2
THREE MONTHS LATER
COUNTY OF KENT—JULY 1917
Surely being banished never felt so good . . .
With the smallest twinge of guilt, Grace jotted the words into her journal, then raised her face to the brisk summer breeze blowing in through the open window of the cab. She marveled at the pastoral beauty of the Kent countryside. It seemed unsullied and tranquil compared to town. Thatched-roof cottages and rustic barns lay interspersed among groves of alder and plane trees, the fading white flowers of the rowan in sharp contrast with the bright red berries of the buckthorn.
Relieved at being away from her father’s watchful eye and Lady Bassett’s censure, she couldn’t have asked for a more pleasing exile. It was the perfect setting for her next story.
“We’re almost to Roxwood, miss!”
Grace turned from the window and smiled at her maid’s excitement. “Have you grown tired of all the traveling, then?”
“Not at all,” Agnes said. “Since I came to this country, I’ve never stepped outside of London. In the past two weeks we’ve been to Norfolk and all the places in between.” Her brown eyes widened. “I didn’t know Britain was so grand.”
“Yes, it has been a whirlwind,” Grace said. “I can hardly believe we left London just this morning.” Now they were traveling the last leg of their journey to Roxwood. The Kent estate apparently encompassed an enormous amount of acreage between Canterbury and the town of Margate and would be their home for the next few weeks as she and Agnes began their service in the Women’s Forage Corps—WFC—harvesting and baling hay for the cavalry horses overseas.
“It was good of your father to hire us a cab.”
“There wasn’t much choice, since the trains don’t run on Sunday. It wouldn’t do for us to be late reporting for our first day of work.” Grace added in a low voice, “Anyway, likely Da paid the driver to report back on my behavior.”
Agnes shot her a sympathetic look. “Yes, he’s been very . . . attentive toward you since the costume party.”
“I suppose ‘attentive’ is a nice way of putting it,” Grace said with wry humor. Lady Bassett followed through on her threat, and Da had been furious over Grace’s “white-feather stunt.” He’d railed for days, alternating between threats to bring Aunt Florence from Oxford or marry Grace off to his American protégé, Clarence Fowler. Then he forbade her to attend any more suffragette meetings with those “brazen Pankhurst women.” Finally, heeding the advice of his chief patroness who warned him to “keep an eye on that one,” he’d restricted Grace to the upper offices at Swan’s, preparing tea care packages for the soldiers while he decided what to do.
“I knew the risks of attending the ball that night,” she went on. “And I have no regrets, despite my being confined.” She cast her maid a meaningful glance. “Not while my brother fights in France and others are allowed to shirk their duty.”
Like Jack Benningham. Grace shifted her gaze toward the window while again her mind replayed her thrilling encounter with the tall, handsome, blue-eyed Casanova. As always, the memory of his seductive smile, and the way his midnight gaze held hers in those moments they stood facing each other, had the power to make her pulse leap. They hadn’t spoken a word that night, yet she’d sensed a connection between them. It was a feeling she didn’t particularly care for, not only because of his scandalous reputation, but because he was a coward. Grace hadn’t seen him again after the ball, but she’d read in the Times days later about a fire at his London townhouse. Rumors buzzed through Swan’s of how after a night of substantial gambling losses, a drunken Jack Benningham had accidentally set the place ablaze. Apparently the damage was minimal, with him sustaining minor injuries, but she still hoped the ordeal had changed him enough to quit his squandering and do something useful for his country.
“Anyway, I’m free now,” she said, turning back to her maid. “And we’ll be doing more for the war than simply packaging up tea bags.” She leaned to nudge her maid affectionately. “All thanks to you, dear Agnes.”
Agnes’s face turned pink. “It was luck I found the Women’s Forage Corps leaflet.”
“More like a miracle.” Grace had chafed at being hemmed in at Swan’s, and as more letters arrived from her brother, the desire to hurry up the war and bring him home gnawed at her. “Especially since Da wasn’t keen on me working at a munitions factory or driving an ambulance back and forth from the field hospital.”
“And you do look sharp sitting behind the wheel of a motorcar,” Agnes said. “But I think he worried about the danger. Remember the Silvertown accident?”
