It was then that Mr. Stanton noticed them. His pace slowed and he gave a short bow.
Cecily nodded in return, but Mrs. Trent only took Cecily’s arm and repeated herself. “Do not be swayed, Miss Faire. Mark my words, you will be disappointed.” Mrs. Trent put one shaky foot in front of the other and leaned her weight against her cane. “I have known Mr. Stanton since the day he was born.”
Cecily didn’t know why this statement should surprise her so. She knew the family had been connected with the property for generations, but the thought of Mr. Stanton as a boy seemed odd. He was quite self-assured for one so young.
“His mother was a trusted servant of mine. She was my lady’s maid, prior to Clarkson, and had been for quite some time.”
Cecily took short steps to keep pace with the older woman. It didn’t make sense. Had she not said that her husband had been a loyal employer, not one to part ways with trusted staff members? “But I don’t understand. I thought—”
“Like Mr. Stanton said yesterday, we all have our secrets. If you are at Willowgrove Hall long enough, I am sure you will learn them, just as others have before you.”
They approached the threshold to reenter Willowgrove, and Mrs. Trent lifted her hand. “Come here, Lorna. Give me your arm.”
Cecily did as she was bid, but as soon as she was assured Mrs. Trent was steady, she corrected her. “Cecily.”
“What?”
“My Christian name is Cecily. You called me Lorna.”
Mrs. Trent’s eyes narrowed and her voice heightened. “I most certainly did not!”
Not wishing to upset her, Cecily held her tongue and continued walking. But in that slight moment, something seemed amiss. The older woman’s expression slipped from quiet confidence, to confusion, to almost fear. “Where is my green pendant?”
Cecily frowned. “Your green pendant?”
“Yes, now do not cross me, Lorna.” The tone of her trembling voice grew almost desperate. “Where is it?”
Cecily shook her head. “I think you are mistaken, Mrs. Trent. I am Miss Faire. Cecily Faire.”
“Hold your tongue, Lorna. You took it again, didn’t you?”
The look in the older woman’s eyes gave Cecily reason to pause. “I am sorry, Mrs. Trent. I do not know what you are speaking of.”
The stood together a few moments, and then Mrs. Trent put her hand to her forehead. “Is it Sunday? What are we doing out here? We should be preparing for services.”
“You are right.” Cecily stepped aside to give the woman room, but could not prevent her eyebrows from drawing together in concern. This was unusual, even for Mrs. Trent’s eccentric mannerisms. She looped her arm thorugh Mrs. Trent’s. “Come, I will take you back upstairs, and we will prepare to depart for the church.”
W
hen it was time to depart for church, the clouds had gathered in the pewter sky. Cecily had been correct when she thought she detected the scent of rain earlier. Looming storm clouds replaced the morning’s wispier ones, and a sharp wind swept down from the gables and cut through the thin fabric of her muslin gown.
Mrs. Trent must have noticed Cecily looking upward. “The weather changes quickly in this part of the country. You will grow accustomed to it.”
Cecily wanted to remind the woman that she had lived on the moors for many years, as they had discussed at length several times, but instead, she took Mrs. Trent’s arm as they descended the stone steps. Cecily did not want to upset her. Not again.
She lifted her hand to still the satin ribbons on her bonnet, and as she did, she noticed a tall man walking toward them. At first her heart clenched for fear it was Andrew, but then she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized it was only a footman.
Even though she was told that the church was not so very far from Willowgrove, they were to take the carriage. That fact alone ushered in another fear—that of sharing a carriage with Andrew, especially after their odd interaction the night before. But when a second carriage arrived, pulled by two matching bays, her tension dissipated.
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.
T
he 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.”