“You are in need of a husband,” Cecilia’s mother
admonished her.
Cecilia’s lips twitched, ready
to smirk at her mother’s favorite pronouncement. “A husband such as I find you will not tolerate your behavior. You will not so readily ignore a husband as you do a mother, I am sure.” Mrs. Wilcox sighed, a sign of her affliction. “Why cannot you let young Mrs. Fordham assist Polly? She has a husband; her prospects cannot be hurt as yours are.”
“Polly waits upon me,” Cecilia said. She rocked back on her heels and cut her eyes toward the polished front door of Partridge Place, her second home.
“Why can you not behave like
she? No games with the children, now. Let the boys have their fun. You must set
an example for the girls with Polly. You must, as should they, learn a
gentleman has no desire for such a hoydenish wife,” her mother said as Cecilia
put on her straw bonnet, tying the pale blue ribbon under her chin. “Your
gloves, girl. Can you not at least look a proper young woman?”
Cecilia took her worn York tan gloves, exhaling in relief at the appearance of Mrs. Partridge.
“Mrs. Wilcox, will you join me in the drawing room? I wish to show you the patterns my sister sent from London.” Mrs. Partridge rescued her again.
“Behave yourself, daughter.”
Mrs. Wilcox turned her attention to Mrs. Partridge, who gave Cecilia a brief
smile. “Do you recall my telling you that my sister’s home in Portman Square
neighbors that of Lord Nefton? His nephew Mr. Thornhill will be in town…” Mrs.
Wilcox’s voice echoed back to Cecilia as her mother followed their neighbor
into her drawing room.
Cecilia blew out a breath and
hurried outside, where Polly stood gazing at the greenish pond which shimmered
in the chill spring breeze. An open field stretched around them, leading up the
hill home or, to the right, into Abingdon. Polly turned, smiled serenely, and
hooked her arm in Cecilia’s.
“Your mother had last moment
instructions again?” Polly asked.
“Yes. She is determined I shall
marry.” Cecilia kicked a small grey rock from her path. Her mother’s choice of
suitor would probably rival their neighbor Mr. Drake in boring conversation and
their former curate in propriety. Cecilia straightened her posture. She would
marry for love.
“Your papa is not.”
“He has agreed I shall accompany
her to London,” Cecilia said as they strolled arm in arm on the road toward the
village. Breezes and birdsong wove a sweet melody, enhancing the luminescent
landscape. Trees, frothed with blossom, gave way to hedges woven with trumpeted
bluebells and sunny broom, until the river which wound through town edged into
view, along with the twin stone spires of the church. The scent of the water
coupled with the new blossoms and spring foliage made Cecilia’s step quicken.
She longed to run and spend the day exploring. But she had duties now.
“I shall miss you and I do hope
you will not marry yet. Wil and I wish you to visit us at Partridge Place
often. And who else but you will help me start the village school?”
“If I do not marry soon, Mama
may wish me to live with you.” Cecilia laughed.
“You are always welcome. My
marriage to your brother will not make you any more my sister than you already
are.” Her sisterhood with Polly and Cecilia’s love of children were the only
reasons she took an interest in Polly’s school. Cecilia had other plans, which
did not include becoming a schoolmarm.
Cecilia squeezed Polly’s hand
and smiled. “How many children shall accompany us today?”
“Only eight. The Garrick boys
are needed at home.” Polly’s smile faded. “Papa was such an advocate for the
school…now I do not know…”
“Wil and I shall help.”
Cecilia whistled the first verse of a sea shanty her uncle James had taught
her.
“Today we sing,” Polly said in
as firm a tone as she could.
“And play.” Cecilia skipped
ahead, her boots scuffing the soft brown earth of the road. Cecilia knew Polly
thought of her father, as she did also. Mr. Partridge had been a second father
to her, so much had the families been together. Now that their mourning period
was almost passed, Cecilia did all she could to cheer Polly. If sometimes that
meant giving into her childish impulses, which secretly amused her mother-hen
friend, Cecilia would oblige.
