A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Cecily and Mrs. Trent rode to the church in the second carriage. Cecily watched in earnest as the scenery quickly changed from that of flooded countryside to the bustling town of Wiltonshire. She had been at Willowgrove for several days, and now that she was growing used to her new home, her curiosity of what lay beyond was also growing.

  After a short ride, the coach door unlatched and creaked open. But it was not the coachman who assisted them down, but Andrew.

  He assisted Mrs. Trent first, not looking in Cecily’s direction.

  He saw Mrs. Trent safely to the ground, then handed her the cane. Next he extended a gloved hand to help Cecily down.

  Cecily glimpsed his hand, hesitating.

  A calm and easy smile was on his lips. “Good day, Miss Faire.” His words were too direct. Too intimate. “I trust you slept well?”

  He held her gaze, refusing to look away.

  She felt dizzy. Sick. The words were difficult to form. “Very well, thank you.”

  Against her better judgment, she placed her gloved hand in his and stepped down. She would not look at him. As the sole of her kid boot landed on the soft earth, he squeezed her hand.

  At the subtle pressure, she pulled her hand free and stepped away to Mrs. Trent.

  She did not want to think about how warm his hand was—and how the touch unlocked a slew of memories, all rushing forth, demanding to be noticed.

  But he was not the Andrew she once knew, she promptly reminded herself. And she was not the girl she had been.

  And as the breeze brushed her face and cooled her, she caught a glimpse of him looping Miss Pritchard’s arm through his own.

  It disgusted her.

  And now he looked adoringly at his intended, smiling and laughing.

  She swallowed and put one step in front of the other. In truth, she felt pity for the beautiful Miss Pritchard. She likely was unaware of the true nature of the man she was to marry.

  As they approached the church, Cecily forced the incident to the back of her mind and focused on her new surroundings. The influx of new faces intrigued her. The parish was much larger than the one in Darbury—the church, much grander. The familiar sound of bells pealed in the late-morning air. She could feel the eyes of curious parishioners and kept her face lowered. But then she noticed young Charlotte Stanton and looked past her to the other ladies of the Stanton family coming down the path.

  Upon seeing Cecily, Hannah pointed at her, gave a little hop, and waved. Her sisters followed suit.

  How comforting it was to see familiar faces, even those of people whom she’d known mere days. She genuinely wanted to talk with her new friends, especially Rebecca. She missed having another woman her own age to converse with.

  She walked along with Mrs. Trent to the front of the church.

  “Here is our pew, Miss Faire.”

  Remembering her purpose, she drew closer to Mrs. Trent and then helped her with her coat. “Are you warm enough?” Despite the colored light filtering through the intricate glass windows, it was cool inside the stone walls.

  Cecily settled on the padded pew next to the old woman. Andrew’s voice filled the space behind her, and she drew a deep breath and employed every ounce of self-control to not look in his direction.

  Movement by the door captured her attention, and Mr. Stanton entered. He swept his hat from his head, his jet-black hair tousled by the motion. He shook hands with a man to his left and then headed to where his sisters and mother were seated. But on his way, he paused to greet a family. She recognized the man as Mr. Turner, but he was seated next to a pretty woman Cecily had not yet met. Mr. Stanton smiled warmly at the woman and bowed slightly. A strange flutter ached in Cecily’s chest, and she looked down at her folded hands in her lap. Why should she be so affected by his smiling at a woman?

  The vicar, a thin, wiry man, began speaking to the gathered congregation. Cecily attempted to focus on his words, but after several minutes, she felt movement at her shoulder. Mrs. Trent’s eyes were closed, and her white head bobbed slightly with each breath she took. Cecily looked over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed, and her eyes met Andrew’s immediately. She snapped her head back around.

  The service passed quickly, and when the patrons began to rise to exit the church, Cecily patted Mrs. Trent’s hand. “It’s time to leave, Mrs. Trent.”

  Mrs. Trent awoke with a start, her dark eyes wide.

  Cecily helped the woman up from the pew and held her arm as they shuffled out. Mrs. Trent’s movements seemed unusually slow and labored, and Cecily hoped this morning’s walk hadn’t taxed the woman too much.

  At the door, the vicar greeted Mrs. Trent with a broad smile and clapped his hand over hers with stark familiarity.

