She did her best to fight it. After all, visiting the poor in their squalor was dismal enough without silly jealousy and self-consciousness added to the mix.
Grace did her best to brush it off and turned her horses onto the road to the extraordinarily cluttered home of an elderly couple called the Pottfords.
Mr. and Mrs. Pottford were both tiny and frail, extremely opinionated, and mostly deaf.
Mr. Pottford, who had once owned a shop, tended to hoard odds and ends for some strange reason, and so the entire property was littered with stacks and stacks of junk. It wasn’t worth anything; all it did was attract mice and worse creatures, but Mr. Pottford could not be persuaded to part with any piece of his trash.
Grace half feared that someday, one of the precarious towers of junk piled in every room would come crashing down on one of the elderly residents.
When Trevor caught his first glimpse down the dim, narrow pathway inside the Pottfords’ cramped, stinking home, he glanced at Grace in shock.
“You wanted to come along,” she reminded him under her breath, but she gave his arm an encouraging squeeze before she headed inside.
Grace opened the front door and called out cheerfully to her aged neighbors.
“Come in, dear!” a thin, quavery voice answered from the back room.
Relief filled her when she heard the response. She always feared that one day she’d come to visit and find one or the other dead.
She was sure that having each other was the one thing that kept them going. But she dismissed her grim thoughts and gave her helpers a quick smile over her shoulder. “Follow me. And watch your step.”
Callie gave Trevor a dire glance as he held the door for the ladies, then they went in single file.
Grace found Mrs. Pottford just where she had expected her: in the one clear refuge the old woman had amid her husband’s endless clutter, a shabby armchair by the fireplace with a plant stand next to it for a table.
Mrs. Pottford grasped her cane and started to rise, but Grace bade her not to bother as she brought in the soup, her smile pasted into place.
Again she gave the same story about having accidentally made too much. “It would be a great favor to me if you would take it. Otherwise, it’ll just go to waste.”
“Bless you, child. You’re always so thoughtful.”
“Pish-posh,” said Grace. Then Mr. Pottford wandered in, and she introduced Lord Trevor to the ancient pair.
He was asked if he would not mind taking down a particular item from atop one of the precarious junk towers—a particular book that Mr. Pottford said he had been meaning to read again for weeks.
Trevor reached up and found the title, shaking dust and mouse droppings off the cover with a grimace as he brought it down and handed it to the old man.
The glance he sent Grace said he thought the whole place ought to be burned down and a new home built from the ground up for the exasperating yet endearing pair.
Callie, meanwhile, stood to the side with her handkerchief pressed over her mouth and nose. She lowered it to answer direct questions asked of her, but her eyes darted around continuously, as if she expected some giant rat to jump out at her from among the piles of junk.
Come to think of it, that would not have been overly surprising, Grace mused.
“How can people live like that?” the girl muttered when they finally returned to the carriage.
“Why won’t they throw anything away?” he asked.
“I hardly know,” Grace said with a sigh. “Some sort of mania on his part. I’ve tried to get him to part with a few things, but Mr. Pottford always says that whenever you throw something out, you always need it the next day. He gets very upset whenever someone tries to help him. He calls it robbery and starts shouting for the constable.”
“Well, one stray spark, and that place goes up in flames,” Lord Trevor warned. “And them with it.”
“I know, but what can I do? If you have any ideas, I’m all ears, believe me.”
He brooded on the problem of the Pottfords all the way to the next stop on Grace’s route, the tidy little home of Miss Hayes.
The blind woman lived on one of the quaint, cobbled, side streets of the village. She was not poor or needy like the Nelcotts, or infirm like the Pottfords, but the sweet soul was quite alone in the world.
Miss Hayes never failed to twist Grace’s heart with poignancy at her endless gratitude for any small kindness shown her. Again, Grace delivered the soup along with a small bunch of flowers from her garden, and Miss Hayes praised her beyond all bounds.
“Oh, come, Clara,” Grace teased her, blushing, “it’s just some soup, not a pot of gold!”
“It might as well be, to me. Each week, I wonder if you’ll forget me, but you never do.”
Grace clasped the woman’s hands between her own. “And I never will. Now then, we’ve brought someone new to meet you today. Our new neighbor, Lord Trevor Montgomery.”
He stepped closer and bowed to her, though she could not see him. “Miss Hayes, a pleasure.”
“How kind of you to come, sir! You’re the one who bought the Grange?”
“I am,” he said firmly, smiling.
She let out an almost mischievous giggle and leaned toward Grace with a stage whisper. “Everyone says he’s very handsome.”
“It’s true!” Callie piped up gaily.
“Pshaw,” the man in question scoffed.
“I suppose he’s not half-bad,” Grace conceded, eyeing him in amusement.
He smirked at her.
“Do you mind if I judge for myself?” Miss Hayes ventured.
Grace glanced at Trevor. “Miss Hayes can tell what a person looks like if you’ll let her touch your face.”
“If you don’t mind, of course. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable—”
“I don’t mind at all,” he assured her in a breezy tone as he sat down on a nearby stool. “Just don’t get your hopes up,” he added dryly. “I assure you, Miss Hayes, I am altogether ordinary.”
