“No wonder I responded as I did to Miss Whitby.” Jack stood from the seat he’d occupied in Frederick and Grace’s room. “I noticed her in her disguise as a footman on the ferry, but of course, I saw her as a footman. It’s difficult to forget eyes like those.”
He murmured the last part of the phrase and then seemed to realize his audience. He sat to attention. “It’s my job to notice everyone.” He tapped his temple. “Be observant, of course.”
“Of course,” Grace nodded, something in Jack’s tone almost triggering a laugh. But why? It was true, Miss Whitby had unusually green eyes, but the way Jack noticed them, well, Grace wasn’t quite certain why it made her want to smile. After all, Miss Whitby had as much likelihood of being one of the thieves as anyone else on the island, maybe even more so with the access she had to Laraby’s belongings.
“I didn’t realize there was an additional footman on the ferry.” Frederick pushed a hand through his hair, sending it in wonderful, confused disarray.
“We’re aristocrats, Frederick.” Jack grinned. “We’re trained not to notice servants, remember?”
“But you noticed, Jack.”
He raised a brow and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am a detective, my lady. I’m paid to notice.”
Perhaps that was part of Jack’s mild discombobulation, Grace mused.
“From our dinner conversation, Miss Whitby has an incredibly interesting history. Not just as an illusionist’s assistant, but also as a thief. Evidently, her father forced her to dress as a boy and steal from patrons in the crowd until she grew old enough to escape his beatings.”
Jack winced. Frederick lowered his head with a slow shake.
“How horrible to have such a father!” Grace continued, the same heat rising back into her face she’d felt when Miss Whitby shared a little of her history. “And if he was worth anything as an illusionist, you think he could do the stealing himself.”
“But that does give Miss Whitby the skills to create the ghost,” Frederick offered.
“And the skills to steal the paintings?” Jack paced the carpet in front of one of the windows of their room. “Though I don’t think she has access to the gallery and certainly isn’t the person who attacked you, my lady.”
“No, I’m certain a man attacked me.” Grace tapped her chin, attempting to remember any specific details about her attacker, but apart from his sex, nothing came to mind.
“And she was attacked herself,” Jack added.
“But she could have faked such an attack, couldn’t she?” Frederick offered. “To distract us, like the ghost? Give time for her partner in crime to escape with the painting?”
“Or hide it somewhere?”
“Pretending?” Jack looked between the two of them, his frown deepening. “Could Paul have done the same?” Jack moved toward them, drawing two handkerchiefs from his pocket. “One of these I used on Paul’s head wound, the other on Miss Whitby’s.”
When he opened the handkerchiefs, both held a red stain, but two very different colors of red. Jack raised one to his nose, sniffing it, then the other. His gaze shot to Frederick and Grace. “One of these is tomato sauce.”
“Tomato sauce?” Grace laughed out the words.
“Which one went with whom?” Frederick leaned close, Grace at his side, examining the handkerchiefs.
“I don’t know.” Jack released a frustrated breath. “I wasn’t thinking of tending fake wounds when I offered my handkerchiefs.”
“So either Lydia or Paul was pretending to be wounded?” Grace asked, looking from the handkerchiefs back to Jack. What an idea! And clever.
“What do we know about Miss Whitby’s attack?” Frederick offered. “Reynolds and Laraby were with us outside, so they couldn’t have attacked Grace or Lydia. And if we confirm what time the other men were gone, we may be able to narrow down our list of suspects.”
“Mr. Hopewell was convalescing.” Grace paused and turned back to Jack. “Mr. Zappa? Mr. Finch? Or one of the other servants?”
“Possible. They were both supposedly searching the rest of the grounds.” Jack started pacing. “And if the history of the stolen paintings tells us anything, it’s that there is more than one person involved.”
“And one is a woman,” Grace offered.
“And they’re willing to kill for the paintings.” Frederick’s comment sobered the discussion even more.
“Here’s what I think we should do,” Jack suggested. “I’m going to take a ferry back to the mainland in the morning to send a few messages to my constituents in England. What can we learn about Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds or about Laraby’s former life? Is Mr. Finch truly making movies?”
“Would you ask your men to research any of the books by Dolores Reynolds?” Grace gave a shrug at Jack’s curious stare.
“It may be my imagination or poorly placed expectations, but for some reason she doesn’t strike me as a mystery-writing sort of person.”
“And what sort is that?” Jack did very little to hide his amusement. “Rope swinging? Pistol wielding? Knives in the bodice sort?”
The fact that Jack’s teasing almost brought out Frederick’s smile made the slight goading worth the heat climbing into Grace’s cheeks. He’d been terribly somber since finding her in a trunk, which was hardly surprising. “Very funny.” She grinned. “But more along the lines of not thinking in a mystery way or even an imaginary one.” She sighed. “Even though I am prone to like her a great deal, something seems a little off. I can’t explain it. However, she did refer to me as a detective.”
“As well you are.” Jack sent Frederick a grin. “Both of you. And will only prove more so the further into this case we go.”
“Do you want Grace and me to meet with Laraby over the photos tomorrow in your stead?” Frederick nestled a gentle hand on Grace’s arm, a sweet touch of his nearness and her inclusion. “Remember, we’d hoped to review the photographs of The Juliets he possesses.”
“Ah yes.” Jack drew in a breath and made his way to their bedroom door. “Ten o’clock. That way we can kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Will that work for you?”
Frederick looked to Grace, and her smile must have secured his answer.
“Good, we have an early appointment in the morning.” Frederick’s lips twitched ever so slightly, giving Grace a hint to their “appointment”—the cane fighting lessons. “Then we plan to meet with him.”
“I’ll alert Laraby to my plans and then catch you up over lunch.” Jack reached for the door, stepping out into the hallway.