  “Mrs. Trent, how pleasant to see you back in the country. How long have you been at Willowgrove?”

  “I just returned, and to a most pleasant surprise.” Her voice was thin and shaky, and yet her eyes lit up with rare enthusiasm. “For here is my new companion, Miss Cecily Faire.”

  The elderly man turned, and a kind smile creased his cheeks. He was the sort of man of whom his age was impossible to guess. For even though small lines creased at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, his voice sounded youthful and bright. He gave a slight bow and smiled. “Welcome to our parish, Miss Faire.”

  Cecily gave a curtsey. “Thank you.”

  Sensing people behind her waiting to exit the church, she stepped out into the morning. She lifted her hand to brush the lock of hair that had pulled loose from her chignon and was blowing in the cool spring wind.

  Mrs. Trent climbed into the carriage, but Cecily noticed Rebecca Stanton approaching. Cecily settled Mrs. Trent, then turned.

  Rebecca’s smile was kind and warm, her cheeks as rosy as the gown she wore. “How are you finding life at Willowgrove, Miss Faire?”

  “Very well, thank you. Your brother informs me that congratulations are in order.”

  Rebecca’s dark eyes lit. “Yes, thank you. I am so very pleased.”

  “Oh, I think it is wonderful news. I am so happy for you.”

  Rebecca reached out and touched Cecily’s arm, her expression earnest. “Please, do stop by the cottage when you can. We would love the company.”

  “I should like that very much. Mrs. Trent retires early. Perhaps one day I will call in the evening.”

  “That would be lovely. We should look forward to it.” She glanced over her shoulder at her sisters and mother speaking with another woman and then turned back to Cecily. “I must go. But do not forget your promise to call!”

  She gave a slight curtsey before returning to her family, and Cecily climbed into the carriage.

  “With whom were you speaking?”

  Mrs. Trent’s tone was cool. Cecily tensed. Rebecca’s assessment of Mrs. Trent flashed in her mind. “Miss Rebecca Stanton.”

  “Nathaniel Stanton’s half sister.”

  Cecily winced. Half sister? Cecily bit her lower lip and looked at her own gloved hands in her lap. Could Mrs. Trent be speaking the truth? Mrs. Trent’s tendency to repeat herself and confuse facts gave Cecily reason to doubt.

  She reminded herself that this was not her business, but so many things about her new surroundings were not what they seemed—or what she expected. She glanced out the carriage window. Rain was starting to fall, and through the raindrops, she saw Mr. Stanton. Tall. Strong. Handsome. It could be her imagination, but so many of the mysteries she encountered seemed to have something to do with him. For the sake of curiosity, she determined to keep an eye on Mr. Stanton.

  19

  The next day was Monday, the day Cecily had anticipated since her first evening at the estate.

  Today Mrs. Olivia Massey, the local seamstress, was coming to fit her for new gowns. With the exception of the ensemble that Mrs. Sterling had given her, it had been almost a year since she had a new gown, and hers—with their subtle patches and slight discoloring—were showing their wear. In her mind, new clothes would
make her transition to her new life complete.

  Cecily sat at the window in Mrs. Trent’s bedchamber, elbow propped on the sill, watching the grounds below. A lazy rain floated down in gusty mists and a dying fire in the grate kept the air’s slight chill at bay. Behind her, Mrs. Trent napped on the chaise lounge, her breath coming in soft snores. Mrs. Massey was supposed to arrive early in the afternoon. Cecily glanced at the mantel clock . . . again. A quarter after one.

  The change in activity was just what Cecily’s mind needed. Most of their hours were spent in Mrs. Trent’s bedchamber sipping tea and reading or in the blue drawing room below, where Cecily would embroider. She was growing desperate for diversion and for new conversations.

  At breakfast, Mrs. Trent had spoken of little else besides Mrs. Massey’s arrival. “She is a wonderful woman but does not have the means to keep a carriage,” she had pointed out. Mrs. Trent had already shared a great deal of information about their visitor—she was clever and always brought interesting news of town life. She’d been married but a short time before her husband died, and Mrs. Trent thought she was entirely too friendly with the Stanton family.

  When the sound of carriage wheels and a shout pulled her from her thoughts, Cecily’s posture straightened. A black carriage approached from the back entrance.