Once they had assembled their
company, Cecilia led the village children in song while Polly walked behind
with two of the older girls, almost more ladylike at fourteen and twelve than
Cecilia herself at eighteen. She giggled and chased the younger boys and girls
while Polly and their eldest charges settled on a bench. Soon Cecilia arranged
a game of blind man’s bluff, discarding her beribboned bonnet and tan gloves on
the grass. Some of the men of the village ambled toward the tavern. It angered
her mother that they saw Cecilia, the daughter of Mr. William Wilcox, the local
justice, a fine gentleman, cavorting on the green like a girl of five.
Cecilia laughed with the children
while they played, but she stopped, her throat gripped in panic, when little
Mary Fordham toddled into the road as the hard beat of horse hooves approached.
She ran and scooped up the girl, nearly toppling over from the swiftness of her
steps. The horse and rider came so close she imagined the dampness on her back
was from the glistening flank of the animal. Clutching the trembling
two-year-old to her, she marched over to the inn where the rider alighted.
“Sir, I believe you ought
apologize. You nearly struck this girl.”
Mary stopped trembling; Cecilia
tightened her hold on her. The rider turned to her, a lion of a man, tall,
strong, almost rough features, a thatch of tawny hair, but his attire showed
him to be a gentleman.
“Excuse me, I do not believe we
have been introduced,” he said, his voice lofty and correct.
Cecilia’s cheeks grew hotter,
now in shame and anger. He would set her down in front of all?
“I have no wish to be introduced
to such a thoughtless man.” Cecilia worked to steady her breathing, but her
chest tightened under his inspection.
Mary squirmed out of Cecilia’s
grip to see who this stranger with the deep, commanding voice was. He held out
a coin to her, which she grasped in her tiny palm.
“Thank you,” the little girl
said in her sing-song voice as she wriggled down. She ran back over to her
playmates and Polly, chattering in her childish gibberish.
Cecilia tweaked the back of her
old sprig muslin gown. His clothes were of fine wool and linen, his leather
boots well crafted, like those of Lord Wellington himself. He must think her
some poor county miss, of indifferent parentage. Pulling herself to her full
height, she still had to tilt her head up slightly to meet his appraisal. She
narrowed her eyes. She was a Wilcox, a gentleman’s daughter.
“I see even one so young can
remember her manners,” he said with a glance at Mary Fordham. His blue-green
eyes sparkled.
Cecilia gripped her hands
together. She itched to slap his condescending grin away. The old men lounging
in front of the inn laughed and chattered like two old biddies. Her mother
would hear of this.
“Pardon me,” he continued with a
bow, “I have urgent business--”
“Good day,” Cecilia said. She
turned and forced herself to walk with careful, measured steps to Polly, who
waited for her with a small frown. Cecilia glanced over her shoulder, but the
man was gone. A groom tended his horse, an impressive bay mare. Cecilia
drooped, her limbs heavy, as if she had endured a day of censure and sewing
under her mother’s critical eyes.
Polly led the way as they
returned the children to their homes and walked down the road. Usually, Cecilia
felt calmed by her older friend, but she tensed at Polly’s silent disapproval
for her unladylike behavior in front of a gentleman.
“I know I acted improperly, Polly, but surely you would
not have me sit idly by in the face of such conduct?” The air chilled and
Cecilia wished she had worn her pelisse rather than her light spencer.
“Yes, I would. He was a gentleman. You ought have given
him opportunity to explain.” Polly spoke quietly. Cecilia did not respond and
they were silent save for saying goodbye as they came to the turn into
Partridge Place.
