“I do not doubt you may be so occasionally, though I do not find you so myself. Would you care to tell me why you and Mr. Thornhill seem so distant today? I thought you looked forward to seeing him.”
“I was, Papa. The day was not as I had imagined it. I will speak with him tomorrow.”
“Very well, child. Let us to bed,” Mr. Wilcox said, escorting Cecilia upstairs with the remaining party.
Cecilia’s mind would not quiet. She lay in bed, an old handkerchief of her grandmother’s in hand. Eventually, the faint lavender scent lulled her to sleep. Waking, she smiled, until she remembered all that had occurred with Mr. Thornhill. How much more carefree she had been without him. Her grandmamma would not approve of his serious nature or the dampening of Cecilia’s high spirits. Grandmamma believed young women should be that: young. She had appreciated that in this new century, women need not marry quite so early as they had in her day. Perhaps Papa was correct as well: if Mr. Thornhill really loved her, he would wait.
When she entered the morning room for breakfast, however, a torrent of feelings doused any certainty in her new plan. The gentlemen rose to greet her, including Mr. Thornhill, and then sat again. She and Miss Hookham were the only ladies present as their mothers were still upstairs, it not being the fashionable hour for breakfast. Her father and Mr. Hookham read the papers while Wil, Mr. Tom Hookham, and Mr. Thornhill watched her. Mr. Thornhill’s eyes captured her. Quaking and tingling, she was unable to move for a moment, as if his power over her was real.
“Are you well?” Wil asked.
She nodded and took her seat, staring at her plate of eggs and toast. Taking a tentative bite, she soon stopped, unable to eat with the waves of uncertainty and unidentified feeling cresting in her. Love ought not be so difficult. That was the stuff of poems and novels, was it not?
“Mr. Hookham and I will escort Miss Hookham to Partridge Place this morning,” Wil said. Young Mr. Hookham frowned and tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Then I am dragging him to Oxford to show him the delights of that city. He is a Cambridge man himself.” Wil chuckled. “You were at Oxford as well, Mr. Thornhill?”
“Yes. As in many things, Mr. Hookham and I chose differently.” Mr. Thornhill’s gaze rested on Cecilia.
Cecilia noticed Wil did not invite Mr. Thornhill. Wil smiled at her. Oh, her dear brother. He only wished her to be happy.
“You and my son,” the elder Mr. Hookham said, “are like brothers.”
Miss Hookham was the only one whose attention was not on the speaker. Young Mr. Hookham crossed his arms.
“The elder was born with all the sense and skills while the younger mewls like a newborn bull calf over his mistreatment.” Mr. Hookham finished his pronouncement by snapping the paper back out, hiding his expression.
Cecilia reddened and studied young Mr. Hookham, whose furious pall disappeared when he met her eyes. He shrugged and grimaced. Cecilia surged with the desire to make him smile. She knew what it was like to have your parent’s disapproval. Probably, like herself, he had done nothing to earn it.
Mr. Wilcox cleared his throat. “Mr. Thornhill, I wonder if you would like to join Mr. Hookham and me this morning to tour the grounds? Perhaps, daughter, you will round out our party? I believe you know better than I all the pleasures and beauties of Middleton House.”
Cecilia beamed. “Thank you, Papa. I have missed my morning walks lately.” While she and Felicity had been most active, nothing compared to Cecilia’s early excursions, when the earth awoke, fresh with dew and delight.
“I would enjoy accompanying you,” Mr. Thornhill said. When would he smile at her again? She missed his smile as she had the sun during those rainy days in London.
“Perhaps Miss Wilcox would be so kind as to repeat her tour with me this afternoon?” young Mr. Hookham said. His lips curved in a show of mirth.
Smiles ought be rewarded. “Certainly,” she said. Mr. Thornhill’s frown deepened.
“You may once Mr. Allenby arrives. He will accompany you. Perhaps you would like to join them, Miss Hookham? Mr. Allenby is also an avid gardener,” Mr. Wilcox said. Cecilia nodded, as did Miss Hookham, who still tucked into her ample breakfast. Amazing how one so thin could eat so much.
Mr. Thornhill crossed his arms, echoing his younger neighbor. “Might I inquire who is Mr. Allenby?” His tight voice led Cecilia to believe he might be jealous.
