5

She found Mrs. Vance seated at the kitchen table when she returned to the gatehouse.

“Well?”

“I’ve been hired by Lord Roxwood.” Still dazed from her interview, Grace couldn’t keep from smiling. Edwards had taken her outside afterward to see the beautiful, shiny blue Daimler parked in the attached garage. “As his chauffeur,” she added. “I’m to drive him wherever he wishes during the morning hours each day.”

“He’s given you a post?” Mrs. Vance looked stunned. “But . . . where will you stay?” Her brow furrowed. “Surely your family won’t approve. You should ask your father.”

Grace’s smile slipped. “I’m to remain in the Women’s Forage Corps, where I’ll work in the afternoons. At least that’s what Mr. Edwards said.”

“Hah!” Mrs. Vance puffed up like a tea cozy. “And I suppose he thinks he’s in charge of the WFC now?” Her eyes narrowed. “I’d like to know why his lordship would hire you as his driver. Surely he must have a capable servant to perform the task.” Worry clouded her features. “Grace, did something else happen yesterday at the manor you haven’t told me about?”

Disturbed at having to tell a lie, or worse, to explain the full truth of her encounter, Grace said merely, “I assure you nothing inappropriate happened.”

“Oh, of course not.” Mrs. Vance turned the color of rose hips. “I just find this all so odd . . . and very high-handed of his lordship. Please don’t take this unkindly, Grace, but you were dismissed from the WFC, and he has no right—”

“Perhaps you’d better see this.” Grace withdrew an envelope from her jacket, which contained her employment agreement with Lord Roxwood, along with a letter for Mrs. Vance, and handed it to her.

“It seems I’ve been outmaneuvered,” Mrs. Vance said after reading the contents. “Lord Roxwood has contacted my supervisor in London. Mrs. Stewart agreed to his terms and sanctions his decision.” She waved the letter at Grace. “I suppose this means you’re staying.”

At that moment, Agnes appeared on the steps leading down from their room. “I overheard. We’re to remain in the WFC?” Excitement lit her brown eyes.

“If you’re willing,” Grace said.

“Oh, yes, Miss . . . Grace,” she said with a smile.

“I know you didn’t expect this turn of events, Mrs. Vance, but surely you’re happy Agnes will remain,” Grace said. “And I promise to do my best working in the afternoons.” She offered her most beseeching smile. “Please, ma’am, I’d like your blessing.”

“I won’t argue about keeping Pierpont. She’s an excellent worker.” Mrs. Vance eyed them both. “All right, Mabry, you’ve got my blessing, so long as you make the effort.”

“Thank you!” Impulsively, Grace hugged the older woman. She would try, and with hard work and sufficient time to learn she vowed to succeed—for Colin, and for her own self-respect.

“That’s enough now.” Mrs. Vance pulled away, again all business. “With your new schedule we’ll be a bit shorthanded when haymaking starts. You’ll take over Clare’s position as timekeeper, recording the harvest. You can work on reports during the morning hours before you leave for the manor.” She paused to glance at both of them. “Now both of you, into your uniforms and meet me at the barn. Grace, you and Clare are going to take those pigs to the butcher—and this time no mishaps.”

———

“So, how was your interview?” Agnes asked as they changed clothes upstairs. She was thrilled at the turn of events. They would stay in the country!

Her mistress buttoned up her uniform and said, “Well, of course, you should be the first to know. Lord Roxwood is rude, overbearing, wears the horrible steel mask everyone talks about . . . and we know him, Agnes.” She looked up. “Or at least I do. We met at Lady Bassett’s ball.”

Agnes paused in tying the laces on her boots. “Who is he?”

“Jack Benningham. I gave him a white feather that night.”

“He recognized you?” Her hopes fell. Perhaps they wouldn’t be staying, after all.

Grace shook her head. “His townhouse caught fire shortly after the ball. The Times made light of it, but he received burns to the face. And he’s blind now.” Her brow creased. “Still, he seems to know who I am.”

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Agnes said. “If he ordered you to leave yesterday, why does he now want you to stay and work for him?”

“I have no idea, except that he decided to retaliate.”

Nightmares popped into Agnes’s mind as she recalled the night of the ball. “Surely he wouldn’t turn us over to the police?” she whispered.

