A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “Oh.”

  Nathaniel lifted his head but said nothing.

  “It appears that a bit of land is being left to the steward on record and a few other things.” Moreton pinned him with a pointed stare. “But I daresay you were already aware of this fact.”

  There was no need to hide anything. No need for pretense. For he had done nothing wrong. Undoubtedly such an inheritance might raise an eyebrow or two, but Nathaniel did not care. “Yes, I am.”

  Moreton lowered the will, stepped away from the window, and handed it back to Nathaniel. “It appears my uncle thought very highly of your father.”

  Nathaniel took the will and folded it neatly, then placed it back in the box.

  “Well then, I suppose congratulations are in order. Does this mean you will be leaving Willowgrove?”

  “Only once a suitable replacement can be found.”

  “Waiting for a replacement. That is very noble of you.”

  The tone with which the words were spoken irked Nathaniel.

  Moreton, young and unobservant, probably had little knowledge of what it was that Nathaniel actually tended to on a daily basis. And in that moment, even though it was not recognized, Nathaniel felt pride in what he did. Most estates this size would have a house steward and a land steward. He had successfully overseen both. He would like nothing more than to leave the pretentious twit out on his ear, but he cared too much about the work he had spent his life doing. About the people who had worked alongside him. And yes, oddly enough, even about the memory of Mrs. Trent.

  “I have a responsibility to Willowgrove,” Nathaniel stated. “And I will see it through.”

  He knew Moreton to be prideful and half expected him to relieve him from his duties on the spot. But instead, the younger man pushed his fingers through his hair and nodded. “Thank you.”

  Moreton headed toward the door but then stopped. “Will you see that the other servants are notified of anything that may have been left to them?”

  Nathaniel nodded. That would be one task he would find great pleasure in doing. “Of course.”

  32

  Nathaniel closed the ledger and extinguished the candle on his desk. He yawned, adjusted his cravat, folded his arms over his chest, and sighed.

  He dragged his hands over his face, then pushed himself back against the chair. The weight of grief pulled on him. Never had he thought he would be so affected by Mrs. Trent’s passing. He wanted to go home to Laurel Cottage. Go someplace light and happy. He’d seen death before. Whether it was someone as close to him as his own father or a stranger, it was always hard.

  He checked his timepiece. Again. He had asked Miss Faire to come by the office, and she hadn’t. He had things he needed to give to her, provisions from Mrs. Trent. These were important, but there was another matter entirely that he needed to discuss with her.

  He thought again, for the thousandth time, of their stolen moment in the corridor earlier that day. It had started out as an innocent gesture that turned into the moment that he was certain he would always look back on as a turning point. Miss Faire had been grieving. But there was something else that transpired between them in that silent corridor. He had never held a woman in his arms in such a manner. The memory of the softness of her, the tickle of her hair as she tucked her head beneath his chin, the warmth of her hand on his chest—all threatened to undo him.

  And what’s more, he trusted her. The realization pulsed through him, urging him, pushing him. She knew the truth about him. It did not faze her or shock her.

  His plans to reestablish Lockbourne as a thriving estate had never been in doubt. And he had always planned to do it as an unmarried, untethered man. But now he knew . . . it would all be worthless without Miss Faire.

  He gathered his things and tucked them in his satchel, imagining their future spreading before him. But as he reached for his hat, he saw Miss Faire from the window. She was walking to the east garden. She had changed into a gown of dark gray or black, making her skin appear even paler. Her head was uncovered, unusual for this time of day. Energy surged through him. He knew what he wanted and he needed to tell her. He flung the satchel over his shoulder, grabbed the letter and pouch given to him by Mrs. Trent, and hurried from Willowgrove’s tradesmen’s entrance, taking the steps two at a time. The grounds were more active than the average late afternoon. He jogged around the east drive and crossed the lawn. “Miss Faire!” he called. “Please wait.”

  When Miss Faire noticed him, she stopped short. The wind had pulled her hair free, and long, auburn tendrils flew about her face. The breeze tugged at the charcoal dress, highlighting her form. As he drew closer, her eyes glowed red with tears. The sight slowed him.