“An old friend of the family, particularly of my son,” her father said. “He lives some twenty miles east at Reddington, adjacent to Landsdown, the country home of Mr. Cateret. Mr. Allenby and my son went through school together and he is also the nephew of my brother’s, Captain James Wilcox, wife.” Implied, Cecilia believed, was that Mr. Allenby could be trusted to chaperone her, much as her own brother would. Mr. Thornhill did not appear convinced.
“I look forward to making his acquaintance.” His rigid posture did not reflect his words.
“We should leave soon,” Wil said. “Mrs. Partridge said there were certain plants which bloomed in the morning she particularly wished to show you.”
Miss Hookham’s thin smile lit her face. She was much more attractive when enthused. “Let us be off, then.” She rose and motioned to her brother. Cecilia stifled her giggle at Mr. Hookham’s irritated expression.
As he passed, he leaned near her. “My sister forgets I am the eldest. We are Irish twins, so I suppose I cannot blame her overmuch.”
Cecilia’s laughter bubbled up. He chuckled and followed his sister and Wil. Mr. Thornhill rose with a start and strode from the room. For a moment she felt as a scolded child, in the cold of a favorite parent’s displeasure. She glanced at her father.
He too chuckled. “You young people. Well I remember those times. I am pleased to be past them. You had best finish your breakfast, child.”
Cecilia smiled and did as she was told.
Chapter Seventeen
“
T
his is a favorite spot,” Cecilia said to Mr. Thornhill as they stood by the flat rock atop the hill between Partridge Place and Middleton House. “I have picnics here sometimes. Not so nice as the little cottage at Lionel Hall, but nothing compares on a warm summer day.”
Mr. Thornhill studied the area. They had been silent on the walk so far. On the other side of the rock, distantly heard but unseen, her father and Mr. Hookham spoke of the surrounding farms. “I can picture it. I imagine you lie in the grass and read while it waves around you, rustling an echo to your words.”
She gazed at him. He smiled when he met her eyes. Was she a song he had heard before? Yet he was a new concerto, complicated and requiring many hours of study. “You have thought of me?”
He faced her and enclosed her hands in his. “I can think of little else.”
His touch reverberated through her, keys just played keeping the tune, the sensation of the music, alive. “I missed you.”
“And I you,” he said. His expression appeared open, his form relaxed. Was this his true self, one who felt as deeply as she?
“I wished to visit you again, but my father would not allow it. He told me of your troubles, I wanted to be of comfort to you,” Cecilia spoke in a hushed voice. Her words were improper, but thus far, misery had come from saying only what was polite to Mr. Thornhill.
“He should not have…but it pleases me to know you…” He stopped and glanced at their hands, pressed together, their gloves not diminishing the power of his touch. “I confess you befuddle my mind. I am not usually at a loss for words.” He smiled, warming her.
Cecilia laughed. “Sir, do you mean to tell me you are a loquacious man? What other secrets do you hold?”
The chill returned. He dropped her hands. “It has been a troubling year…perhaps--”
“Daughter,” Mr. Wilcox called. He and Mr. Hookham appeared, apparently ready to move on. “Shall we walk back through the wood? Now it is warmer, it will be a pleasant stroll.”
Cecilia nodded. She needed to hear what Mr. Thornhill would tell her, but it would have to wait. Her father was not inclined to let them speak privately. Mr. Thornhill offered his arm. With another smile, she slid her arm in his. Together, they led the way into the wood.
Mr. Thornhill gazed at Cecilia. If it was possible, her beauty dazzled him more than ever before, here in the dappled sunlight. Her skin sparkled like the surface of the brook which wound through her favorite wood, her laughter a gladsome sound as the waters which splashed across smooth pebbles. The light green of her dress matched the elm leaves, would that he could run his hand across her smooth gown as he did the branches they passed. She ran from him, capering across a few rocks to the other side, nimble as a doe. Were her father not a few feet ahead, he would give chase and trap her in his arms…she bent down at the edge of the water, floating wild rose blossoms in the running stream, trailing her now gloveless fingers through the clear shallows. Her bosom strained against the light fabric of her dress as she leant closer to the brook and his body responded in kind.
Dammit.
He turned and walked back to a few trees, carefully examining the leaves and bark, noting a circle of moss and violets.
“We are quite proud of our wood,” Mr. Wilcox said, approaching.
“Very fine,” Mr. Thornhill said. “A fine stand of elms.” Had he gone addlebrained? He repeated himself.