Grace nodded. The Times had reported the munitions factory explosion killed scores of women workers. “All the more reason I’m grateful you suggested he let me join the WFC,” she said, then laughed. “Honestly, I’d actually given up hope Da would let me out of his sight, let alone agree to my traveling to Kent, yet here we are.”
“I think it might have to do with the recent bombings,” Agnes said.
Grace shot her a glance, all humor gone. Countless enemy air raids over London during the past three years had resulted in hundreds of innocent deaths. In June, a single bombing by the Germans had killed over 150, and she and Agnes had left on the heels of another, just days before, that struck down dozens. “Da may not be pleased with the idea of my working in the fields and getting dirty, but you’re right, he believes I’ll be safer in the country.”
But would her father be safe? So far there had been no attacks in the area around Swan’s or their home in Knightsbridge, yet the threat was ever present. Another reason the war must end, she thought. Taking a deep breath, she tried to shake off her unease. God had preserved them so far, and she would pray He continued to do so. “You know, Agnes, despite our troubles in the city, Da never would have allowed me this venture if you hadn’t agreed to come along,” she said. “I want you to know I’m grateful.”
“Oh, miss, I am eager to be away from London, as well.” A shadow flitted across her features before she smiled. “And anyway, with my pay from the WFC, I hope to save enough to open the small dress shop I’ve always dreamed of.”
She laid a gloved hand over Grace’s. “Since I’ve met you and learned of the suffrage movement, so much seems possible again.” Her brown eyes misted. “When I think back to the day you found me and came to my aid . . .”
“Forget the past.” Grace squeezed her maid’s hand, hoping Agnes wouldn’t brood again over that cowardly husband of hers, Edgar Pierpont. “Think instead of your dress shop, or more important, the marvelous experience we shall have safeguarding a vital asset to the war. Cavalry horses are in precious demand, Agnes, like my Nessa.”
Filled with emotion, Grace paused. She’d cried when Da sold her mare and Colin’s bay gelding, Niall, to the Army. But the need for horses was still great. “Keeping them fed is critical,” she continued. “We can be proud in knowing our value to the war effort. ‘For God, King, and Country.’”
“Oh, miss, when you talk that way about your country and patriotism, you sound like Mrs. Pankhurst,” Agnes said.
“Don’t forget Britain is now your country, too.”
Agnes nodded. “I do want to be a loyal citizen.”
Grace eyed her with compassion. “Soon you’ll have the chance—oh, we’re here!”
The cab gave a lurch as it rounded a corner, where a large wych elm spread its leafy green branches over a weathered wooden post that spelled out ROXWOOD in white lettering. Passing through an opening in the gray stone, they followed a narrow cobbled road into the heart of the small village.
“What a quaint little place.” Grace noted the various shops shouldering upper apartments along either side of the street. The myriad colors and textures only added to its charm. Tall burnt-brick storefronts squeezed in beside painted gray, blue, or green stuccos. Several had neat, white-framed windows above, displaying bright gingham curtains. As the cab drove along the main thoroughfare, she observed four unpaved side streets, and at the end of the village a church’s spire rose into the sky. The driver pulled alongside what looked like a community hall at the center of town. A few shopkeepers clad in work aprons emerged to gawk at the newcomers.
“There’s someone from the WFC.” Agnes pointed to a matronly woman standing beside a long cart drawn by a pair of draft horses. She was dressed in the same khaki trench coat, green breeches, and hat that Grace and Agnes would be wearing during their stay.
With the cab’s fare already paid by her father, Grace and Agnes collected their luggage and disembarked. “Miss, you don’t think they’ll have a problem with my . . . being your maid, do you?”
“Don’t fret.” Grace offered a reassuring smile. “We agreed you don’t work for me at all while we’re here, remember? I plan to pull my fair share. And you must call me Grace. Look, here she comes.”
“Welcome, ladies, and right on time,” the round-faced matron called out as she met them halfway. “I’m Mrs. Ida Vance, the gang supervisor at Roxwood.” Mrs. Vance seemed quite a bit older than her and Agnes and offered a pleasant smile as she extended a hand to each of them.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Grace Mabry, and this is my—” Grace paused, glancing at Agnes—“my friend, Agnes Pierpont.”
“We’re pleased to have the extra help.” Mrs. Vance led the way back to the cart. “How was your trip?”