“Of course not,” her mistress said. “I’m certain he wishes only to humiliate me by hiring me to be on his staff. His arrogance in the past proves it.”

“You’ll tell me, though . . . if it’s not, won’t you?” Agnes asked. She imagined the only place worse than being in London would be rotting in jail.

“I will, but it’s nothing to worry about, really,” Grace said, smiling. “And if it means we get to stay, I’ll let Lord Roxwood have his fun.”

Grace felt relieved when she and Agnes arrived to find the pigs already caged and on the back of the cart. She tried to ignore the little stab of hurt she felt after her conversation with Agnes. Her maid kept the photograph of her family a secret, yet she wanted Grace to share her every thought. Still, it was no reason to be petty. She would just have to earn her maid’s trust.

Mrs. Vance hailed Agnes to follow her into the barn, while Grace was left to approach Clare. Expecting the usual caustic remarks, she was surprised when the woman remained quiet as she checked the latch on the cage.

Nor did Clare make eye contact as they both climbed up onto the seat and Grace took the reins, urging the team forward in the direction of the village. Silence continued to pass between them, and Grace grew more uncomfortable. Ignoring the noisy pigs in back, she occasionally glanced over at her passenger.

Clare sat rigid, looking straight ahead. Grace couldn’t tell if she was angry or bored. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she opened her mouth to speak.

Clare had the same idea. “Why did you take the blame for me yesterday, Mabry?”

Surprised at the direct question, Grace realized she’d been called by name and not the hated term Duchess. “It seemed the right thing to do,” she answered, then shrugged. “I may not have let the pigs loose, but I’ll be the first to admit I’m less than fit for this kind of work. And in the barn, when I looked at you, I . . .”

She turned back to the task of driving the horses.

“You what?” Clare demanded.

“I realized we all probably have secrets we don’t want others to know.” She turned to meet Clare’s gaze full on. “And by the looks of it, Danner, your secret seemed dire. Am I right?”

Clare didn’t answer. Grace gripped at the reins and concentrated on the road as the cart went over a shallow rut. Then she felt a hand press against her sleeve. “Thanks, Mabry. I owe you.”

At Clare’s sincere tone, Grace almost smiled. She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “You know, Danner, I didn’t make much progress digging a trench the other day. I’m sure there’s a smarter way to go about it, but I haven’t a clue.”

She darted a glance in time to see Clare’s smile. The woman was quite pretty when she wasn’t making faces. “I can probably help with that, Mabry.”

Once the pigs were successfully delivered to the village butcher, Clare and Grace spent the next few hours finishing the drainage line alongside the north field.

“A good day’s work,” Clare said when they finished. Using the back of her sleeve, she wiped at the grime and sweat covering her face.

“An extra pair of hands helps,” Grace said as she leaned against the handle of her shovel. She felt exhausted, her fingers ached, and her soggy uniform chafed at her dampened skin, yet she was proud of her accomplishment. Not only had she pulled her weight for a change, but it seemed she’d formed a truce with Clare Danner.

———

“You met the Tin Man up at the manor this morning?” Becky said later, reaching across the table for another of the yeast rolls she’d baked. Mrs. Vance had announced Lord Roxwood’s latest edict at supper, and the women were pleased she and Agnes would be staying. “Did you scream?”

Grace burst out laughing. “I hate to disappoint you, Becky, but he has no hunched back or pointed ears. Not even a limp. And his howl is more like a bark and quite sharp.”

“T-tell us what he said to you, Grace,” Lucy said, her eyes rounded like teacups.

“Very little, and he’s brusque to be sure. Though he was much more irritated with me yesterday when I chased a pig into his hedge maze and stumbled upon him there.”

“You met him yesterday, too?” Agnes frowned. “You didn’t tell me.”

“But at least I did tell you about him,” Grace countered. To the others she said, “Considering what happened, afterward . . . it seemed unimportant.” She darted a glance at Clare, who dropped her gaze.

Everyone but Becky seemed satisfied. “Well, we’re all here now and we want to know everything.”

Choosing her words carefully, Grace relayed the events inside the hedge maze.

“I didn’t know he was blind,” Becky said after she’d finished. “His scars must be horrible.”

