Chapter Eight
The Second Week
Grace’s heart sped up as she descended the stairs. The morning came with contradictory tension that pulled her skin. Morning post brought the potential for letters from the solicitors, Caroline, news about Henry. Or Lord Rayner. There was a nagging worry that woke her in the morning that Lord Rayner could write to Everett. A man who favored pretty housemaids might have some sympathy with him. Morning was also the time for breakfast with her delicious, temporary, aristocratic husband and a walk with him through the enormous estate.
Grace helped herself to toast and bacon from the sideboard and the footman poured her tea. As she went to sit down, she noticed a newspaper next to her plate. She had a moment of confusion and looked up. Yes, Everett had a partially unfolded newspaper next to him that was sharing his attention with his poached eggs. Grace sat down and sipped her tea.
Was it for her? She didn’t want to touch it, as if the small kindness might be snatched away, like everything she coveted was. But Everett wasn’t looking at her at all. Pointedly so. She waited for him to mention the newspaper. He didn’t. She ate a piece of toast, chewing it slowly and reading the front page out of the corner of her eye. Then, she picked it up and immersed herself in reading the latest information on the strife in America. She was turning to the commodity prices to check on the cost of tea when she heard Everett’s chair being pulled back. They had spent the last twenty minutes sitting together, reading the paper, and it had been entirely comfortable.
“Thank you,” she said as he reached the door.
He turned and the tails of his coat caught around his legs. A smile slowly lit up his face and warmed her. “You’re welcome.”
Her mind turned over many interpretations of his response. Versions that involved his long legs and a heat that wasn’t just from his smile. The curve of his mouth invited her every imaginative fancy. He looked fresh in his elegantly cut charcoal frock coat and trousers and a white cravat. His jaw was cleanly shaved and looked smooth, in contrast to the dark sandpaper of his stubble that she’d already noticed day after day filled in by late afternoon. Their gazes held beyond the limit of decorum.
“Shall we walk up the hill today?” Her invitation was issued before she really considered what it meant. But looking into his gray eyes, Grace wanted to prolong this moment, to talk to him about the day’s news. She wanted to walk next to him, with that tingle of awareness whenever they almost touched, and indulge in watching him move, strong and agile as a lion, as he walked up the hill in front of her. And if he said in that rough voice of his that he wanted to kiss her, and leaned in, she wasn’t certain she’d say no. It was foolish when she knew how untrustworthy lords were. One kind act to protect his soldiers no more settled his character as good than one swallow made it summer. But still.
A gratifying look of appreciation crossed his face. “I’d like that very much. When you are finished reading, shall we go?”
Her pulse fluttered. “I can read the rest later.” Her walking dress was already looped up so the mud didn’t get onto the hem. She put aside her tea.
“M’lord.” Thompson appeared at Everett’s elbow. “The gentlemen from the club are here. They are waiting in the blue parlor.”
The club? That was how men referred to White’s or Boodles, places of male aristocratic idleness. Just the concept was like a door slamming in her face, a place she was unwelcome.
Everett’s face dropped back into formal repose. “Please tell them I will be there directly.”
“The dowager countess has requested you visit her urgently,” Thompson added.
“Of course,” Everett replied with forced calm.
Thompson shifted awkwardly. “And when you have a moment, may I speak with you, my lord?”
Everett’s eyes narrowed and he gave a jerky nod to Thompson, who disappeared with a bow.
Turning to her, Everett sighed. “Grace, I’m sorry. I had forgotten this meeting.”
How convenient that he had a prior appointment with some of his lordly club chums. Just when she had embarrassed herself revealing her eagerness to spend time with him, it was clear she was less important than his aristocratic pals, his mother, and even his steward.
All because he’d ordered an extra newspaper. Everett neither invited her to join him, nor tried to rearrange their walk for later in the day. She felt like her ledger was out of balance because she’d added up wrongly. She’d thought he enjoyed their walks together and that they meant something, as they did to her. But as usual, she was disregarded because she was female and from trade. This desire to be close to her husband was bound to end in disaster, just as it had with Samuel.
“Enjoy your day, Lord Westbury.” She looked down at the newsprint. A few silent moments later, he left the room.
…
Bridge Farm was no place for a lady. It was no place for anyone, not even the drooling, restless animals. Still, he wished Grace by his side for the perceived luckiness of their Monday marriage. Mr. Walker, the tenant of Bridge Farm, was getting nervy.
“It’s a brave and right decision.” Everett reassured him as though Mr. Walker had made the choice himself, rather than having Everett order him. “It will benefit you and all your neighbors.”