“It’s been a remarkable journey,” Grace said. “Two weeks’ training at a farm in Norfolk, a stop back in London, and now we’re here.”
“Well, since we don’t work on Sundays, you can rest up. Tomorrow, be prepared for hard work. More local boys left for France last week, and there’s much to be done. The estate covers many acres of land.”
“How far is it from here?” Grace asked.
“A couple of miles.” Mrs. Vance climbed nimbly up onto the cart’s bench seat and took the reins. “Set your bags in back and hop on in.”
Once they were under way, she said, “There are six of us altogether, and we billet at the estate’s gatehouse. We’ll stop there first so you can drop off your luggage, then I’ll take you to meet the others. One of the cats had kittens, and they’re all down at the barn.”
The gatehouse turned out to be a two-story stone building covered in ivy and situated at the entrance of Roxwood Manor. The first floor housed a small parlor and a kitchen with a breakfast nook. Another room off the kitchen contained a laundry area and bathroom. “We’re fortunate Lord Roxwood had ordered the indoor toilet installed.” Mrs. Vance winked at them. “Especially with so many of us.”
“Will Lord Roxwood be overseeing our work?” Grace asked.
“Dear me, no! He’s the ongoing mystery of this place.” Mrs. Vance had removed her hat, revealing pretty chestnut hair cut short in the latest style. Along with the sparkle in her hazel eyes, Ida Vance didn’t look terribly old after all. “No one knows him, because he’s never been seen. Some aren’t even certain he’s in residence.”
“Really?” Grace quelled an impulse to retrieve her journal from her bag and take notes. Could this be her story in the making? “Can you tell me more about him?”
“Later.” Mrs. Vance led the way upstairs. “Right now I’ll show you our sleeping quarters.”
A large room encompassed the entire upper floor, with two rows of three beds each. Four housed an assortment of portmanteaus, haversacks, and hatboxes beneath them.
“We’re only here long enough to harvest the hay, but it’s a place to call home.” Mrs. Vance waved a hand toward two empty beds. “Choose between them and leave your bags. I’ll meet you back downstairs.”
“Well, what do you think, Agnes? Isn’t it grand?” Grace said once Mrs. Vance left. She spun in a circle to take it all in. “And this place even comes with its own mystery, the never-before-seen Lord Roxwood. I’ll have so much to write about.”
“When you’re not baling hay, you mean?” Agnes teased, then in a quiet tone added, “Miss . . . thank you for introducing me as your friend. It means the world to me.”
“Well, you are my friend. And you had better start calling me Grace.” She hugged herself. “Oh, I still can’t believe I’m here. It will be such an adventure!”
“Mrs. Vance said there’s much to do at Roxwood,” Agnes reminded her. “I mean, you weren’t raised on a farm like me. The work’s going to be harder than the chores we did at the practice farm, but with your determination, you’ll catch on quickly.” Her brown eyes shone with sincerity. “And I’ll help you all I can.”
Grace sketched a playful bow. “Then I rely on your experience and good sense to keep me out of trouble.”
Agnes nodded. “Absolutely, miss.”
“Grace,” she reminded her.
“Yes . . . Grace,” Agnes repeated with a smile.
Back in the cart, she and Agnes sat beside Mrs. Vance, who drove the team along an uneven dirt track toward the barn. Roxwood Manor came into view, and Grace leaned out from her seat to try to glean a better look. The two-story brick house was set back from the main road by a long graveled drive. Lacking the tall mansard roof and numerous dormers and columns of Lady Bassett’s sumptuous mansion, it resembled more a country squire’s home than a palatial estate.
Grace found the manor’s unpretentious looks comfortable and pleasing. Rounded stone steps led up to a massive oak door, and the white stone pediment supported by two matching white columns seemed modest enough. For a moment she imagined a family picnic on the front lawn or beside the majestic rose garden blooming with vibrant color.
But there was no family, was there? Only Lord Roxwood, whom no one had apparently seen. Who was he . . . and why was he a mystery? Grace was hard-pressed to contain her curiosity, a natural inclination of writers, she supposed. She couldn’t wait until later when Mrs. Vance had promised to answer her questions.