“Pshaw,” said Grace, echoing his earlier denial.
He crooked a brow at her, surprised at her compliment, but she smiled fondly at him, filled with gratitude. His gentleness with the old Pottfords and the young Nelcotts, and his patience as he let Miss Hayes explore the contours of his face made Grace find him handsomer than ever.
He really was a rather wonderful man.
“What strong features you have, Lord Trevor,” Miss Hayes said admiringly as she molded her fingers against the shape of his brow, over the angle of his nose, and the chiseled line of his jaw. Once more, she lowered her hands demurely to her lap. “I’m afraid the gossip is true, my lord. You have a noble face.”
“And a black heart,” he teased. Then he noticed the pianoforte by the wall. “Are you a lady of musical talents, Miss Hayes?”
“She plays beautifully,” Grace spoke up on her friend’s behalf.
“Not as well as Mrs. Bowen-Hill,” Miss Hayes started.
“Yes, you do! My father has even asked her to play in church now and then, but she’s too shy to risk it in front of the whole congregation.”
“Too many people!”
“I wonder if we could persuade you to play something for us now, Miss Hayes?” Trevor asked. “That would be most diverting.”
Grace could hear it in his voice that he was going out of his way to be friendly to her, and she was touched.
“Certainly,” Miss Hayes responded, then she echoed his own teasing words back to him. “As long as you don’t get your hopes up too high.”
“I will take that under advisement,” he replied. Then he assisted her in rising from her seat, offering a gentlemanly hand as he would to any lady.
Clara Hayes was fully capable of making her way around her home independently, but no doubt, she appreciated the
gallant gesture. A moment later, she settled herself before her pianoforte.
When she began to play a familiar tune by Bach, Trevor winced; Grace sent him a sideways look, for although Miss Hayes was a talented player, her pianoforte was horribly out of tune.
Considering that her music was her one consolation in a life that could not be easy, Trevor looked outraged at the injustice of the dear woman having to play on such an ill-tuned instrument.
Grace wondered what he thought of it all as they returned to the carriage. “Well?”
He sent her a troubled frown. “She’s very ladylike. What’s her story?”
“She was born blind. Her father was a gentleman though he wasn’t rich. Her parents left her a modest inheritance, but unfortunately, she’s had a lot of unexpected bills from various physicians.”
“Is she sick?”
“No, she took a bad fall a few years ago during the winter. Slipped on the ice and badly hurt her back. It was a difficult recovery, and, I’m afraid, quite drained her resources. Thankfully, she’s finally out of pain, but what’s left of her inheritance has got to last her the rest of her days, so she must make economies, as do we all.”
“I suppose tuning her pianoforte isn’t the priority, then.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so.”
“She’s a real inspiration, isn’t she?”
Grace nodded. “She doesn’t let her blindness slow her down a bit.”
“Do you think if a piano tuner could be found, she’d permit me to hire him for her as a gift? It’s sad enough that she can’t see. The woman deserves at least to be able to hear a decent melody in tune.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think she would accept. She was raised a gentlewoman, and that would not be proper. And what about her pride?”
“Well, I can understand that.” He shrugged. “But she wouldn’t have to know it was from me. We could say it was your father’s idea, so that she could practice more and play in church, as he requested.”
“Hmm.” Grace considered the notion, impressed with his thoughtfulness. “I suppose we could tell her that Mrs. Bowen-Hill might want a break every now and then, instead of having to play every Sunday . . . She might just go along with that.”
He tapped her on the nose. “Good! Now all we have to find is a piano tuner. Where to next?”
There were three more calls on Grace’s weekly list, but before the last one, she drove Callie back to her pony gig waiting at the Nelcotts’.
The final stop was not one in which Callie could participate.
“Why is that?” Lord Trevor asked.
“Because she’s off to see Tom Moody,” the girl informed him.
“Who’s that?”
“The town drunk. A most unsavory fellow,” Callie added sardonically. “My parents have forbidden me to go near him.”
“Indeed? And our Miss Kenwood goes to visit him alone?”
“Every week,” said Calpurnia.
He turned to Grace, scowling.
“Oh, he’s harmless! He goes on a drunken rant every now and then, curses the world, and screams at anyone in sight. But other than that—”
“I see.” He glowered at her in lordly displeasure.
“Don’t worry,” she insisted. “If I thought he was a danger to me, I wouldn’t go. I’m not stupid.”
“No, but you’re too nice,” Callie interjected. “Mother says some people aren’t worthy of our charity.”
Trevor glanced at her, considering this.
“I appreciate your concern,” Grace said, “but you should let Callie drive you back up to the Grange.”
“I’d be happy to!” the girl said brightly.
“Absolutely not. I’m going with you,” he told Grace.
“There’s no need! Honestly,” she assured him, amused and a little taken aback by his protectiveness. “You have a lot to do, and you’ve already been such a great help today. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
“Your safety is more important.”