  He stopped a few feet from her. Now that he was here, so close to her, he was not sure what to say. He glanced upward to the sky thickening with late clouds. “You should be inside. It looks like rain may be coming.”

  Miss Faire only nodded.

  Her silence was unnerving.

  “I-I saw you from the window and thought I might catch you. You never came by the office today.”

  “I apologize.” Her voice was weak. “I had things to attend to. The hours slipped by.”

  He pulled the letter from his waistcoat. “I have something for you.” He pulled the letter from his coat. “Mrs. Trent wanted me to give this to you . . . in the event of her death.”

  Miss Faire flipped the letter and read the inscription. “This is not her writing.”

  “No, ’tis mine. Mrs. Trent spoke it and I captured it on paper. She did not want to ask you to do such a task, and Clarkson’s hand is such that she can barely write anymore.”

  “May I ask what it is?”

  “It is a letter of recommendation. She knew you had plans to look for your sister, but she wanted to make sure you were able to get a good post. She also wanted you to have this.” He retrieved the small velvet pouch from his coat.

  The coins jingled as he transferred it to her outstretched palm.

  Once Miss Faire realized the pouch contained money, she shook her head and tried to give it back to him. “No. This is not necessary. I cannot take this.”

  “Take it, Miss Faire.” He gently pushed her hand away. “It will do much better in your control than leaving it here.”

  She looked down at the small purse. “Mrs. Trent was a very generous woman. I am sure it will help me in my transition.”

  The word “transition” caught him off guard.

  He licked his lips and shifted his weight.

  But even as he planned what to say next, she brushed her hair from her face. “I can hardly believe she is gone.”

  He thought he noticed her chin tremble. How he yearned to ease her pain. His arms ached to pull her into his embrace once again, to soothe away the day’s grief.

  But she jutted her chin into the air. “I wanted to tell you again how grateful I am to you and your family. Rebecca and Charlotte were by to see me earlier today. I do not know what I would have done without the kindness your family has shown me. Seeing your sisters today, however, reminded me I ache to see mine.”

  He leaned close to avoid being overheard by two passing stable boys. “I take it you have not heard back from any of the addresses Mr. McGovern sent you?”

  She shook her head. “But I did receive a letter from an old friend indicating that Leah is in Manchester.”

  He did not like where this conversation was going. Manchester was hardly a place for her. She was independent, but also headstrong. Going there alone would be insanity. “You must let me help you.”

  “I cannot impose any longer.”

  “It is not an imposition.”

  She drew a shaky breath, her words growing more pointed. “This is something I must do on my own.”

  “Why must you? You need not do everything alone.”

  Miss Faire looked slightly offended. “I know that there have been times since my arrival that could make you doubt it, but I really am quite capabl
e.”

  “Of course you are capable. No woman could be more so. It is your safety I am concerned with.”

  “Leah is all I have left. You must understand.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “She is not all you have.”

  At the words, her eyes fixed on him, her expression brimming with questions. He realized what he had let slip. He quickly backtracked. “That is to say, there is no need for you to continue alone.”

  She lifted the letter and the pouch in her hand. “You asked me about my past before, Mr. Stanton, and I would not tell you anything of significance. But now, especially since I know so much of your own history, I feel it only fair that you should be apprised of mine. I am not who you think I am, not exactly.”

  She waited for a footman to pass the far side of the yard before continuing. “I mean no disrespect, but your situation was not of your own making. You were a victim of circumstance. But I-I have made mistakes and decisions that affected my entire family, and they will haunt me until I make them right. And that starts with finding my sister.”

  “I know you are responsible for Mrs. Trent’s apology to me. I appreciated it. I didn’t realize that I needed to hear it. But you must trust me. It is your turn for people to be there for you.”

  How arrogant he must sound. What right did he have to know anything about her? And to his knowledge, she had never asked to know anything about him. It had all been handed to her, whether or not she had any interest. He studied her, from the twitch in her cheek to the wince of her eye. Had he gone too far?

  “This has been a difficult week, one that has tried me beyond . . .” Miss Faire’s words faded, and then she paused, as if selecting another direction for the conversation. “We must each of us look to the future.”

  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

  That 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

  It 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 lea
ve.

  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.