They soon arrived at the barn. The towering structure stood on a gray cobblestone base, with brownish-red siding and a black-slate roof. As the three of them exited the cart, a tall, slightly stooped man of middling years approached. “Mr. Tillman, these are the two new replacements I told you about,” Mrs. Vance said.
Grace noted Mrs. Vance’s animated tone. “Miss Mabry and Miss Pierpont, meet Mr. George Tillman. He runs the farm for Lord Roxwood and oversees our progress.”
Mr. Tillman doffed his felt cap, revealing a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. His heavily waxed mustache collided with a pair of gray muttonchop sideburns to form a continuous line. “Ladies.” He gave a curt nod, then frowned. “You two don’t look fit for this kind of work,” he said bluntly. “You’re going to have to prove yourselves.”
Grace stiffened. “We shall,” she said, tipping her chin at him. Perhaps he resented women working his fields and getting paid for it, even though the Army Service Corps took care of their wages. She and Agnes were warned about such men during training. “We know what hard work is.” She glanced at her maid. “Don’t we, Agnes?”
“Indeed,” Agnes said, brow puckered. Grace turned to Mrs. Vance, noting her high color as she smiled and stared at Mr. Tillman.
Did her supervisor harbor an interest in the farmer? Grace wondered if there was a Mr. Vance, perhaps off fighting in the war. Or like Edgar Pierpont, maybe he’d left his wife to flee the country and escape conscription. Grace mulled over the possibilities, wondering if this might be her next story, one of unrequited love . . .
“Let’s go meet the others.”
Jarred from her musings, she walked alongside Agnes as they followed the older pair toward the barn.
Attached to the structure was a lean-to housing several bicycles, where three women in Women’s Forage Corps uniforms took shade. Seated on overturned milk cans, they each held a tiny mewling kitten. A box filled with straw sat at their feet.
“Lucy Young, Clare Danner, and Becky Simmons, meet Grace Mabry and Agnes Pierpont, our newest recruits,” Mrs. Vance said by way of introduction.
A long moment passed while Grace felt their assessing gazes. She glanced down at her tailored blue traveling suit and wished she’d changed into her uniform before joining them.
A young woman finally rose off her perch and set her kitten in the box. Short, buxom, and apple-cheeked, she was perhaps eighteen years of age and wore her dark hair short beneath her hat. “Hello, I’m Becky, nice to meet you,” she said, approaching. Soft brown eyes the color of oolong tea, Da’s favorite, studied her and Agnes with interest. “Did you really hire a cab to bring you all the way from London?”
When Grace nodded, Becky crossed her arms, looking impressed. Unhampered by shyness, she quickly told them she was the daughter of a local fisherman, who along with his wife and nine other children lived in a coastal village on the outskirts of Margate.
The next to greet them was a woman comparable to Becky’s age and completely the opposite in personality. “I’m Lucy, w-welcome.” She spoke so softly, both Grace and Agnes leaned forward to hear her. Pale and oval-faced, Lucy had arresting turquoise eyes, and wisps of mahogany hair peeked out from beneath her hat. As she cuddled her kitten, Grace wondered if her stammer was due to shyness or the same speech affliction her brother Colin once had.
Clare Danner was the last to come forward—or more accurately, saunter into their midst. Tall, willowy, and near to Grace’s own age, her ebony locks fell about her shoulders like a black shawl. Having set her kitten back in the box, she nodded at Agnes. “Are you one of the Belgian refugees?” she asked, obviously having caught the slight French accent in her maid’s speech.
“Not a refugee,” Agnes said, and Grace sensed her hesitation. “I came to your country just before the war.”
“Well, it’s good to have you helping us.” Clare then turned impenetrable gray eyes on Grace. “Take off your fancy gloves and show me your hands, Duchess.”
Startled by the woman’s rudeness, Grace blinked. Was Clare Danner some woman of rank to make such a demand? Swallowing her retort, she complied and removed her gloves. Holding out her hands, she was conscious of the ink stains on her left hand and the writer’s callus on her middle finger.
“Now turn them over.”
Grace ground her teeth. Why was she being singled out? Glancing toward the others, she saw they all seemed to wait for her compliance.
She flipped her hands over to reveal her palms.
“Just as I thought. Those hands have never seen a day’s work.”