She blushed. “That’s very sweet, but really, I-I only go and spend ten minutes checking to make sure he’s still alive. He wouldn’t dare aim his wrath at me. I’m the only person in town besides Papa who treats the poor beggar with any dignity.”
Trevor just stared at her, making no move to get out of the carriage. “Good day, Miss Windlesham.”
“You’re serious?” Grace exclaimed.
He glared at her, and Callie chuckled.
“I, for one, am glad he’s going with you,” the girl said. “I expected nothing less from a genuine hero!”
He sent her an irked frown, for Callie had not yet realized, as Grace had, that he hated being called that.
Callie jumped down from the cart and strode back to her pony, untying it from the Nelcotts’ fence.
“Last chance to escape a tedious duty,” Grace advised him.
He shook his head stubbornly. She shrugged and urged her horses into motion.
Callie waved good-bye as they pulled away. Lord Trevor stepped up from the back of the cart and sat himself down in the driver’s seat beside her.
Grace looked askance at him; he gave her a dirty look.
“What?” she insisted.
“I took you for a woman of sense.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Visiting an angry drunk alone in the middle of nowhere? Has he ever been violent?”
She shifted uncomfortably on her seat. “Not to me.”
He cursed softly in a language she didn’t know, possibly Italian.
“You don’t have to insult me!”
“I don’t care how unfortunate he is! If he ever harms you—no, if he ever merely scares you—I will most assuredly cut his throat.”
His violent utterance took her aback. She looked at him, startled, and drove on, frowning uneasily.
“I don’t like violence,” she informed him after a moment.
“I don’t care,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“There’s no need to growl at me! I’ve been doing this long before you moved into town. Do you think I enjoy going to see him? Believe me, I find Mr. Moody as revolting as everybody else does, other than his poor, long-suffering, little dog.”
“But you don’t let that stop you.”
“The dog is nice,” she replied, feeling defensive but trying to sound reasonable as they rolled along the dusty road. “I just think of it as if I’m going to visit Nelson. A very sweet little Brittany spaniel.”
Lord Trevor scoffed and huffed at her attempt to placate his protective ire.
“Come,” she cajoled him, then she attempted to explain her reasoning because she was so flattered by his concern for her safety. Besides, she didn’t want him to think she was foolish. “It’s easy to be generous to the Nelcotts, adorable as they are, and to Miss Hayes, who is so good and gentle and asks the world for nothing. But our Lord went among the lepers, didn’t he? It’s with people like Tom Moody where the true test lies.”
He scoffed. “Test of what?”
“Love,” she answered.
“Grace, it’s dangerous.”
“So? Your duty for the Order was dangerous, too, wasn’t it? But that didn’t stop you. Well, this is mine. My duty. Why should it be any different for me? In our separate spheres, we’re not so different, you and I.”
Trevor stared at her, nonplussed.
He had never heard such talk from a female before in his life. He was equal parts annoyed and awed at the woman.
He scarcely knew what to think.
Perhaps she fancied that a lightning bolt from the Almighty would come down and protect her, strike this Moody fellow dead if the vermin ever sought to harm her.
Bloody blind faith!
And yet, she was totally commit
ted to her principles, and that, he could not help but respect.
“Very well,” he muttered at length, noting her worried glance in his direction. “I’ll go and see the dog with you, then. But next time, you come and get me first before you visit this ‘unfortunate soul.’ Understand?”
She smiled fondly but made him no such promise. Looking almost amused at his protectiveness, she returned her gaze to the road ahead and simply drove on.
Chapter 18
Tom Moody lived on the edge of the woods in a hovel far worse than anything they had seen so far today. In fact, it was near the farthest border of the Grange property, and Trevor was panic-stricken to think of the two Nelcott boys playing by themselves so near the haunt of a man of such low, uncertain character.
As they neared the old shed where the “unfortunate soul” lived, before Grace had even halted the carriage, they could hear furious yelling and raucous noise coming from inside. What the hell?
“Is this normal for him?” Trevor murmured, scanning the place on full alert.
“No.” Grace grasped his arm and glanced at him in concern.
Wails and incoherent shouts, crashes and bangs emanated from the shed. “Nelson! Nelson?” howled a male voice, slurred and full of anguish.
“Nelson’s the dog?” Trevor murmured.
Grace nodded, fear stamped across her face. She halted the cart, threw the brake, and immediately jumped down from the box.
“Hey, wait! Not so fast!” He leaped down after her and, in a few swift strides, caught her by the elbow. “You don’t want to surprise a man in his condition.”
“Let me go! I know what I’m doing! He sounds like he’s hurt.”
Trevor did not release her. “Is he likely to be armed? I want to know what I’m walking into.”
She glanced at the hovel in distress. “I don’t think so.” It seemed to cost her a great effort to tear her attention away from the noises of rage. “Maybe a knife. If he ever owned a gun, he’d have traded it long ago for drink.”
To Trevor’s frustration, she tore her arm free of his hold and rushed to the door. “Mr. Moody? Tom! It’s Grace Kenwood! What’s going on in there? Are you all right?”
Gaelen Foley - [Inferno Club 06] Page 21