“Yes, well, the man is formidable with or without them,” Grace said, feeling uncomfortable in discussing the intimate details of his wounds.

They volleyed her with more questions. What did the inside of the manor look like? What kind of automobile would Grace be driving? They even insisted on a full description of Lord Roxwood’s mask.

“I think you m-must have impressed him,” Lucy said at last. “He wouldn’t have asked you to be his driver, otherwise.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Grace didn’t share with them as she had with Agnes her connection to Jack Benningham. Aside from his wish to take a turn at shaming her, she had no idea why he’d changed his mind and hired her.

Hopefully the coming day would reveal his motives.

The next morning, Grace arrived at the manor promptly at nine, anticipating her first day driving the Daimler.

Knowles answered her summons, looking down his beaked nose at her just as he had the day before.

“Is he ready?” she asked.

“You will please await milord in the foyer.”

Once inside, Grace took the time to observe more of the house. Like the manor itself, the interior décor was tasteful and not too pretentious. Floral carpeted steps ascended to the upper landing, and white-and-burgundy-striped paper covered the walls, accentuating the polished oak banister.

Gray marble floors reflected colored light as the sun penetrated two stained-glass windows along either side of the front door. A brass umbrella stand stood beside one colored pane, and an exotic palm in a Chinese vase beside the other. It was lovely. Having seen Lady Bassett’s posh surroundings, she much preferred the elegant simplicity Roxwood had chosen.

“Miss Mabry.” His unmistakable voice sounded at the top landing. As he descended the stairs—somewhat arrogantly, she decided—his long legs appeared first, clad in winter-white linen with turnups or cuffs, and brown leather shoes. Next, his lean torso and broad shoulders, garbed in a matching white blazer. Beneath the jacket he wore a brown-striped waistcoat and jaunty yellow tie.

The last of him came into view when she spied his gruesome covering. Grace froze, air trapped in her lungs. While she no longer felt an urge to scream, the sight of the mask with its macabre steel veil still disturbed her.

The man and his scars seemed much preferable to this inhuman-looking creature. “Lord Roxwood,” she said, letting out her breath.

The clock in the hall chimed the hour. “And right on time.” He continued his descent, then walked unerringly across the marble floor to stand before her. “I had thought you might flee with your life.”

“It takes more than a few harsh words to scare me off, sir.”

“Milord,” Knowles leaned in to whisper. Grace glared at him. She might work for Lord Roxwood, but she wasn’t going to call him milord. As a suffragette, she knew equality must start somewhere, and right now seemed the perfect time.

“A brave woman, then,” said the towering man in the mask. Grace thought she detected humor in his voice. “I trust Edwards gave you a brief orientation yesterday. Have you brought the Daimler around?”

“It’s parked outside.”

“Shall we?”

Grace led the way to the car and slipped in behind the steering wheel. She watched Lord Roxwood descend the steps, noting just as she had in the hedge maze how easily he navigated without the use of a cane.

Once he’d reached the driveway, he stood beside the car and waited. With some impatience, he said, “I have done my bit in hiring you as chauffeur, Miss Mabry. Now you must do yours. My door, if you please?”

So it begins. Pursing her lips, she exited to go around and open the rear passenger door.

“I’m sitting in front.”

Her annoyance turned to alarm. “But . . . I’m sure it’s not the way things are done.”

“It’s the way I do things.” His tone brooked no argument.

Somewhat flustered, Grace complied. She’d only just returned to the driver’s seat when he said, “Miss Mabry, I do not wish the car’s top down. Who gave the order?”

“Why, no one. I mean, with such a beautiful day, I thought . . .” She’d collapsed the top before bringing the car around from the garage. “I thought you might enjoy the warmth of the sun as we drive.”

“In future, you will leave the top intact. Now please replace it and hurry. The morning’s nearly gone.”

Grace took a deep breath. Was he always this autocratic? She did as he commanded.

“Do you have a particular destination in mind, sir?” she asked when she’d finished and slipped back behind the wheel.

“Something close to home, I think.” He raised an arm to rest against the back of the seat. “I wish to test your driving skills before we go too far.”

“I assure you, I’m quite capable.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten about my roses. Turn right just beyond the gatehouse. We’ll travel north along the perimeter road of the estate.”