“Enough, Danner.” Mrs. Vance offered Grace an apologetic smile. “You must excuse her, Mabry. She gets in a dander over anyone connected with the upper classes.”
“Well, I’m no aristocrat.” Grace turned back to Clare Danner, a mere co-worker after all. “And I have worked, at my father’s business.” She left off the fact she’d only done paper work, occasionally greeted Da’s more affluent customers like Lady B.—and of late, packaged tea bags.
“I’ll bet you didn’t get your hands dirty once, Mabry,” Clare said, reading her thoughts. “Aside from the training farm, anyway. You’re a city girl who’s never had to earn a living.”
“Perhaps,” Grace said, struggling for calm. “But I’m here now and ready to do my part.”
Clare flashed a catlike smile. “We’ll see.”
Grace thought the words held more threat than observation.
“All right, ladies. I’m taking Mabry and Pierpont on a quick tour of the farm. When we’re finished, I plan to turn some of those Army rations into a nice hot stew for our supper.”
Her announcement met with smiles and an eager grin from Becky.
“We’ll take a short ride out to the north field first,” Mrs. Vance said once the three of them were back in the cart. She surprised Grace by handing her the reins. “Your file says you’ve signed on to be our horse transport driver, Mabry. Let’s see how you do. Just head Merry and Molly over there through the pasture.” She indicated a stretch of green bordered by forested hills.
Grace took a deep breath, reminding herself she’d guided Nessa and their small trap through London’s streets hundreds of times. She urged the pair of old draft horses forward along a track that cut through an opening in the fence.
The late afternoon sun hovered above the distant tree line by the time they reached the north field. Mrs. Vance called a halt, and they gazed at the endless field of grass shimmering and iridescent in the golden rays of light. Green stalks rustled as they blew against one another, a gentle breeze stirring with the onset of evening.
Seeing the vast acreage, the reality of Agnes’s words about hard work came back to her. Grace wondered if six women would be able to harvest all that hay.
“The harvest begins next week.” Mrs. Vance turned to Agnes. “Pierpont, you’ll be one of the baling hands.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was raised on a farm and know about raking and hauling bales. I may not look it, but I am quite fit.”
“Good to hear.” To Grace, she said, “You’re in charge of the horse-drawn mower and rake, as well as taking the cart to the field each day once the steam baler is running.” She paused. “And since you’ll be working with the horses, I’m glad to see you’re an able driver.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vance,” Grace said. “We had a pair of bays stabled in London, before the Army bought them. I can also operate a motorcar—I mean, if there’s ever a need.”
“It’s noted on your application, Mabry. Unfortunately, the Army has confiscated many private vehicles for use overseas, in particular the trucks. You won’t be driving around here.” Mrs. Vance smiled. “Still, it’s good to know you’re such a modern young woman. Mr. Vance drove a lorry during the early part of the war, before he broke his hip and got sent home. Once he recovered, the Army deemed him unfit to return. He took a job with the railway, driving a supply truck for the Liverpool Street Station.”
Ah, there was a Mr. Vance. “Where is your husband now?”
Grace could have bit her tongue as grief swept across the woman’s features. “Killed two years ago, the October bombing at Westminster,” Mrs. Vance said softly. “My Robbie liked to stop off for a pint after work at the Old Bell, not far from the theatre.” The hazel eyes welled with tears. “Imagine surviving the war, only to die in a pub.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Vance.” Grace turned to Agnes, and they shared a look, each recalling the recent air attacks on London.
“It’s all right.” Mrs. Vance wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve. “I just miss Mr. Vance, bless his soul.” She smiled through her tears. “I try to take comfort knowing he’s in heaven with our Lord while the rest of us must stay here and get on with the task of living.”
Indeed they must—to win the war, thought Grace fervently. Once the enemy was defeated, London would be safe again, and her brother could come home.
“We should head back now.” Mrs. Vance was composed once more. “It’s getting late and I’ve still more to show you.”
When they returned to the barn, she finished with a walking tour of the farm. “When we’re not haymaking, we perform other tasks for the Army Service Corps,” Mrs. Vance said. “Like mending tarpaulins and making burlap sacks. Before the war, men did it all, but I’m proud to say we ladies are making rather good progress in their absence.”
