8

“Well, ladies, today is the day we begin to make hay!” Mrs. Vance stood beside the breakfast table and made the announcement to a round of cheers.

Grace leaned forward in her chair. Though she anticipated today’s outing with Lord Roxwood, their excitement was contagious.

“Young will hitch up the team and the mower blade and start cutting a section of the north field.” Mrs. Vance addressed Lucy, then turned to eye Agnes and Becky. “Pierpont and Simmons, you’ll walk along behind the mower with rakes and spread the cuttings out to help them dry.”

“Lucy, shall I help you with the horses?” Grace asked.

“No need,” Mrs. Vance spoke up. “Lucy will do just fine. You go along and drive your Lord Roxwood around.”

“He is not my Lord Roxwood,” Grace insisted, blushing. Lucy and Becky smiled at her, while Agnes pursed her lips and Clare wore a mischievous expression.

“I don’t know, Grace. You’ve been d-driving him around for days. I’m surprised you aren’t wearing Roxwood livery by now,” Lucy said.

“Yes, then she can come out to the pasture and bale hay in her jodhpurs, jacket, and fancy cap once she’s finished with him in the mornings,” Clare said with a wink.

Peals of laughter broke out around the table, including Agnes, who flashed a wide grin.

“That’s enough, ladies.” Mrs. Vance said to Grace, “You’ll get your chance at haymaking later today, Mabry. Once you finish at the manor, grab a rake and join the others in the north field.” Her hazel eyes sparkled. “And wear your WFC uniform, please.”

Grace hid a smile as she rose from her chair and left the kitchen to more howls of laughter. She realized how much she enjoyed their camaraderie, even the teasing. It meant they had accepted her. She had indeed become one of them.

———

“Shall I ask the first question today?” Grace steered the Daimler in a northerly direction once they passed the gatehouse, per Lord Roxwood’s instruction.

“How did you find the good reverend’s sermon yesterday?”

He spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. Nevertheless, she was determined to keep her patience. “Inspiring,” she replied.

Quickly she veered the car to avoid hitting a rut in the road. The track wasn’t nearly as smooth as the other roads they had traveled. “Reverend Price spoke about faith and how life’s difficulties can undermine our Christian belief if we allow it.”

Grace thought she heard him scoff behind the steel mesh. “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” she said. “Look at the calamities of the world we read about in the newspapers. So much theft and murder, even I find myself doubting the so-called ‘goodness of men’ and wonder how God allows such things to happen. But Reverend Price says that’s the time we must stand fast. When bad things occur, it’s the devil working to shake our belief. We have to look to our hearts for the truth and not at what the world does. ‘We live by faith, not by sight.’”

As she spoke, Grace failed to miss the next large rut. The car gave a lurch as they drove over it.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Mabry, but please keep your eyes focused on the road instead of heaven. Because if you plan to hit each and every pothole from here to Scotland, my breakfast will soon make an unplanned reappearance. Now, let us change the subject.”

Grace stiffened. “You did ask.”

“To my utmost regret,” he muttered.

Forgive him, Lord. Truly she’d never met such a disrespectful man. “All right, we’ll begin again with my question.” She had decided to start with a less personal one to draw him out. “How long has your family owned Roxwood Manor?”

From the corner of her eye she saw him turn to her. “The estate has been in our family for generations. My great-grandfather, Stonebrooke’s third earl, received the estate from Queen Victoria as a reward for some personal favor.” He paused. “What shade of red is it?”

“What?”

“Your hair,” he said. “Is it red like fire . . . or like a carrot? Or is it the color of rust?”

Grace hadn’t thought much about it. “It’s just . . . red.”

“You must do better than that, Miss Mabry. I cannot see it, so therefore you must tell me.” He leaned toward her. “Well?”

Grace thought a moment, then brightened as an image came to her. “It’s like a fresh cup of steaming Assam.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Assam tea. Just after it steeps and is poured into a delicate bone-china cup.” She heard another noise from behind the mask and frowned. “Oh, I forgot. You’re a man who prefers drinking Scotch. But surely not for breakfast?”