Cecilia appeared at his side, no hint of the wood sprite she had been. “In there was my fairy ring,” she whispered as her father rejoined Mr. Hookham and they started forward. Her soft breath slipped into his ear, her lips inches from him. He pulled at his gloves.
“You were a fanciful child,” he said. They followed her father.
“Do you disapprove of whimsy?”
“Not at all. I indulge myself in it on occasion.”
“Really?” She laughed.
“Truly. I saw a wood sprite, or perhaps she was an enchantress, but moments ago.”
She blushed, her cheeks rose petals. His chest tightened as she gazed at him. He should have told her the truth. No, she would not understand. Hopefully, she would never need to know.
“Are you still troubled, sir?”
His expression must have betrayed him. “My brother…Gregory. I, he has been missing since January. Perhaps he is merely traveling the continent as he had planned, but…I have sent my valet to search for him.” Jennings must succeed.
Cecilia placed her hand on his arm. What comfort could be had with her curves pressed against him…
“I am sorry. If I may help you in any way…”
He gripped his hands behind his back, tight enough to squeeze the image of Cecilia wrapped around him from his mind. “Thank you. I am being overly concerned.”
He smiled and they strolled along again. Probably he had not been worried enough.
First the mess with Gregory, then Rose’s disappearance and discovery, now these false accusations against him, Mrs. Carter’s blatant disregard of his instructions, and, most troubling, his own culpability in it all, especially should any of it touch Cecilia. He could not let that happen.
As they wended up the path into the walled garden, Cecilia rubbed her arms. Again the brief lighthearted moment with Mr. Thornhill was overshadowed by the return of his impassive expression and silence. He merely nodded as she showed him the walk lined with blousy, tea-fragrant roses in all shades of pink and red, the clipped hedge along the back wall which contained the open doorway to the sloped lawn, then they curved around near the house, down a path heady with lavender, sage, and thyme, cook’s small vegetable garden in the far corner, surrounded by espaliered plum trees. They again followed her father and Mr. Hookham up the path to the passage onto the front drive. Their footsteps crunched along until they reached the lawn on the side of the drive. Its well-trimmed green did not invite her as the taller grasses on the hill did, and she could not lounge here, it being open to the view of any visitors. But she did enjoy wandering near the small pond; many years before she climbed into the willows and watched the birds come and go from the water.
Her father, Mr. Hookham, and Mr. Thornhill discussed drainage and the new landscaping, which purported to open new views and be in harmony with natural design. Cecilia fidgeted with her gloves and scuffed toward the view of where they had started. The path up the hill toward Partridge Place was almost visible, partially hidden behind the old apple orchard. The land curved upward and her favorite rock was but a dark dot where sky met earth. Away to the North was the road to Abingdon, which wound through more trees and hedges until it met the river. So much was unseen, yet all could be called into her mind. If only she could see so easily her own path.
A few hours later, Cecilia found herself traversing the same walk with Mr. Allenby, Miss Hookham, and young Mr. Hookham. At first, Cecilia was silent, still upset by Mr. Thornhill’s abrupt change of mood and curt leave taking. Directly after their walk, he claimed to have an errand to do in town. She could not imagine what could be more important than their spending the day together, but apparently he did not agree. Soon enough, though, Mr. Hookham’s humor and candor drew her out.
“Mr. Allenby is a poor chaperone,” he said. He and Cecilia stood on the hilltop, leaning against the rock. Mr. Allenby and Miss Hookham were still slowly trekking up, stopping every few feet to examine some wildflower or grass varietal.
“Do you imply you are not to be trusted?” Cecilia laughed and spun a stalk of rye between her fingers.
“I trust myself implicitly,” he said. His broad smile disarmed her, though his black eyes flashed briefly, a warning signal. Of what, she knew not. “Whom do you trust?”
“My papa and brother.”
“That is all? Not yourself?” He stood in front of her, his broad form blocking the light.
“And you? Only yourself?”
“A question with a question. Are you an oracle, or perhaps a trickster?”
“A fairy,” she said. With a leap, she ducked around him and ran toward the wood. “Catch me if you dare!” she called as she scurried down the hillside. Sure she could outrun such a sturdy man, she slowed as she approached the stream, twirling a few times. Her day outdoors lightened her, leaving her warm and reckless. Footsteps pounded close. She giggled and scampered along the bank, up the path, almost to the garden. Strong hands grasped her arms and she shrieked.
“You are caught,” Mr. Hookham said, his fingers pressing tighter as she wriggled.