They walked past the barn and outbuildings to an enormous garden of vegetables. Beyond the garden, a chicken coop held a flock of clucking, squawking hens, and a bit farther was a pigpen with two dozen very rotund pigs and their piglets. “We also help with the farm work when there’s a need, like gardening or animal husbandry.” She turned to them. “Germany’s U-boats have been sinking supply ships coming into Britain, and food is becoming scarce. A few months ago the Women’s Land Army organized to aid in the crisis through farming here at home. But it may be weeks before they arrive to help at Roxwood. Until then, the WFC will help supply Britain with food, both here and abroad.”
“Agnes and I are ready to do our best.” She beamed at her maid. They would feed the nation! Grace felt ready to burst with patriotic pride. “Where shall we start first, Mrs. Vance?”
Mrs. Vance chuckled. “Your enthusiasm does you credit, Mabry. I’ll assign tomorrow’s duties at supper. Speaking of which, let’s make haste before I have a starving mob on my hands.”
An hour later, the six women sat around a long wooden table that took up most of the compact kitchen. While they feasted on a stew of rations and the delicious bread Becky Simmons had baked, Mrs. Vance gave out Monday’s assignment. “Miss Young, you and I will go to the village tomorrow and mend tarpaulins the Army has sent,” she said to Lucy. “Danner, you’ll take Pierpont and tighten the fence on the west side of the garden.” Her gaze swept to Clare and Agnes. “Otherwise the rabbits and deer will soon be devouring our food.”
To Becky, she said, “The drainage line along the north field needs to be finished, Simmons. Once we start the harvest, we can’t have the hay soaked by rain runoff. You and Mabry have the detail.”
Clare Danner snorted with laughter. Grace turned to her. “What’s so amusing?”
But the woman ignored her and rose instead to begin clearing the table.
Mrs. Vance scanned the table of women. “Everyone clear on their duties?”
“I very much doubt it.” Clare had leaned close enough so that only Grace could hear. A necklace—a painted white flower on a fine gold chain—escaped her duster to swing inches from Grace’s face before she hastily slipped it back inside her clothes.
Clare straightened and flashed another smug look before she gathered up the rest of the dishes and took them to a washbasin.
Grace decided to ignore her. Clare Danner seemed full of herself, but she’d change her opinion once she saw how hard Grace could work.
With supper finished and the kitchen clean, the women trooped upstairs to ready themselves for bed. As the hour still felt early to Grace, she chose to remain in her traveling clothes a while longer.
“Are you both from London?” asked Becky, seated on her bed in a white cotton nightgown and eyeing them curiously.
Agnes glanced at Grace.
“We live in Westminster,” Grace said. “On Sterling Street, in Knightsbridge. My father owns Swan’s Tea Room on Coventry Street in the west end.”
“I saw it once, Swan’s.” Lucy spoke softly from the far corner of the room. “It’s q-quite a grand place.”
“Then you are a high-and-mighty rich girl,” Clare said from her bed near Grace’s.
Grace forced a laugh to keep from clenching her teeth. “Just because my father is successful—”
Clare cut her off. “How did you two meet?” She turned to Agnes. “And speak for yourself this time, Pierpont.”
“Well, I met Miss . . . I mean, Grace, near her father’s tea shop.” Glancing down at her lap, Agnes added softly, “She gave me employment.”
“She’s your mistress? I thought as much.” Wearing a plain linen nightdress, Clare rose from the bed and turned to the others. “Girls, it seems we have a duchess in our midst, after all.”
The others laughed. “I am no such thing, Clare Danner,” Grace argued. “I’m just like you.”
“No,” Clare retorted. “I doubt you’re like any of us. But time will tell, won’t it?”
Feeling the others’ appraising glances, Grace was about to reply when Lucy spoke up and the conversation shifted.
“After church this morning, one of the villagers said he delivered groceries to the manor yesterday and got a good g-glimpse of the Tin Man.”
Grace eyed the soft-spoken woman. “Tin Man?”
“The monster living up at the big house,” Becky piped up. “Lord Roxwood. They say he’s a hunchback with pointed ears and sharp teeth.”