Mr. Walker nodded, but still looked unhappy. As well he might, since Everett was insisting even the healthy cattle, though there were precious few of them, ought to be slaughtered to stop the spread of the disease. Giving instructions that would lead to death had been the most difficult part of being a colonel, and it was proving no easier as an earl. Though in truth, it was the only humane thing to do for the beasts.
“Good.” Everett glanced at the men, gathering sober looks of agreement. “Let’s get this unpleasant task done.”
“Will you be staying, my lord?” Mr. Walker trailed off, seeming not able to explicitly ask for the help he wanted. Everett turned to him and saw a bitter expression on the man’s face. There was an expectation he would leave the dirty work to the laborers and never fathom the repercussions of what he ordered.
It wasn’t Walker’s fault for assuming that. Everett wasn’t a high-ranking general who sat at a desk, either in his army days or here, but these tenant farmers didn’t know that. Even after the year and a half that had passed, they fully expected him to turn into a Westbury like his father and brother. They dreaded and waited for it in equal measure; Everett had seen enough battles in his life to understand that bravado was just fear. He must keep proving he was trustworthy. And besides, however grim a job it might be for him, it would surely be worse for Mr. Walker. The least Everett could do was help.
“I will be staying. And helping.”
Walker nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” The farmer hesitated, and Everett knew he was about to be invited to do an awful job. “These animals know me and my lads best, so it’ll be easiest for us to round them up. If you and the club gentlemen could dispatch them? The farmhands can dig trenches for the fires.”
Dread crawled across Everett’s skin. “Perhaps you could fetch me an apron.” He stripped off his coat. This was just one more battle to endure, even if it was going to be particularly bloody.
…
Grace had a productive morning writing to the solicitor with assurances that she would attend church every week and sent notes arranging that tomorrow she would pay several of the social calls she’d committed to on Sunday. After luncheon, she settled to write a ladylike social letter to Caroline. She had commandeered a pretty walnut bureau in her sitting room, but she couldn’t find the tone of gossipy confidences she usually wrote to her friend. Her previous letters had told with hyperbole of how the dowager was a snob. But she didn’t want to tell Caroline about Everett noticing her love of reading the newspaper and providing one. Somehow, that seemed rather private.
Not making any progress, Grace put the unfinished letter into one of the little drawers. A distraction was in order. A ring of the bell, and a request to see Mrs. Bishop eventually brought the housekeeper to her.
“I would like to look at the household accounts.” Grace regarded Mrs. Bishop’s neat hair and crisp dress and her fingers, taut with writing, relaxed.
“Lord Westbury deals with those.” The older woman hesitated. “There is no need for you to trouble yourself, m’lady.”
Interesting. “Are you saying I cannot see the accounts, Mrs. Bishop?”
Mrs. Bishop blushed a little, but held her ground. “Oh no. Just that my lord instructed that you were to be allowed time to yourself and not to be importuned with such mundane domestic requirements. Lord Westbury has managed so far on his own, so said there was no need to change the arrangement.”
Ah, that explained why she hadn’t been asked continually about dinner menus and which rooms to open up. That was very considerate of him. More likely, it was a pragmatic decision. He didn’t want to throw his whole household into disarray twice: once when Grace took over its management and again when their bargain was complete. But she was curious about the house and how it was faring. Some women would find out by talking to the maids or the housekeeper. Grace wasn’t socially adept like that. Accounts, with their clear numbers and unfussy totals, were her area of comfort.
“My lord is very kind.” Grace smiled ingratiatingly. “But it’s no trouble to me. If you’d bring them up to me in half an hour, I would be much obliged.”
There was a moment where their eyes met and Grace thought Mrs. Bishop was going to protest, but she only thinned her lips and said, “Very well.”
“And in future, I will arrange domestic matters.” It was silly to pretend she didn’t have the expertise or the time to look after the household arrangements while she was here. She could put everything in order and leave Larksview better off than she found it. Her correspondence about Henry’s guardianship took up all her mind and attention, but she should spare the time for this. Moreover, it was a light relief, dealing with familiar problems of balancing the books and checking all the expenses were as they ought to be. She felt enough of a fraud already, so taking on the duties of the lady of the house was a balm.
The footmen brought up several neatly lined books listing the outgoings of the estate for the past year. As she opened the first ledger, the sound of footsteps receded and she concentrated on the expenses of the household, so much dearer than her father’s household, but easy compared to the complex ordering and bills of managing multiple Alnott Stores.
Murmured conversation came from the next room as two maids cleaned. Grace focused on the outgoing costs of candles.
“Really? And how many months gone is she?” The voice was young and female.
Grace’s head snapped up. That sounded awfully like a bad situation.
“Just goes to show…” That seemed to be Letty, who said the rest of her comment sotto voce, and Grace couldn’t hear.
