodically. He might be able to offer some assistance.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Trent. I shall do that.” The words offered her hope.

  “Now, finish your breakfast. For we have much to do today.”

  14

  Nathaniel hesitated outside of Mrs. Trent’s drawing room, adjusting his neckcloth.

  He had not seen the woman in nearly two months.

  But still, he hesitated.

  He was a man of business. Little intimidated him. But this was one task that i
rked him. After each of her trips, Mrs. Trent demanded an account of the estate’s activities.

  Mrs. Trent was a woman of strict propriety, and as such, she insisted upon limited interaction with the staff at Willowgrove. She believed all such news pertaining to the household should come directly from the steward, butler, or housekeeper and would speak to no one else on such matters.

  And yet, as his fist hovered, preparing to knock on the door of the blue drawing room, he recalled the conversation he’d had with Mrs. Trent the evening his father was buried. The elderly woman had been irate over a matter he could not even recall, and in the fury of grief and the bravery of youthful courage, he informed her of how his father had told him everything. About his illegitimacy. About Mr. Trent’s unfaithfulness. That his mother had been Mrs. Trent’s companion. About his impending inheritance of Lockbourne. At the confrontation, her fury was unleashed, but he had stood his ground. Since that day, they never spoke of it, and yet it was the undercurrent of every interaction. At that moment they became silent enemies, both choosing to remain as civil as possible to hide secrets neither wanted exposed.

  He had to admire her, on some level. For after her husband’s death, Mrs. Trent assumed Mr. Trent’s duties with unusual vigor, determined to learn all aspects of the estate, even wanting to meet some of the tenants and refusing any help. But whereas her husband had been a man of business and practicality, Mrs. Trent ruled with emotions.

  Nathaniel knocked on the paneled door. He barely waited for a response before opening it.

  Mrs. Trent jerked her head in his direction. She was dressed as she always was, in her extravagant black dress adorned with a ridiculous amount of black lace. A thick black shawl draped over her shoulders, and a jet pendant hung at her throat. But he was struck by how pale she looked, despite her customary bright rouge. Her hair, which had always had a silver luster, was now powder white.

  “Mr. Stanton, there you are. We have been waiting all morning for you.” Her voice sounded thick with accusation.

  He gave a short bow. “Mrs. Trent.”