Cecilia ran up the hill toward her home, pausing to glance
at the lengthening grass. There would be no resting on its soft new growth to
read Wordsworth or Shakespeare today; her mother expected her back soon. At
least that morning, she had the pleasure of listening to her father and brother
discuss her uncle’s latest letters and a few local matters, then making her
daily rounds about the grounds of Middleton House, hearing her own footsteps
swishing through the sloping lawn, scrunching along the path of the walled
garden, splashing across the stream, and padding in the wood. The tall beeches
and elms of it caught her eye as she crested the hill.
When she descended, she saw Middleton House, her home,
with its symmetrical, weathered red brick coziness, too small in her mother’s
estimation, but it suited Cecilia, who found scope enough in the surrounding
country. Cecilia wended her way home, musing over what her mother planned for
her in London so she might keep her thoughts off a certain stranger.
Cecilia did not wish to go to London with her mother,
though she did want to visit her cousins and take in more enlightening sights
than her mother allowed on their previous visit. It was the prospect of so many
hours in her mother’s company and most especially of her pressing Cecilia to
marry which discomfited her. For Cecilia had a decided opinion of whom she
should marry, as she had about many other things, which did not coincide with
the opinions of her parents. Only her cousin, Amelia, was privy to Cecilia’s
wish to marry her brother’s friend, Mr. Adam Cateret.
But it would not do. She had not spoken to him in nearly two
years and he was talked of as a bit of a rake. They had the London gossip from
Aunt Higham, Amelia, and Fanny, though Cecilia usually did not like to listen
to such talk. Mrs. Wilcox could tolerate such behavior in a wealthy gentleman
of nearly six and twenty, with his fine country estate and fashionable London
home, but not in a suitor for Cecilia. And he was not her suitor, in any case.
He had always been kind to her, taking her part when she got into some girlish
scrape and confiding in her about his childhood in Naples and his dreams of
travel and adventure. He was so different than any other man she had ever met
and Cecilia became dazzled on his last visit by his charm, deep sensibility,
and glamorous plans. Cecilia felt his rakish behavior was partly because he
could not bear to be at Landsdown without his family. Her cousin Amelia, on the
other hand, said he was being a man and she did not mean this kindly.
Cecilia knew of Mr. Cateret’s faults, his indiscretions,
but she loved him for she also knew his kindness, intelligence, and pleasure in
what she loved: walking, music, reading a good book, a lively conversation.
Though they had always been friends, she could not say when she fell in love
with him. Was it when at fifteen she could not attend Polly’s coming out ball
so ‘Ret dragged Wil into the anteroom so she might dance a few dances? At
sixteen when he imitated the local dignitaries to her and Wil’s mirth, even
jesting at himself? Or was it when she glimpsed him riding past her Aunt
Higham’s in London last year and noted his appearance in the first flush of
attraction: middle height, dark curly hair, classical profile, and lean
physique? Some likened him to Lord Byron, but Cecilia thought he showed his
mother’s Neapolitan heritage. Indeed, he looked quite like his ancestor,
Salvator Rosa, a copy of whose self-portrait she had seen at Landsdown.
Mr. Cateret visited them at Middleton House frequently
when Cecilia was younger, but these last years had seen the loss of his beloved
mother and sisters and then his father two years ago. She knew he was bereft at
these losses, especially those of his mother and sisters; on his last visit to
Middleton House when Cecilia was sixteen she witnessed his grief. They had
shared a private moment, but she was still a girl then, his “bella bambina” as
he called her, his beautiful girl.
She'd spent the last two years dreaming of ‘Ret, finding
other men lacking his elegance, charm, humor, intelligence, and passionate
sensibility. Cecilia wished she could see him again and he her. He might see
her differently now, a noted beauty of eighteen, rather than the tomboyish girl
of sixteen he had last met. Still, she supposed, it would not matter, as her
mother was determined she would marry some such as Mr. Thornhill, and her mother
would brook no disappointment.
Cecilia was just rounding a corner toward the house when
she happened upon her father and brother standing with Mr. Cateret.