Laughter followed with a cynical edge, then hushed conversation.
Oh no. The expense of candles would have to wait. Without conscious thought, she was up, across the room, and throwing open the door.
The two maids’ heads turned guiltily.
“Who are you talking about?” she demanded.
“I beg your pardon, m’lady.” Letty hung her head. “You won’t find us gossiping again.” Both girls scuttled for the door.
“Stop.”
They did, turning to her with gazes lowered.
Darn. They both looked terrified. She was the cause, barging into the room and shouting at them. “You’re not in any trouble. I just want to know who you’re talking about,” she said gently.
Letty and the other maid shared a covert look, but didn’t say anything. She was paying the price for her reticence on the first night when she had dismissed Letty. Now they didn’t want to confide in her, which was understandable. They didn’t know her; she’d just arrived and hadn’t earned their confidence. Honestly, she hadn’t expected to require their trust in just six weeks.
Grace swallowed. “Please. Tell me her name. She’s not in trouble. I want to know that she’s well. I want to help.”
Neither girl looked up, apparently unconvinced.
She needed something to convince them. “I can help if she…” How to phrase this? “I know that sometimes there are many reasons a woman might find herself with a man.”
That caught their attention. The other maid had her eyes trained on her now.
“What’s your name?” Grace tried to set her face into a benevolent, unthreatening expression.
“Kate, m’lady.” She averted her eyes back down to her apron.
Her expression wasn’t working. “How long have you worked here?” She had to somehow build rapport.
“I came here to work for the late Lord Westbury in the summer of ’60.” Kate’s voice was not much louder than a whisper.
“Your position is secure, don’t worry. Kate, Letty, I can help your friend if you tell me her name. I want to ensure this girl has options.” Oh, she shouldn’t have started saying this. “I’ve done this before.”
Kate bit her lip, but when she looked up there was understanding and compassion in her gaze. “It’s Jane, m’lady.”
Jane. She wracked her mind but couldn’t recall what Jane looked like, or even did. “Does Lord Westbury know?”
Letty bit her lip. “He sacked her this morning, m’lady.”
Her stomach threatened to heave. She had heard enough. “Thank you. Please carry on with your work.”
She stumbled back to her desk and tried to look at the numbers. But one of the maids was in trouble and instead of helping, her husband had dismissed her. Who had gotten this girl pregnant? A footman? The butler? Was he suffering the same consequences as this poor girl? Her mind refused to consider the possibility of the father being…of higher rank. Grace stared at the blurry numbers until she couldn’t bear it anymore.
She dropped the pages and marched through to Everett’s study. As his wife, if she wanted to talk to him, she would, whether his gentleman’s club was present or not.
Temporary wife. As his temporary wife.
She didn’t bother knocking on the door of the study and flung it open. To find nothing. He wasn’t sitting at his desk. Perhaps he was out doing some upper-class activity with his club. Well, obviously. One did not sit around—
Quick, hard steps behind her in the entrance hall made Grace spin around in the doorway.
“Everett—” Her call died in her mouth at the sight of him. His white shirt was splattered with various shades of what appeared to be blood. His usually neat hair was mussed, the macassar having given up the fight to keep it tidy. He looked untamed. The civilization of his white shirt was creased and his trousers were crumpled as well as spotted with darkness. Was he hurt? The idea struck at her.
“Not now, Grace.” He didn’t break step, taking the stairs two at a time and disappearing into his dressing room, the door slamming behind him.
She took an instinctive step toward the staircase, then halted, staring at the place where he’d been. She wanted to go to him, check that he was unhurt and if he was…what? She wasn’t a nurse. Even if he was injured, he had just made it clear he didn’t want her help. He hadn’t called for anyone else and he’d run up the stairs easily enough, so either his injury wasn’t serious, or it wasn’t his blood.
He’d been with his club, so presumably in some masculine pursuit he or someone else had been hurt. Hunting or boxing, maybe? Coming from trade, she hardly knew. The people she knew, like Samuel, didn’t shoot pheasants or engage in dangerous riding pursuits after foxes.
But then, normal people didn’t live in an enormous house like this, with its grand spaces and lack of corresponding furniture. She reached out and touched the bannister. Decent people ought not to sack their servants for being pregnant. It was a good thing she remembered, right at that moment. Else, she might give in to the instinct to ignore the dismissal and go to check on him.
After all, he didn’t want to tell her what had happened, which ought not to sting. She tucked away her concern and returned to her parlor. Putting the ledger onto a side table, she picked her letter to Caroline out of her bureau. Whatever he’d been doing with his gentlemen’s club, it was none of a temporary wife’s concern. She must remember that.