“Of course not, though I prefer the taste of coffee beans to tea leaves, so I’ll take your word on the color of this Assam. And what about your eyes? Are they green like the ivy clinging to the sides of the house, or the infernal moss that sticks to the walkways?”

“I believe it’s my turn to ask a question. How do you manage so easily?” She hesitated, then said, “You seem to remember so much—you move about your home and the grounds without assistance. As we travel, I notice you seem aware of the placement of each tree and body of water. How do you do it?”

“Being blind, you mean?”

“Exactly.” She refused to be cowed by his tone.

He didn’t speak for a while. Grace feared their question game had come to an abrupt end. At last, he said, “I told you I spent my childhood summers at Roxwood, so it’s more a matter of having memorized where everything is. The contents of the house remain as they were, so I’m not bumping into furniture. And since I’ve had occasion to visit this area often as an adult, I still recall the proximity of my favorite places.”

“What about the hedge maze?”

“I believe it’s my turn.” But then he capitulated and said, “By the time I was twelve, I could find my way to the fountain at the center of the labyrinth with my eyes closed. I’ve always had the ability to ‘see’ without really doing so. Call it a third eye, if you will. Hugh and I often entertained ourselves as boys by wearing blindfolds and competing to see who could reach the fountain first. I always won the prize—a miniature toy soldier we shared between us.

“It became easy for me to navigate with memory instead of with my eyes.” A humorless bark escaped the steel veil. “I had no idea the day would come when such an amusement was no longer a child’s game.”

An unexpected lump rose in her throat. She too had learned that life could change in the span of a breath. A man loses his sight. A mother dies . . . “They are more like the ivy growing on the side of your house—the color of my eyes,” she answered.

“Hmm, much more illuminating than simply green, then. Have you told your father about the changes in your circumstances?”

Again he switched subjects so fast it took Grace a moment to catch on. “I have not.” Her cheeks felt warm, and she was glad he couldn’t see her. “I thought it best to let him think all had gone according to plan.”

“And what plan would that be?”

She glanced at him and saw he’d turned to face her, as though waiting for her to speak.

“I’d rather not say,” she hedged.

“But Miss Mabry, I wish to know. You did agree to our little game, did you not?” He edged closer. “You know if it’s a secret, you can confide in me. Who would I tell?”

When she remained silent, he retreated and leaned back in the seat. “Of course, if you wish to stop playing . . .” He turned his masked face toward the open window.

“It’s just . . . I don’t want to tell my father I got fired from the WFC,” she said, enjoying their question game too much to have it end.

He turned to her again. “Would he be upset to know you’d been sacked? Is that the plan that’s gone awry?”

“There is no plan,” she said in exasperation. “But I . . . I cannot afford to fail and return home.” Her mouth went dry as she imagined her aunt’s disapproving stares, or the lofty Clarence Fowler scrutinizing her suitability much the way a collector of fine china looks for a chipped edge. “Suffice it to say, it would mean dire circumstances to my situation.”

“Tell me more.”

This time he leaned so close she could smell the spicy scent of his Bay Rum cologne. “No . . . I don’t . . .”

“If you cannot be honest with me, Miss Mabry, how is it right I should offer you the courtesy?” He pulled away. “I tire of this game. Please, turn the car around.”

Grace eased the car to a halt and scowled. He was always honest with her? Hah! Only until she asked him a question he didn’t want to answer. Still, they had barely begun. She wasn’t ready to return to the manor. “All right, fine,” she said. “If I’m forced to return to London, I’ll be placed under the watchful eye of my aunt—the spinster, remember? And if I resist, my only other option is to marry the man of my father’s choosing.” Staring out the window ahead at a bare-limbed tree amidst a copse of leafy oaks, she felt just as exposed by the obnoxious man beside her.

“Who is he?”

“Does it matter?” She turned to him. “When a woman isn’t allowed to marry for love, they’re all the same.” She flexed her hands on the wheel. “A cage.”

“That cage works both ways, Miss Mabry.”

He sounded tired. Grace considered him a moment. “Do you speak of yourself?” she asked, forgetting her anger. She’d read about his upcoming August marriage in the Times. “Are you being forced to wed Miss Arnold?”

“Of all the cheeky . . . Just drive!” he said.