Grace said a prayer for patience as she eased the car forward, making the turn. Soon they were traveling a dirt road with surprisingly few ruts.

“Describe yourself, Miss Mabry, so I can at least envision to whom I’m speaking.”

Grace’s jaw dropped. Didn’t he already know? “I’m . . . of average height for a woman,” she said cautiously after a moment. “I’ve red hair and green eyes and a bit of a pointed chin.”

“Truly?”

She glanced over to see him turned toward her. Seized with dread, Grace felt certain he was about to confront her about the white feather she’d given him. Then he would fire her and send her back to London.

“Why are you at Roxwood?”

Jarred by the unexpected question, she said, “I told you before. I was sent here to work for the WFC.”

“And your family? Do they live in London? At our first meeting you said you recognized me. Have we met before?”

He didn’t know? Grace gripped the wheel and turned to him, recalling the scene of his rage inside the hedge maze. Why, then, had he been so angry?

“Not too difficult a question, I hope.”

She wet her lips. “Everyone knows you’re Viscount Walenford,” she answered carefully. “I’ve seen your photograph many times in the newspapers. And yes, my father lives in London.”

“Is there a Mrs. Mabry?”

Grace shifted. She didn’t wish to speak about her beloved mother with this stranger. “Why do you ask so many questions, sir?”

He turned his head slightly. “I have been convalescing in that house for three months without a shred of stimulating conversation. Please, humor me, Miss Mabry.”

She swallowed. “My mother died last year of tuberculosis.”

“Any other family?”

Why had she expected condolences from him? “My brother fights in France,” she said, pride in her voice. “I also have an uncle in Dublin and several cousins scattered throughout Britain.” She paused, then added, “My aunt in Oxford.”

“You don’t sound enthused,” he said. “I gather this relative is not your favorite?”

“Aunt Florence isn’t a bad person. She’s just . . . forthright in her opinions on how young ladies should behave.”

“Is she married?”

So many questions! Grace decided it was her turn. After all, she had a story to write about the mysterious Tin Man. “How long do you plan to recuperate here in the country, Lord Walenford?”

“I’m asking the questions today,” he said. “And out here, I prefer Roxwood, if you don’t mind. So, is she?”

“Is she what?” Grace asked, confused.

“Married,” he said. “Does this aunt of yours have a husband?”

“No, she never married.” Grace was growing tired of their one-sided exchange.

“A spinster, then.” He dropped his arm from the back of the seat. “I take it the ‘behavior’ to which she subscribes prohibits you from having fun?”

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t say—”

“Is she sister to your father or your mother?”

“My father, but I still don’t see why—”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Lord Roxwood!” Grace brought the car to a halt. “I understand you’ve been without company a long while, but this ‘stimulating conversation’ you seem to think we’re having is all on your part. I haven’t gotten a word in for all of your questions, none of which has to do with my driving skills.” She felt like an insect beneath a microscope.

“I apologize, Miss Mabry. I’m merely curious.” He leaned back against the seat. “Your driving skills seem adequate enough. You haven’t yet hit a rut to knock me out of the car.”

“Thank you,” she said with forced politeness.

“Where are we now?”

Grace surveyed the landscape. “There is a grouping of trees off to the right,” she said. “They surround a lake—”

“Camden Pond. Look for a dirt track coming up beside a large ash tree. It will take us directly to the water’s edge, so remember to brake.”

Grace rolled her eyes. She soon spied the large leafy tree and a wide dirt track beside it. Taking the turn, she brought the Daimler to a stop within a few feet of the bank.

“You didn’t answer my question, Miss Mabry. What is your father’s occupation?”

She struggled for patience. “He’s in the tea business and the owner of Swan’s Tea Room in London.”

“Is he from London?”

“Dublin, if you must know. He came to Britain when he was my own age of twenty and started working at the docks. He came to know men in the tea import business, and after years of hard work and establishing the right connections, he was able to invest with others in a large tea plantation abroad.”

“I imagine he’s a rather affluent tradesman, then?”

“If you mean is he wealthy, the answer is yes,” she said tersely.

“And when did he open this tea room of his?”

