A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Leah, by nature, had always been more soft-spoken and complacent. Cecily, on the other hand, had been outspoken and, at times, defiant. Time would soften her hard edges, but the lesson came far too late.

  Her mother’s death had been a turning point in her family’s story, a sad one.

  In many ways, Mrs. Trent’s passing would be another turning point for her.

  Cecily had not been at Willowgrove but a couple of months. As morbid as it felt to think of such things, she would once again be alone.

  On her deathbed, her mother had pleaded with both Cecily and Leah to cling to the faith they had. To seek God in all hardships. Cecily had tried, but in the innocence of youth, she thought that when her father turned her away, God did too. For if her own father no longer loved her, how could her heavenly Father? For years she wrestled with this idea, grappling with the gravity of it, until it became easiest to simply hide from God. But now she was tired of hiding. Tired of secrets. Tired of allowing fear to dictate her thoughts.

  She looked at Mrs. Trent’s still form. She was alone. No family. Besides herself and Clarkson, no one really loved her. Cecily had not realized it until Mr. Stanton told her about Lorna. If Cecily continued on her path, if she did not face the fears that kept her a prisoner and let others into her heart, she could end up like Mrs. Trent. Alone. Forgotten.

  Cecily reached over for her book of Proverbs, which had been discarded on the bedside table days ago. She had been reading it to Mrs. Trent daily. It was a task that she tried not to focus on too much, for it brought back memories of her mother’s reading. But in this moment she was longing for connectedness. Longing for a sense of peace. Perhaps Mrs. Trent was listening. Perhaps she was not. But Cecily needed to find comfort in the words as much as Mrs. Trent did.

  27

  Later that morning, Cecily had finished her reading and was looking out the window at the blanket of fog hugging the trees and landscape. Dr. Collingswood had bled Mrs. Trent in an attempt to release some of the infection. But the act seemed to make her more fragile. Clarkson brought up a tray with broth and weak tea and set it on the bedside table.

  Clarkson’s strained voice was unusually thin. “How is she?”

  With a sharp intake of breath, Cecily quickly gathered herself. “It has been difficult. She has been calling out different names. But she appears to be resting now.”

  Clarkson rested her hand on Mrs. Trent’s shoulder. “Like a ghost, she is. Look at her.”

  Cecily tried to mask her emotions as she watched the old lady’s maid assess her mistress. Clarkson had been Mrs. Trent’s personal maid for decades. For whatever Cecily was feeling, Clarkson must be feeling it exponentially.

  But whatever emotion was inside Clarkson, she was hiding it well. For her stoic expression gave away little.

  “You have been sitting up with her all night.” Clarkson sniffed. “You need some rest.”

  “Thank you, but really, I prefer to stay here,” Cecily said.

  “Well, at least you will want to change and freshen up. I will help you change gowns.”

  Cecily looked down at Mrs. Trent. “Do you think she will be all right?”

  “We will only be a minute.”

  Clarkson led the way from Mrs. Trent’s chamber to Cecily’s.

  Her room seemed so calm. In stark contradiction to the angst occurring down the hall. Cecily’s body ached to lie in her own bed. To find solace and escape in sleep. But her spirit was restless. How could she be calm when Death was knocking at Mrs. Trent’s door?

  When her life was about to undergo another change?

  Clarkson finished the tie at the back of Cecily’s dress, gathered a few items in the room, and then hesitated at the door. “Thank you for sitting up with Mrs. Trent. I know you are a comfort. Her previous companions would not have been so considerate.”

  Cecily turned, sensing the invisible barrier between them start to crumble. “Mrs. Trent has been nothing but kind and generous to me. I am fond of her.”

  “And she is fond of you. I have been in Mrs. Trent’s service for more than half of my life. I am glad she is not enduring this alone.”

  “Mr. Stanton has informed me that she has no other family. Is there no one at all to send for to make her more comfortable?”

  Clarkson shook her head. “No.”