“Why, ‘Ret!” she said, using the name Wil always had for
his friend. At a cough from her father, she corrected herself. “Mr. Cateret,
good day to you. I…”
Mr. Cateret bowed to her, his gaze more intent than she
recalled from his previous visits.
“Ah, Cecilia,” said her father, “I was wondering where you
had got to. Wil has invited Mr. Cateret to stay with us, I hope for some time,
though he claims to be off for London shortly.”
“I understand you and Mrs. Wilcox will be journeying there
as well,” remarked Mr. Cateret.
“Yes, we leave in a sen’night,” Cecilia said. She was
afraid to say more before she could compose herself fully. For once, Cecilia
was relieved to see her mother, who approached in their carriage.
“Mr. Cateret,” Mrs. Wilcox began as she exited the
carriage. “How unexpected to see you. We thought you to be in London this time
of year.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Wilcox, I was on my way there when I met Wil
in town. He invited me to stay, if you are so good as to extend your
hospitality.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Wilcox replied, arching her brow as she
gave Wil a quelling look. Mr. Wilcox, seeing his wife’s mood, engaged her
attention as they walked up the front steps into the house, leaving Wil and Mr.
Cateret to escort Cecilia. They each offered her an arm, as they used to when
Cecilia was a young girl. She smiled and lightened her step in this small gesture,
as she always had, surrounded by her beloved brother and her favorite of his
friends. Now it was accompanied by the thrill of being close to Mr. Cateret,
who had occupied her thoughts so often.
“Cecilia is quite changed from last you saw her, eh ‘Ret? She
is near as tall as myself and she doesn’t giggle as she used,” Wil said. They
passed through the wide paneled door, the fanlight above it casting patterns on
the polished wood floors.
“Yes, she is changed,” he said with a bitter frown, as Wil
excused himself to find the housekeeper about Mr. Cateret’s room.
Wil had not noticed Mr. Cateret’s study of Cecilia, but
she had. Her elation at his look of regard was tempered by his cold reply to
Wil and unhappy countenance. Perhaps she mistook things. She wanted his
approval so much she did not trust herself to recognize it.
“Are you happy to go to London?” he asked.
“I am happy to visit my cousins, yes.” She glanced down
the hall, relieved only the chairs and pictures lining the walls witnessed
their exchange.
“Are you and Miss Amelia still bosom friends? Has she made
a bluestocking of you?”
“Amelia is not a bluestocking. She is interested in
antiquities and enjoys reading, as I do myself.” She frowned. He and Wil teased
her too much.
“Does she know my friend Mr. Frederick Dryden? He will be
giving a lecture on Roman antiquities in a few weeks time. She should attend. I
would be happy to introduce them.”
“She has mentioned his writings. I am sure she would be
glad of the introduction. Will you be attending as well?” Mellow light played
across the now rosy-hued burgundy carpets, which had been in use since her
grandmother’s day.
“No, I have heard many of Dry’s lectures. It is not my
usual London pursuit.”
“Oh no, sir, and what would such pursuits be?” Cecilia asked,
assuming an expression of innocence at which Mr. Cateret first smiled then his
countenance clouded. Seeing he would not answer, she continued. She could tease
him as well. “I suppose you find Landsdown lonely. Perhaps you seek company in
London?”
Mr. Cateret stared at her with a stormy expression, his
ample brows tugged together. Any answer he may have had was stopped by her
brother’s return.
“Are you being a pert miss, Cecilia? You see she has not
changed so much, ‘Ret. I can show you to your room now, if you wish. Dinner
will be in an hour.”
“Thank you, Wil,” said Mr. Cateret. He bowed to Cecilia
and followed Wil up the wide oak staircase.
Cecilia placed her hands on her cheeks, their heat felt
even through her gloves. She pulled them off. Wil ought not tease her so and
‘Ret shouldn’t be upset by her questions. Had they not always been friends? She
hurried up to her room before her mother found her so vexed.