The man was relentless. “Seven years ago,” she said wearily. “A few years after my father bought his own tea distributorship. Since he loves all varieties of tea, he opened Swan’s as a way to share his passion with others. He plans to expand the franchise and build four more tea rooms across London. Now, sir, do you wish to cross-examine me further? Perhaps you’d like to go to Swan’s in London yourself and corroborate my story?”

“Not my sort of place.” He spoke with infuriating calm. “I much prefer the club atmosphere. Playing cards and sipping on a glass of twelve-year-old Scotch.”

No truer words, she thought, recalling his exploits from the newspaper. Jack Benningham was hardly one to enjoy a proper tea.

“Does your father entertain much?”

Grace felt like screaming. “Swan’s keeps him extremely busy. Shall I take you back to the house now?” She felt desperate to be rid of him.

“Perhaps you’d care to get out and view the pond.”

His suggestion startled her. “Why, yes, very much. You don’t mind?”

“Go ahead and turn off the car.”

Grace set the brake and pressed the engine’s kill switch. Then she exited the Daimler and went around to open his door.

“You go ahead, Miss Mabry. I’ll wait here. There’s no breeze yet this morning, so you should find the water smooth as glass.”

Stymied at his indulgence toward her, Grace thought he might regret having asked so many questions. “I won’t be long.”

She walked to the bank and surveyed the pond. He was right; without a breeze, the water stretched outward like a mirror. She could see in it the perfect reflection of the trees, tall and unmoving along the opposite bank.

The mirror distorted as a flock of colorful ducks swooped down to skid along the glassy surface and land with a splash. They ruffled their feathers and swam for a patch of reeds near the opposite shore, quickly acclimating to their new gathering place. She smiled over their antics and turned to call out to Lord Roxwood, intending to share her discovery—then realized he wouldn’t be able to see them.

“I heard the ducks,” he said when she’d returned to the car. “Are they pochards? The shovelers are common this time of year, as well.”

“I have no idea,” she said. “They had many of the same colors: browns, creams, a few with green heads. Several were a dull brown.”

He crossed his arms. “Miss Mabry, surely you know the difference between a northern shoveler and a gadwall when you see it?”

She sensed his jeering expression behind the mask. “I’ve lived in the city all my life, sir. Perhaps I could offer you instead the differing species of street pigeons?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “My brother and I sometimes took our small boat out here to fish.”

Grace heard his pensiveness, but the mask hid his expression. She imagined two young boys on the water with their fishing poles, each hoping to catch the bigger prize. More than a year ago, the Times had reported the drowning of his brother in Serpentine Lake at London’s Hyde Park. Hugh Benningham was in a boat then, as well. “Did you spend much time at the estate?” she asked.

“Hugh and I spent our childhood summers here.” His voice sounded hollow. “Miss Mabry, I believe I’ve had enough country air for one morning. You may return to the house now.”

“Of course.” Using the car’s throttle and crank, she brought the engine back to life. He said nothing as she drove the car back in the direction they had come. Lord Roxwood’s first outing after being cooped up in the house for so long had doubtless tired him.

His earlier rapid-fire questioning still disturbed her. Grace understood natural curiosity—as a writer, she had it in abundance. Yet he’d seemed insistent, demanding to know as much about her as possible. Why? She felt certain now he had no knowledge of her being at Lady Bassett’s ball. Still, he’d asked so many questions, about her father in particular.

Patrick Mabry had never been introduced to any of the Benninghams, nor did he expect to be. Despite the privilege of Lady Bassett’s patronage, a self-made Irishman, even a wealthy one, didn’t travel in the same circles as an earl of the realm.

Returning to the manor, Grace stepped from the car and was surprised to see the sun almost directly overhead. She checked her watch and saw three hours had passed. She moved around to open her employer’s door. “Shall I call for you again tomorrow?”

“It’s what I pay you for.”

Again his surly self, Lord Roxwood exited and began mounting the steps. “Oh, and Miss Mabry,” he called back. “While you work for me, please notify Edwards if you decide to leave the estate. There may be times I request an afternoon outing.”

How he enjoyed being lord of the manor. “Very well,” she said, holding her temper.

As she watched him continue toward the front door, where the sour Knowles awaited him, Grace reminded herself of the reasons she’d taken the post. She also said a prayer for patience.

Because if her morning with Lord Roxwood was a sampling of the days to come, she would need it desperately.