  Cecily barely choked on her next words. “And what of Mr. Moreton? Surely he would come to be with his aunt at this time?”

  Clarkson huffed. “Mr. Moreton? Humph. He will be here when it is time to collect his inheritance and not a moment before.” She shook out Cecily’s gown and draped it over her arm. “I will get this washed. I think you should get some rest. The next few days may be difficult.”

  After Clarkson left, Cecily rested her hand against the cool glass and looked out of the window at the crisp morning. Gone was the water that had pooled on the landscape for so long. The fog was beginning to lift, and now vivid green hills gave way to lush forest. Skylarks swept across the azure sky, weaving in their course and disappearing from sight. The aged gardener was in the far corner of the west garden, tending to a wisteria in full bloom. Cecily could not help but wonder if he knew of their mistress’s state.

  She turned to look at the far window and noticed that the gate to Mrs. Trent’s garden was closed. After being in Mrs. Trent’s dark room for so long, a walk around the grounds was just what she needed. She combed her hair as quickly as her stubborn curls would allow and used two combs to pin it atop her head, washed her face and cleaned her teeth, stuffed her feet into her cream kid slippers, and grabbed her shawl and a basket.

  She took the servants’ stairs down to the back entrance and circled around the buildings to the garden. She nodded at the scullery maid gathering vegetables in the kitchen garden. The morning breeze was fresh and invigorating, and despite how good it felt to fill her lungs with clean, cool air, her heart remained heavy, her eyes still hot from tears.

  The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, and Cecily made her way to the flowers. Mrs. Trent enjoyed the abundance of roses. She may not be able to do anything to help Mrs. Trent’s physical state, but perhaps these would help brighten her mental state. Cecily would fill her room with them.

  Ivy claimed the garden’s outer walls, obscuring the gray stone walls. The garden was immaculate—a testament to Silas’s care. A statue of the Greek god Athena stood in the center of the curved path surrounded by brilliant blooms. With her next inhale, the tantalizing scent of fresh lavender met her.

  She pulled the scissors from her apron pocket and moved to a bush full of lush magenta roses. She cut the stems as long as she could and used her scissors to trim the leaves and thorns. The sun felt warm on her uncovered hair and shoulders.

  Bloom after bloom she trimmed and placed in her long basket. Her thoughts drifted to a great many things . . . Her friends at Rosemere. Her sister. Mr. Stanton.

  She heard movement outside the wall, which was not unusual. On an estate this size, someone was always going about their duties.

  She heard the gate creak.

  Her heart leapt. She saw a booted foot and then a dark sleeve enter.

  She held her breath. Mr. Stanton.

  But it was not Mr. Stanton.

  She was shocked to see before her Mr. Moreton.

  His gaze was direct. “I was told I could find you here.”

  Cecily lifted her head from her task. Would her stomach always give an odd lurch whenever she encountered Andrew? She straightened and wiped her hands on her smock. “Mr. Moreton. You’ve returned.”

  “Yes. Mr. Stanton wrote to me about my aunt’s condition. I felt it only right to come see her.”

  “Mr. Stanton?” she repeated, wondering why he had not mentioned it. Clarkson’s warning played fresh in her ears. “When did you arrive?”

  “Only just. I wanted to see you straightaway. I inquired after you, and one of the footmen saw you come in here.”

  She looked toward the gate. “I am sure your
presence will be a great comfort.”

  An awkward silence followed. For surely they both knew her statement was a lie.

  In an effort to mask the pause, she said, “Are the Pritchards with you?”

  “No. They are at their home outside of London for the time being.”

  The sunlight filtered through the flowering trees, dappling his dark hair.

  “I take it you have been at Aradelle Park, then?”

  “I have.”

  “And did you find everything in order?” She tried to hide the eagerness in her voice. He’d promised to make inquiries on her behalf.

  He smiled, an expression that made him look like the boy from years ago. “Oh, I don’t need to tell you how things are. Everything is exactly as it was when you left, even after all this time. Mother is happy as long as her opium is near, and Father is happiest when I am not present.”