  Cecily jumped from her spot, hurried over to the sleeping woman, and tapped her shoulder. “Mrs. Trent? Mrs. Trent! Mrs. Massey is arriving.”

  Cecily stepped back to give the woman room and waited as she awoke.

  Mrs. Trent sat up and reached for her cane with an unsteady hand, lively and happy as Cecily had ever seen her. “Oh, good.”

  Cecily helped her stand up and adjust her gown and patted her hair into place. “I cannot wait to make her acquaintance. After your glowing review I know I shall adore her.”

  “She is one of the loveliest people I know. She has made all of my dresses for years now, and before that, her mother made my gowns. She is as close as a member of the family. Well, closer than any member of the family, that is to say. Her mother was a very dear friend of mine before she died, perhaps the only other woman I counted a friend in the entire county. Mrs. Massey and her mother and I passed many a lovely afternoon sewing and talking together.”

  Cecily had to smile at Mrs. Trent’s enthusiasm. “How fortunate to have someone whose companionship you enjoy live close by.”

  “Yes. Even though her mother has been dead several years now, Mrs. Massey has not forgotten her old friend. In fact, since her mother’s death, we have grown closer. I quite think of her as a daughter. But let’s not dwell on that. I hear her now.”

  The sound of a sweet and melodic voice echoed from the hall.

  Cecily drew a deep breath, smiled, and waited for Mrs. Massey to enter.

  Clarkson entered first, carrying two leather satchels, and hurried to put them down in Mrs. Trent’s dressing room, which was just off the main bedchamber.

  And then Mrs. Massey entered. She practically floated into the room.

  She was every bit as breathtaking as Cecily could have imagined. In fact, Cecily was unsure if she’d ever seen anyone quite so elegant—not even Andrew’s intended. Mrs. Massey’s hair was the color of jet, straight and glossy, parted on the side and pulled in elegant twists and interwoven with pink ribbons on the back of her head. Her flushed cheeks highlighted her bright eyes. Even though Cecily had read in novels of ladies with violet eyes, she had never actually seen one. Even for the afternoon, her gown was elegant and flattered her small figure. The crepe fabric was the color of the bluebells in spring, embroidered with dainty white flowers and with beads of white and blue embellishing the bodice.

  Mrs. Massey brushed past Cecily to get to Mrs. Trent.

  “Dear Mrs. Trent!” she said. “I must say I have been looking forward to this visit since the moment your invitation arrived.”

  Mrs. Trent reached out to embrace the woman in a loose hug. “Dear child, you were not at church yesterday. I had a notion to send Clarkson to inquire after whether you had fallen prey to an illness.”

  Mrs. Massey took Mrs. Trent’s hands in her own gloved ones and kissed her withered cheek. “You are so kind to concern yourself with me. I had the sniffles, nothing more.” She then turned to Cecily.

  Cecily straightened under the scrutiny and smoothed the blue dress she had chosen for the day, and despite the new satin sash under her bodice and a newer white fichu, she was acutely aware of its worn state, especially in comparison to Mrs. Massey’s finely cut gown. She brushed her hair from her face, feeling quite like a doll on display.

  She was grateful that Mrs. Massey spoke first. “And this must be the Miss Faire I have heard so much about.”

  Mrs. Massey strode forward confidently, as if she owned every stone in Willowgrove’s walls. “Why, you are as lovely as I’ve heard. Look at that complexion! I daresay you will turn every head in our quiet Wiltonshire, and I am honored to be the one to make gowns for you. I shall endeavor to do your loveliness justice.”

  Mrs. Massey circled Cecily, placed both hands on Cecily’s shoulders, ushered her into the dressing room, and pivoted her toward the looking glass. “Now, shall we tend to the task at hand?”

  Cecily felt odd staring at herself in the broad mirror, and even odder that Mrs. Massey was doing the same.

  Mrs. Massey tapped her fingers to her lips. “Ah, look at that stunning hair. Look at the way it glimmers when the light hits it. See?”

  Mrs. Trent tapped the crimson rug with her cane. “Did Clarkson not tell you that you would think her lovely? And she will be much improved with proper attire.”