“See you then.”
“And do lock your door.” Jack tapped the door. “No reason to invite trouble.”
A cry peeled into the silence. A familiar cry.
Frederick hadn’t been able to sleep anyway. His mind still roiled with the day’s activities and Grace’s attack. Thoughts of her being hurt or of him losing her rifled through him like knives against his heart. It was his job to protect her.
Grace thrashed in the blanket as if struggling with some unseen enemy.
Or the weight of the invisible sand pressing down on her and stealing her breath. He offered a prayer to heaven and moved toward her.
Still she fought. Struggled. There was nothing he could do to take the fear away. “Grace, darling.”
A whimper emerged from her lips. Her face was damp with tears. His hand went to her shoulder, gently smoothing over her gown. “Grace, wake up.”
She shivered, and he took it as a sign to draw her into his arms. The nightmares happened every night at first. Starting a week after the events in Cairo, but each time it was the same dream. Sand rushing in, covering her, stealing her breath.
Gratefully, the nightmares had gone from every night to every few nights. A good indication of the natural healing process, but the terror still haunted her face. Her eyes.
“It’s all right,” he murmured against her hair, and she shivered again but pressed into him. Waking. “I’m here.”
Her cry grew softer until it came to a stop, and she drew back. “I’m so sorry to keep waking you, my dear Frederick.”
“It could be much worse, darling.” He brushed back her hair from her damp face. “I knew a soldier once who had multiple nightmares every night with little relief. And yours have become less frequent.”
“But … but why won’t they go away entirely? I … I’m sure I have enough faith for it.”
“It may be less about the power of your faith and more about the consequences of someone else’s sin paired with your humanity.” The lingering memory of pulling her still form from a sandpit quaked through him, but he calmed himself with a steady breath. “Your body is remembering the physical experience and will take time to catch up with your mind, I think.”
“But we are in the middle of our first investigation.” Her bottom lip trembled, those eyes watery and wide. “How can you trust me to learn cane fighting if I can’t overcome a nightmare? I need to be brave. I need you to believe I’m brave.”
He trailed his palms down her arms, and with one hand he reached for a handkerchief while the other kept hold of her hand. “Were you afraid when you first left your home to come live across the ocean in a house you’d never seen with people you didn’t know?”
Her gaze searched his in the moonlight. She tilted her head, the tremors of breath slowly subsiding. “Yes, but only a little. At first.”
“And were you afraid when you went on your first ghost hunt alone at Havensbrooke?” He pressed the handkerchief into one of her palms.
Her smile shifted ever so slightly as she wiped at her eyes. “I was a bit excited too. Ghost hunts can be rather thrilling.”
“Perhaps I should choose a different example.” He raised his gaze to the ceiling, searching for a better option. After all, his wife excelled in areas no other woman of his acquaintance would dare dream. Like ghost hunts. “Running after Amelia in Egypt and attempting to save her from a fire? Were you afraid then?”
She pulled in a shaking breath and gave a slight nod.
“But you went after her anyway?”
Her attention darted to him.
“You’ve taught me so much about strength of heart and faith despite circumstances.” His hand brushed an errant tear from her cheek. “You’ve also taught me a great deal about courage.”
“Courage? Me?” She sniffled. “Even now?”
“Even now.” He nodded. “Because courage isn’t about being fearless. It’s about choosing to do something when we are afraid.” His fingers stopped on her chin. “Even ghost hunts. Or chasing after a madwoman who’d kidnapped your husband.”
“Man-napped, you mean,” she whispered, her smile growing.
“Or saving a woman from a fire.” He sighed. “Sometimes the bigger the fear, the greater the courage. And I would add, as you’ve so often reminded me from almost our first encounter, you, me … we are never alone.”
She pressed a palm against his chest, her gaze so gentle, so loving, it nearly crippled his weakened defenses to tears. “God is with us.”
He nodded at her whispered phrase.
“And when you feel your courage is small, He is quite capable to lend you some of His.” He touched her cheek again. “Remember that, darling. These nightmares will run their course, but life will bring other things, maybe even on our newest adventure, for which we will need courage.” He spoke the words to his own heart. The idea of having almost lost her in a sand trap tore at him. Kept him up. He may not experience visible nightmares, but the terror gripping him at the idea of losing her burned as palpable as any dream. “And when we are weak, He is strong.” Frederick fought against the next words, battling with his own selfishness, his own fear. “And you are His.” Ultimately and eternally.
Grace Percy wasn’t Frederick’s but was held in hands much more capable than his own. It was almost like God was forcing Frederick to this realization at every turn—from the “case” to the daily possibilities of danger to the continual reminders of His presence. Frederick’s pretense of control proved only that, a pretense as unstable as his hold had been on stopping his brother’s death or earning his mother’s love or keeping Grace from falling into the sandpit. So the real question was to whom his heart would bow. Ultimately, he needed to choose Christ over and over again. “God will take care of you wherever you go, even if you must bear these nightmares for a season.”
Her smile spread wide, oblivious to his inner turmoil, his realization. His submission to a higher love than his own.
“You’re right. No matter what. He’s holding us on this side of eternity or the next.” She leaned her head against his chest. “Though I am overwhelmed with joy at the idea of heaven and Jesus and a brilliant, beautiful place, I do hope I get to enjoy this side of eternity for just a little while longer. Not only do I experience your wonderful love, but I would hate to miss cane fighting lessons from my very roguish husband.”
He released the tension in his shoulders as he breathed a sigh over her hair.
“And I would hate to miss our very first official case together.” She snuggled closer. “I really can’t imagine a more perfect honeymoon than this.”
Frederick looked heavenward, offering a prayer for wisdom and strength … and adding a little chuckle of thanksgiving at the end.