She gave up any further effort to be civil. With her jaw set, Grace released the brake and eased the car forward. This time she aimed for every pothole in the road.

How could he compare his situation to hers when throughout history women bore the brunt of an arranged marriage? She recalled a suffrage speech that spoke of how women were forced to breed countless children into loveless relationships, “doing their duty” while being confined to home or used as social stepping-stones for their husband’s gain.

“A truce, Miss Mabry, please. My insides are churning.”

Jarred from her mental tirade, Grace veered the car from an exceptionally large fissure she’d been driving toward. “A truce,” she agreed, though she wasn’t certain she would still have a job when they returned.

“Thank you. Now please tell me more about yourself. What did you do before joining the WFC? Had you any particular interests?”

His mellow tone disarmed her. “I usually helped Da . . . that is, my father, at Swan’s. While he is horribly traditional, he allowed me to update his ledgers.”

“Seriously?”

“Are you being impertinent?” She glanced at him.

“Not at all. I merely applaud your ability. Not many women of my acquaintance have such qualifications. You must have a talent for it or your ‘traditional’ father wouldn’t let you perform the task.”

“Thank you.” Grace was both startled and encouraged by his praise. “My real passion is writing, though I’ve not sold any of my work. Not yet, anyway. I recently submitted a magazine story to Women’s Weekly, but it was turned down.” She took a deep breath and said, “I refuse to give up, however. One day I plan to write a novel.”

“Admirable.” Then he asked, “Where are we right now?”

Grace saw only the road ahead, and beyond that, endless green valley. “I have no idea.”

“Describe it to me.”

She stopped the car and scanned toward the west. “I see a pasture and fences. A few trees and bushes, and I see the road ahead . . .”

“No wonder your story was rejected.”

His words stung. “This is your part of the country, sir, not mine—”

“And I cannot see it,” he reminded her. “You must describe it to me, please.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, feeling like a dolt. “What would you like me to tell you?”

“Just like an artist captures an image on canvas, a good writer must paint a picture with words. So I ask again, where are we?”

She surveyed the valley once more, taking the time to really see it. “There is much green pasture,” she maintained. “But not the type we’re working with at the farm. These grasses are red-tipped and only calf-high. I also see an outcropping of gray rock among the grasses that resembles a giant nest of eggs—granite, I believe? And more of the same smooth rocks are scattered in the direction of the morning sun, to the east. Not far from that is a cluster of thin, tall, white-barked trees—”

“Birch,” he said. “And from your unusual but accurate description of nesting rocks, we should be close to the turnoff for Tarryton Road. There should be a signpost . . .”

“I see it!”

He turned to her. “Very fine painting, Miss Mabry. You may have the makings of a good novelist, after all.”

She beamed, genuinely grateful for his insight. He’d forced her to observe the details in what she was looking at. “There are two . . . no, three bushes to the left of the trees. I’m not much of a gardener, but each has green almond-shaped leaves and is covered in large blue flowers a bit like snowballs.”

“Hydrangeas. Hugh and I used to ride our horses out here and pick them when our mother traveled to Roxwood with us. She always enjoyed their beauty.”

She caught his somber tone. “Does she live in London?”

“For now, although she keeps to her rooms much of the time. My mother hasn’t yet overcome her grief, either from Hugh’s death or my accident.”

Much like you, Lord Roxwood. “I’m sorry,” Grace said instead. She sought to lighten the moment. “What are the white flowers beside the hydrangeas? Roses?”

“Yes, wild roses. Those would be the dog rose.” Then he said, “My brother and I spent a lot of time climbing on those rocks. We pretended we were explorers on a mountain expedition to the Himalayas.”

“In India,” she said.

“You know about them?”

“Only from books. I’ve read about all sorts of things. You and your brother were very close, weren’t you?”

He tilted his head upward. “Not a day passes that I don’t think of him.”

“I feel the same about my brother. I told you he’s in France. I haven’t received a letter from him since I arrived, though.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know you’re here?”

“I sent him a letter posted from Roxwood when I first got here.”

“Well, sometimes it can take a while for the Army’s mail to find its way to the mainland.” He leaned back in his seat, resting an arm against the door’s edge. “I wouldn’t worry.”