“Such nonsense, Simmons.” Fresh from a bath, Mrs. Vance stood in the doorway in a blue cotton nightdress. “How can you think he has sharp teeth?” To Grace she said, “He’s called the Tin Man because it’s rumored Lord Roxwood wears a metal mask to hide his face.”
“But . . . why must he hide?”
“The villagers say he got burned in a fire,” Becky interjected. “He’s deformed now and has a hunchback. The blaze melted his ears to points, too.” She grabbed at the tops of her ears to illustrate.
“Have you seen him?” Grace was enthralled with the idea of the monster from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or Gaston Leroux’s Phantom living only a stone’s throw away. What a fascinating character for her new story.
Becky shook her head. “They say his lordship never leaves the house. Edwards, his land agent, runs all the errands in town and gives orders to Mr. Tillman about the estate.”
Clare fingered the flower pendant at her throat and snorted. “I doubt the Tin Man is even at Roxwood. Likely our lord of the manor sits at his club in London, sipping whiskey and wasting money at playing cards, just like his wealthy friends.”
How could such a young, attractive woman be so bitter and angry? “Well, I’d like to see this Lord Roxwood for myself,” Grace said.
“And what would you do, Duchess? Invite him to sip Darjeeling with you at your father’s fancy tea room?” Clare flashed an evil grin. “Or perhaps you plan to unmask him?”
The women broke into fits of laughter. Hands on hips, Grace opened her mouth to give Clare a good setting down, but then she saw Agnes shake her head. Instead she clamped her mouth shut and fumed. Duchess, indeed!
For some unfathomable reason, Clare Danner chose to be her enemy. Why did she feel it a crime that Grace’s father was wealthy? Da had earned every shilling with honest, hard work, and Grace couldn’t help the fact she’d never gotten her hands dirty except to cut flowers from the garden.
Becky moved to dim the lights. As all grew quiet in the room, Grace changed into the ecru silk nightgown she’d brought with her, hoping to avoid Clare’s ridicule over the expensive garment while the others wore simple cotton.
Once she’d climbed under the covers, she lay there a long while, listening to Agnes’s gentle breathing in the bed beside hers, while occasional snores sounded from Becky’s direction.
Finally Grace sat up, too restless for sleep. Writing about her first impressions of Roxwood and the mystery of the Tin Man would settle her thoughts.
She retrieved her journal, along with a candle and matches from her haversack beneath the bed. Her gaze darted toward Clare, and for an instant she feared the termagant might awaken and intrude on her most intimate time. Then she tiptoed to the window.
Due to the warm evening, the sash remained open. The night’s silence was broken by the chirping of crickets, while a near-full moon illuminated the grounds. Grace lit her candle, then opened her journal.
She’d just begun to write when a shrill cry in the night brought her up short. Grace shivered. Was it a fox? She’d read about them, how the vixen’s scream sounded more human than beast. Blowing out the candle, she scanned the grounds below for any sign of the creature. Her attention soon drifted toward Roxwood Manor, and she forgot all about the fox. Even from this distance, the white stone apex and columns of the front porch held an iridescent glow in the moonlight. Her eyes traveled to the rear of the house, where a second-story balcony in the same white stone jutted out . . .
A movement caught her attention. Grace leaned out the window, straining to see.
A man stood on the balcony. Lord Roxwood?
She squinted, trying to make out the hunched back, but even the moon’s brightness didn’t offer that kind of detail. He did seem tall, at least in proportion to the railing he leaned against. Grace watched him several seconds before another animal’s cry sounded to her right, and she instinctively turned.
When she looked back to the balcony, the man was gone.
Had she seen someone . . . or did the moonlight play tricks on her imagination?
Closing her journal, she returned to bed and burrowed beneath the blanket, still musing over the man she thought she’d seen. Then she rolled onto her side, and her thoughts went to Clare and her earlier taunts.
Grace punched at her feather pillow. She was determined to start afresh the next day. She would show Clare Danner she was made of sturdy stock. Despite a more refined upbringing, she could work just as hard as the rest of them.
She thought of all Patrick Mabry had achieved through the sweat of his brow, building up a lucrative tea empire, owning Swan’s, and the planned expansion of several tea rooms throughout London. She and her father may have their differences in convention, and both were more strongheaded than either cared to admit, but Grace was his daughter. And Mabrys did not give up.