“Get your hands off her,” Mr. Thornhill said, running to them from the garden.
Hot, fast breathing broke the afternoon stillness. Mr. Hookham squeezed her arms before releasing her. Cecilia trembled as both her own foolishness and Mr. Thornhill’s fury dashed into her.
“Merely a game,” Mr. Hookham said.
“I know well your fondness for sport,” Mr. Thornhill said. “But you know I always win.”
The flash came again to Mr. Hookham’s eyes before it dissolved in his laughter. “The greatest victory comes to he who has suffered the most defeats.” He clapped Mr. Thornhill on the shoulder and bowed to Cecilia, whose breathing had steadied, though her chest fluttered.
“Where are Mr. Allenby and Miss Hookham?” His fury had iced over, leaving his tone cool and smooth.
“On the hill overlooking Partridge Place.”
“You ran away?”
“Yes.”
His jaw flexed and his light hair and eyes glinted. “I promised your father we would not speak alone.”
“But--”
Her father’s distinctive steps, one leg still slightly bowed from his accident, scrunched along the path toward them. “Child, what are you doing? Mr. Allenby had to run back to the house, hoping to find you, leaving Miss Hookham to herself. It is not like you to be so thoughtless.”
“I am sorry, Papa.”
“Come,” Mr. Wilcox said.
Mr. Thornhill silently offered her his arm. Cecilia felt herself breath again, smiling up at him. Tears sprang into her eyes, however, when he stared only at her father’s back; Mr. Thornhill was obscured from her, inscrutable and intimidating. They followed her father. Once inside, he bade her apologize to Mr. Hookham, Mr. Allenby, and Miss Hookham. Mrs. Wilcox entered the hall, her lips pressed tight together. Her father motioned her to follow her mother, but she could not; she held onto Mr. Thornhill’s arm, gripping it tightly.
“Papa, may I speak with Mr. Thornhill, please?”
“If he is agreeable, I suppose you may follow me to my study. I need to go over my books.”
Mr. Thornhill tensed. She had not thought he could be any more upright, but he seemed to grow taller before her eyes. As they walked into the room with her father, Cecilia felt she was once again being fanciful. Surely Mr. Thornhill loved her, he would forgive her. Had it not always been so with Wil and her papa?
Mr. Wilcox went to his desk; Cecilia sat on the settee with Mr. Thornhill. Now his expression stormed, angry. She had not reckoned with his jealous temper. A man in love was a wholly different person than a loving father or brother.
“Mr. Thornhill, I am sorry for my behavior. It was wrong of me to indulge in such childishness.”
“I thank you for your apology. I do not mind your behavior, but rather with whom you choose to indulge,” he said in a hushed tone, glancing at her father.
“But you would not like me to…surely you do not approve.”
“I cannot…” He again eyed her father. “I believe the hour grows late. If you will excuse me…” he said, rising and facing the door.
“No.” Her father looked up at her as Mr. Thornhill turned to her, though he still moved to leave. Cecilia grasped his hand. “Please, sir, do not go.” She heard her voice rise in panic. “Please allow me to tell you--”
“Daughter, you forget yourself,” Mr. Wilcox said, approaching her. She dropped Mr. Thornhill’s hand. “Sir, if you will excuse us.” Mr. Thornhill nodded and bowed, striding out. Cecilia sank into her seat.
“If this is how you act toward gentlemen, child, it is no wonder they mistake your intentions. Perhaps your mother has been correct and I have been too indulgent of you. I expect you to remember who you are and what is expected of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Papa.” Her head felt heavy, but she held her chin up.
“You may not speak alone with any gentleman again, until I say otherwise. I do not like to reprimand you, my girl, but you must see your behavior has not been what it should be. I only want you to have some happiness.”
“I will, with Mr. Thornhill.”
“I have seen little evidence of that. I wish you to join your mother in the drawing room until it is time to dress for dinner. Come.” Cecilia followed her father, hurt and vexed. He did not understand. What did he know of her feelings?
Mr. Thornhill felt himself in danger. His ability to remain outwardly calm, polite, and reserved was tested in each moment with Cecilia. If he could not talk to her soon without someone always near, always watching, he would either have to go home or imperil both their reputations. His friend Jenner and his uncle would tell him he was being overly cautious, too proper, but Mr. Thornhill had worked too much at securing his standing, in hiding his improprieties, to cast it all away.