She hadn’t considered the possibility. His words gave her hope. “I suppose it might take longer for him to receive my letter, as well. That would certainly cause delay in our correspondence.”

“It’s very likely. How long has your brother been overseas?”

“A little over a year. Colin enlisted in the BEF last April. I miss him terribly, but I am very proud of him. He’s doing his duty. ‘For God, King, and Country.’”

“You are a staunch supporter of the war, Miss Mabry?”

Grace detected his sarcasm. “I feel we must all be patriotic in whatever capacity we are able,” she said primly, reminded again that he was a conscientious objector to the war. “We must win against our enemies and put our country back to rights.” She paused. “Surely you must agree?”

“We got ourselves into this war because of a treaty we made with Belgium scores of years ago,” he said. “Yet the cost we’ve had to pay for that agreement is insurmountable.”

He dropped his arm from the door. “The price is too high, in my estimation, with countless lives lost on both sides. And for those who returned home, like my brother . . .” His voice held a tremor. “In the short time Hugh remained with us, he was never the same.”

Seeing his hands clench, Grace resisted an urge to reach for him. She knew the devastation of losing someone beloved. “I understand there was an accident . . . after his return?” she said gently. “I am sorry.”

“An accidental drowning is what the Times reported.” He turned to her. “The newspapers print all manner of stories, Miss Mabry. Perhaps you should send them one of yours? Make it outlandish and it will sell.”

What did he mean by outlandish? Hadn’t his brother’s boat capsized? Grace wanted to ask him more, but thought better of it. She said instead, “I do sympathize with your loss, Lord Roxwood. Still, it doesn’t change the fact we are in this war and must now fight to win and bring an end to it. Our duty must prevail.”

“Ah, Miss Mabry, I’ve thought of a perfect occupation for you,” he said. “Writing propaganda for Parliament. Recruitment posters like the one featuring our departed Lord Kitchener, which still seem to float about London.” He paused. “And no one would ever be the wiser as to the truth.”

“What do you mean by truth, sir? You think I merely put on an act?” His words cut at her. “You have no right to mock my loyalty to my country or to my brother just because you don’t approve of the war.”

He was quiet a moment. “Indeed, I do not,” he said finally. “Not with regard to your brother. Your allegiance to him is commendable. Now, I wish to return to the house, please.”

Grace retraced the direction they had come. Like their other outings, he said little on the return trip. She looked at him from time to time, and whether it was because she could see more clearly the man behind the mystery or she was simply accustomed to his company, the mask no longer bothered her as it had before.

“Milord?”

Jack paused in eating his supper, hearing his steward’s voice outside the doors to the dining room. “Yes, Edwards?”

“Excuse me, I do pardon the intrusion on your privacy, but . . . Miss Arnold has telephoned again. She insists on speaking with you.”

The unflappable Edwards sounded harassed. Jack could well imagine the earful Violet Arnold had given him. His jaw tightened as he laid down his fork. “I’ll be there presently.”

“Ah, very good, milord.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips at the relief he heard in his steward’s voice. Jack left what remained of his dinner and retied his mask before exiting to the study.

“Violet, good of you to call,” Jack said as he took a seat behind his desk. He forced a measure of pleasantness into his tone.

“I’ve tried to reach you on the telephone several times, as if you didn’t know.” Her waspish voice crackled through the line. “Have you come to a decision yet?”

Jack sighed. Right to the point, then. “Crying off the engagement? I haven’t had time to give it much thought.”

“What, too busy scaring off the locals? Or are you still hiding away in your rooms? I would imagine you’ve had scads of time to think, while I on the other hand want a life, Jack Benningham. And I plan to live it.”

“So, you’re breaking off our engagement?”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you can paint me as the heartless woman who abandoned her poor, crippled fiancé in his time of need.”

“I would hardly call myself a cripple,” he snarled, losing the battle to control his temper. “Though being blinded to your beauty is indeed a misfortune.”

“Spare me!” she snapped. “This engagement was doomed from the start. Surely you can’t be so thick as to ignore that?”

“How could I?” Especially when you remind me at every opportunity, he thought.