  Her shoulders slumped. Perhaps he had forgotten her request. And yet, despite her frustration, she felt sad for him. This was how his life had always been. “Those are strong words. One might mistake them for self-pity.”

  “Self-pity?” He laughed and straightened his green double-breasted waistcoat. “Dear Cecily, you know me far too well. You know my faults. Why should I endeavor to hide them?”

  She was uncertain how to answer. “I knew you five years ago. You were a boy. Much can change with time.”

  He smirked and cocked his head to the side. The breeze caught his hair. “Do you find me changed?”

  “I do.”

  He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. “Dare I say you have changed, too, Cecily. Do not judge too harshly.”

  She let the rose she had been cutting fall to the basket. “I am well aware of how I have changed. And that is probably for the best.”

  He turned from her, a silent indication that this topic of conversation was closed. When he turned back around, a sober light shaded his eyes, and he sat on the stone bench. “How is my aunt?”

  “I am afraid she is not doing well.”

  Andrew’s expression darkened. “How so?”

  Cecily clipped another rose and let it fall to the basket. “She has had several strange episodes. Often she does not know who I am, or anyone, for that matter.”

  He propped his foot on the bench. “That is most unfortunate.”

  Cecily wondered if he spoke the truth.

  “I have something for you that I hope will cheer you, all the way from Aradelle.” He reached in his waistcoat and pulled out a letter. “Here. It is a letter from Mrs. Sherwin.”

  She jerked her head and stared at the letter, half doubting its existence. She looped her basket over her arm and, with the other hand, reached for the letter.

  The blood began to swoosh through Cecily’s ears with all the force of the wind over the downs, drowning out the sounds of the birds chirping. The idea that she could potentially be holding the answers she sought for so long trumped all rational thought. She wanted to rip open the letter and devour the words, but she was acutely aware of how Andrew’s eyes were fixed on her. For whatever words she might find penned within, she wanted to read them in solitude.

  She looked up at Andrew and attempted to remember her manners. Her tongue felt thick and dry when she spoke. “And how is Mrs. Sherwin?”

  “She is just as you remember her, no doubt. She was eager for news of you, though.” He stepped a little closer. A smile tugged at his lips. “She was always so fond of you, if you remember. She asked if you were as lovely as ever.”

  She did not miss the shift of his tone. She looked down at the toes of her slippers, still damp from the dew.

  He cocked his head to the side. “Are you not the least bit curious to know what my response to her was?”

  She shook her head in protest. “Mr. Moreton, please, I—”

  “I told her that you were every bit as lovely as the day you left. That the years had been kind. And it is true.”

  She looked to the gate, roses forgotten. Had she not dreamed of this moment? Hoping that he, like a knight in shining armor, would ride in and right past wrongs and save her from her prison? Although she no longer felt as if she were in a prison. She was in a place of her own choosing, and she had a clear mission.

  She lifted her basket and slung it over her arm. “Please do not think me rude, Mr. Moreton, but I am anxious to read my letter. Thank you for being so kind as to speak to Mrs. Sherwin on my behalf and bring this letter to me, but I am sure you will understand that I wish to read it in private. Please excuse me.”

  She brushed past him and fled the garden, her steps much faster than her regular pace. She heard his voice call after her, but she fixed her eyes on the entrance to Willowgrove.

  28

  Cecily could not get to her chamber fast enough. It was as if the letter were burning her very fingers and the floor beneath her were shifting, slowing each step.

  Five years ago, almost to the month, everything she believed to be true ceased to exist. She had considered that chapter in her life closed and dead for so long now that this letter, even more so than facing Andrew, was a strange glimpse into a world that had closed its door to her. Her footsteps echoed on the stone steps of the servants’ staircase and her hands trembled.