  Mrs. Massey paused her assessment, lifted Cecily’s arm, and touched the embroidery on Cecily’s sleeve. “But look at this embroidery!” She appeared shocked. “Do you not see how lovely it is, Mrs. Trent? How even the stitches are? Whoever did this?”

  Cecily felt sheepish under the praise, but at the same time, proud that someone had noticed. “It is by my hand.”

  Mrs. Massey’s hands fell to her sides and her eyes widened in apparent disbelief. “No!”

  Cecily nodded, feeling heat color her cheeks. “My mother was a seamstress. She taught myself and my sister when we were both young.”

  “Well then,” Mrs. Massey exclaimed, “that is something we have in common. I had a feeling we would be friends, and see, we share a similar passion.”

  Cecily warmed under the praise and grew giddy and interested as Mrs. Massey turned to pull out some fabric swatches from the bag. She held up a lovely piece of green silk. “I have heard reports that your hair was of the loveliest titian hue, and at once I knew that this would be perfect. And see? See how it makes your eyes shine like emeralds?”

  Cecily was confident that no one had ever compared her eyes to emeralds before, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Massey held up a piece of coral muslin.

  “Ah, lovely.”

  Cecily picked up a piece of rust sarcenet from the pile. “Mrs. Trent, this color would look lovely on you.”

  At Cecily’s words, the room seemed to chill. Mrs. Trent and Mrs. Massey exchanged glances, and Mrs. Massey took the fabric swatch from Cecily and ran it through her long fingers. “Mrs. Trent only wears black now.”

  Cecily pressed her lips together and turned back to the looking glass. How could she have been so thoughtless? She thought of Mrs. Trent and how sad she still was over the loss of her husband. Of course she wore only black.

  Mrs. Massey shifted the conversation. “I think that this peach sprigged muslin will do perfectly for the ball, perhaps with the white net overlay. I shall have to hurry if I am to have new gowns to you by next week’s end.”

  Mrs. Trent leaned forward, the confused expression on her face matching Cecily’s own confusion. “What ball? I’ve heard of no such plans.”

  Mrs. Massey tilted her head to the side, surprised. “The private ball the Turners are holding to celebrate the engagement of their son to Rebecca Stanton. I suppose it is reall
y more of a country dance, nothing as grand as the balls you are accustomed to attending, Mrs. Trent. Still, it is quite a reason for excitement in town. Were you not aware?”

  Mrs. Trent tilted her nose to the air. “Humph. Why would I be aware of that sort of celebration? I hardly concern myself with such matters.”

  “Come now.” Mrs. Massey turned and smiled, her voice sounding almost like one would use to talk to a child. “This is Mr. Stanton’s sister. The eldest. Surely after all these years you would feel a little interest. The Stantons have long been a part of Willowgrove. Certainly you must be pleased at this news.”

  Cecily tried to press her lips together to keep her mouth from falling open. Not since she arrived had she heard someone speak so freely to Mrs. Trent. Not even Mr. Stanton or Clarkson. But there seemed to be a bond between Mrs. Trent and Mrs. Massey, a trust.

  Mrs. Trent shook her head. “You know my sentiments about the Stantons.”

  “Yes, but you cannot deny that this is an occasion worth celebrating. And with all of the rain and dreary days, we could use a little bit of a celebration, could we not?” She lowered the fabric in her hands. “You will not attend?”

  Mrs. Trent jerked her head, her expression incredulous. “Of course I will not attend. The idea! I do not understand your softness toward the Stantons, Mrs. Massey.” She then looked directly at Cecily. “Several times I have tried to advise Mrs. Massey against forming such alliances, and yet she heeds me not.”

  “But surely you will allow Miss Faire to attend?” Mrs. Massey said. “Imagine what a message that would portray, for the Stantons are among the most respected families here in Wiltonshire.”

  Mrs. Trent extended a shaky finger to touch a piece of pink brocade lying on the bed. “Miss Faire may make her own decisions. But I, for one, cannot understand why either of you would have any interest in attending such a gathering.”

  Mrs. Massey raised her eyebrows in triumph and turned to Cecily. “What do you say, Miss Faire? As for me, I am of a particular situation, being unmarried and unengaged. It is entirely poor form of me to attend events alone, but I will not miss such a celebration. Will you attend with me? I know the Stanton family well, and they will not mind my extending an invitation, especially since I know they think so highly of you.”