Despite his blindness, Jack saw the issue more clearly than his fiancée ever would. Violet Arnold surrounded herself in the frivolities of fashion, fetes, and following the latest entries into Burke’s Peerage, but cared little for the crass realities of money, contracts, and the price for a coronet.

“So? What is your answer?” she asked.

“I’ll have to think on it a bit more. I’ll let you know.”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” Then she hung up on him.

Jack’s heart pounded as he carefully replaced the receiver. He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. By the time Violet had arrived in London with her father, Diamond Princesses—the wealthy, upper-crust American debutantes seeking titles in exchange for money—had become a thing of the past. Still, Jack recalled his stoic father actually smiling when Jack’s mother announced a wealthy oilman from America had attended the Sorensens’ fete and discreetly asked after Hugh Benningham’s marital status.

It had been a last-ditch means to save Stonebrooke and all its lands. Violet and her father soon became regular guests at the Benningham home. A month later, Hugh announced his engagement to Miss Arnold, and her father in good faith advanced the earl an enormous sum to pay off Stonebrooke’s pressing debt.

Violet seemed happy and gay back then, and Jack was convinced she’d actually cared for his brother. But then Hugh died, and while she grieved, her father had negotiated the uglier ramifications, reminding the earl of money already paid on account.

Jack had understood his duty. After a proper mourning period, he and Violet were engaged. It was hardly a love match, as she had continued to grieve for his brother and Jack felt no real affection toward her.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He remembered the last time Violet had seen him. Marcus was with him at hospital that day as the surgeon removed the bandages. Jack had remained completely still, sweat running down his back as he prayed to a distant God to give him back his sight. Time froze. He’d felt cool air sting his tender flesh . . . while the darkness remained to crush in on him.

Outside the hospital room, Violet’s imperious tone was giving orders to the nurse to speak with him. The door had burst open, and he heard her booted heels clipping smartly across the linoleum floor. The room went silent. Then a guttural cry followed by a sound much like a bolt of cloth hitting the floor. A flurry of commotion and noises ensued. Violet had fainted.

Jack realized then the kind of monster she’d been chained to. Yet despite her pleas to be free of him, it was her father who refused to let go. Mr. Arnold had demanded repayment of his money or the coronet for his daughter. Without sufficient funds, Jack had only the latter to offer, and Stonebrooke must be saved. He and Violet remained trapped.

He returned to the dining room and heard the clatter of dishes. “Oh, excuse me, milord, I was just coming to clear,” Mrs. Riley exclaimed.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Riley. How about coffee?”

“It will be my pleasure. And if I may be so bold, milord, your appetite is much improved. The fresh air each morning must be doing you a world of good. Now, I’ll get that coffee for you.”

Jack seated himself at the table. The outdoors had improved his appetite for food, as well as providing him with the chance to know Grace Mabry a bit better.

His spirits lifted, recalling their morning outing together. She wasn’t one to faint at the sight of him, nor did she allow his looks to affect her many opinions. A smile touched his lips. She’d been ready to do battle for him with the villagers on Saturday.

He considered, too, her proselytizing to him—about God and having faith and any other tidbit she’d gleaned from the good reverend’s sermon. Was her piety part of an act . . . or had she meant what she’d said? She’d seemed quite animated as well during their discussion about the war and doing one’s duty. In fact, she’d made her views quite clear. Was it all a sham merely to gain his trust?

Jack rubbed at his chin, frowning. He didn’t think so. Her passion for both causes seemed genuine enough.

Mrs. Riley returned with his coffee and served him a cup before leaving the room. Once she’d closed the doors, he lifted the mesh of his mask and sipped carefully, the hot, fragrant liquid scorching him. Much like Miss Mabry’s temper, he thought, still feeling each and every pothole she’d purposely struck that morning. A chuckle escaped him, a sound rusty and foreign to his ears.

In truth, as each day passed in her company, Jack found it more difficult tying her to any treachery on her father’s part. He weighed Patrick Mabry’s bribery of a clerk against her candid talk about the doomed choices she faced back in London, much like his own with Violet. And he compared Marcus’s theory that she searched out proof, which no longer existed, with that of Grace Mabry’s dreams of becoming a novelist. Such contradictions left him stymied. Either she was genuine or she was twice as crafty as Mata Hari.