  The air was stiff and hot in the corridor outside her chamber. It hung about, as if quietly steaming, watching, waiting to see what would transpire. The discomfort it caused matched her mood. She studied the letter’s inscription, feeling as if she were holding her sister’s memory in her hand. Thoughts of the one person whom she truly missed choked her, the memory clutching her in its hot grasp. She fled to her window, turned the ancient handle, and pushed the leaded glass out into the late-morning air. Warm tendrils of an airy breeze pushed their way inside, but did little to relieve her. With her foot she pulled a chair closer and then sat. She slid her finger beneath the seal, pulled it free, and unfolded the letter.

  The handwriting was rough and jagged. Her handwriting used to look the same, before her time at Rosemere. Each stroke held remnants of a relationship that had been far too long stale. She took a deep breath.

  Cecily-girl,

  News of you came like a ghost from the past. Mr. Moreton told me of your situation. I was pleased as can be to hear you are well. He was most discreet, protecting you from the wagging tongues that still plague these halls. A testament to the friendship you once shared, no doubt.

  I’ve no call to pretend that I know what has happened with you since you left. In fact, the only news I had was that you were at a girls’ school, and then news from Mr. Moreton that you were now a lady’s companion.

  The day you left was a sad one. He told me you knew little about what happened afterward. Had you written in the months following the event, I would have had to decline to write you. The master was in fits about it and was most cross with anyone who made mention of it. But time, as you know, heals many things.

  I have missed you. All the girls have. I could update you on them all now, but what would I have to write you in the future? I would ever so much like to stay in touch now that I have found you again.

  I am happy and my life is very different, and I am eager to tell you of all things, but all these things I can share with you in good time. For Mr. Moreton mentioned that you were most anxious to learn about your family, so I will keep you in suspense no longer.

  I do not know any news firsthand, mind you, but you know how Aradelle Park is. News travels as quickly as a bird from one tree to another. So I shall tell you the rumors that I heard regarding your sister. Miss Bige, as you know, was a great friend of your sister’s. She reports that she went to live with your aunt in Manchester. But that was several years past, and I do not know what to believe. And then, this brings me to the difficult part of my letter. I heard a report through Cyrus Lindford, the new head groom, that your father died about a year ago in a town south of London. A letter had been sent here, looking for his relations, and sadly, no one had any information on your where
abouts or your sister’s. Your father was hard on you, but I know you loved him, despite all that happened. I am truly pained for you.

  I am eager for us to get reacquainted, but in light of my last bit of information, I shall save such news for another time. I hope now that we are reconnected, you will write. I am eager to know of you.

  Cecily forgot to breathe, and truth be told, her eyes only skimmed over the end of the letter. As if acting on their own accord, her eyes sought out the word and clung to it.

  Died.

  She tried to picture her father, with his broad shoulders, hair the color of fire, so like hers, and ruddy complexion. But her recollection had grown dim.

  She tried to remember the father of her youth prior to her mother’s death. The laughter. The happy times. But all she could recall was the way he made her feel. Frightened. Flawed. Insignificant. Her memories of him smiling had faded, and all that remained was his angry scowl. But even as the unpleasant memories outweighed the good, her child’s heart still wanted to cling to him, with the hope that her memories were incorrect.

  She read the letter again.

  Surely it could be a mistake. But the logic seemed sound, and hardly from someone who would tell a falsehood. After all, Mrs. Sherwin had comforted her and Leah after their mother died. She snuck them special treats from Aradelle’s kitchen and even gave Cecily a new pair of boots when hers had worn through. What reason would she have to lead her astray?

  Cecily did not want it to hurt so badly.

  For this was the man who sent her away. Rejected her.

  But if the truth were to be told, her situation improved once she left Aradelle. In fact, she was treated better at Rosemere than her own father had treated her, and she had been given an opportunity that surpassed any she could have received had she lived out her days on Aradelle’s grounds.

  She felt numb.

  She had been right about her sister. Where else but their aunt’s house would she go? Their mother’s only sister. But Cecily’s grandmother had died when her mother was young, and the sisters did not stay close. Cecily could barely recall her aunt’s Christian name. Perhaps it was Lucy. Or Lucille.