His Saving Grace

by Sharon Cullen

  He lowered the carriage steps and reached inside.

  A head emerged, bent low so that all she could see was the top of a black top hat. The shoulders came next, encased in a light gray frock coat, and then a leg, dressed in black, extended to the step below. The person unfolded himself and looked about.

  Grace caught her breath and pressed a hand to her hammering heart.

  The gentleman’s green gaze landed on her. “Grace.”

  It couldn’t be. She was seeing things. Had she fallen asleep? Was she dreaming? Oh, what a cruel, cruel joke that would be.

  “Michael?”

  Chapter Three

  The man who looked so much like Michael grabbed the cane that the other gentleman offered him and leaned upon it. He took in the surroundings. The house behind her, the dusty road they’d just ridden down, and the trees to his right.

  All while Grace struggled to breathe.

  He sounded like Michael. Oh, that voice. How she’d longed to hear it one more time. She’d prayed and railed and pleaded to God to let her speak to her Michael one last time. But this wasn’t possible. Michael was dead. She had the letter from his commander of the First Royal Dragoons to prove it.

  She straightened her shoulders and stared down this man who dared to pretend he was her Michael. “Is this a jest, sir?”

  He took a step closer, the tap of his cane on the gravel drive unusually loud in the silence. It took everything she had not to take a hurried step back into the house and slam the door in his face. How dare he? How dare he play such a cruel joke?

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice cracking on the last word.

  “Michael John Ashworth, the seventeenth earl of Blackbourne.”

  Her breath rushed out of her. He sounded so much like her Michael that she wanted to believe him with her whole heart. But anyone could know Michael’s full name. She blinked tears away. Tears of hope and tears of disbelief and outrage. If George were here, she would have him run this man off her property.

  “Lord Nigel is the earl of Blackbourne,” she said, attempting to sound authoritative but failing miserably.

  “Not anymore.”

  Her Michael had been a softer version of this man. He was the same height, and the eyes were the same forest green, the hair black as black. But there were differences. This man weighed much less, his body whip-thin, lean and hard. The midnight-black hair had patches of gray at the temples. His eyes held deep creases on either side.

  His stern expression softened, causing her to pull in a breath, because this new expression was so quintessentially her dead husband’s that it hurt to look at him.

  “I’ve shocked you,” he said. “I didn’t send word, but I see I should have.”

  He was close now. Close enough to touch, but Grace refrained. She feared if she moved, she would shatter into a thousand tiny bits. Had she gone over the edge? Had her mind, so filled with grief over the loss of her one and only love, finally snapped? Was she dreaming? If this were a dream, then she never wanted to awaken. But the birds were chirping in the trees, and the horses occasionally snorted and pawed the ground, and she was quite positive that she wouldn’t smell horse dung in her dreams.

  Without taking his eyes off her, the man who looked so much like Michael raised his arm and slid up his coat sleeve. Grace pulled her gaze from his eyes to look at his wrist. She made a small sound before clapping a hand over her mouth.

  Sixteen-year-old Grace scurried over the fence with ease. It was not a ladylike thing to do and her mother would have her head if she saw it, but her mother wasn’t here, and it was a beautiful day, and Michael was with her.

  “You’re like a cat,” he called from the other side of the fence.

  She waved her arm, beckoning him. “Hurry.”

  She picked up her skirts and ran, laughing into the spring breeze. Today was a glorious day. She was free from her mother’s watchful gaze. She was outside. And best of all, she was with Michael.

  Michael called her name, and she looked over her shoulder, still laughing, then stopped.

  Michael had scaled the fence, but he bent over, holding his arm.

  “Michael?” She raced back and fell to her knees in front of him. She would have grass stains on her skirt, and her mother would have a fit, but that thought quickly fled when she saw blood dripping from between his fingers. “Let me see,” she said, prying his fingers away. She looked up to find that his face had gone white, his lips bloodless. “Don’t you pass out on me,” she said sternly, borrowing her tone from her mother.

  He licked his lips.

  She managed to pull his fingers away and then laughed. “Why, it’s nothing but a small scratch.”

  “It’s bleeding,” he managed to say in a strained voice.

  She looked up at him again. “It’s only blood.”

  “Only blood?”

  Sara pulled her skirt up and ripped off a length of the bottom of her petticoat to use to wrap his wrist. “It will leave a scar, I’m sure. But only a small one.”

  She stood and patted his wrist. When he didn’t respond, she looked at him and he suddenly kissed her.

  “Do you believe me now?” he asked.

  Pulled from her memory, Grace looked at the small scar that she had patched up years ago. The scar that had led to their second kiss. She nodded, barely able to see him through the fresh tears in her eyes. It was Michael. It truly was Michael. The scar didn’t lie. She sank to her heels, her legs too weak to hold her up. Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks. Michael was alive.

  Alive.

  “H-how?” she managed to ask, looking up at him but barely seeing him through the tears.

  He reached down and grasped her arm, helping her to stand. His touch. Oh, Lord, his touch. She wanted to crumple against him, to sob and clutch him, to never let him go.

  “Ah, Gracie.”

  He’d called her that for as long as she could remember.

  Sniffing, trying to hold back her sobs but failing miserably, she held out her arms to him. He hesitated, then stepped into her embrace, and for the first time in almost a year Grace held her husband. His shoulders were thin and bony beneath his coat. She could feel clearly the ravages of war on him, but at that moment it mattered not. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Michael.

  The man with the saber appeared and handed Michael the dropped cane. Grace stepped back as Michael took it. The cane was new, and she wanted to know why he had it, but there was time enough for such questions.

  Michael tilted his head toward the house. “Shall we go inside?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she entered first, and Michael and the other man followed.

  Grace led them through the entryway and into the drawing room. The fire had died down and the cold had seeped in. She stirred the embers, building the fire up again and praying that the chimney would draw properly and not fill the room with smoke, as it sometimes was wont to do.

  Michael stood in the middle of the room and took in the furniture, the flower-flocked wallpaper that was peeling at the corners, the wainscoting she’d patiently painted white in a vain attempt to brighten the room.

  He made his way to the settee and stood awkwardly. Grace realized he was waiting for her to sit so she hurriedly sat in the closest chair. Michael lowered himself onto the settee, leaning on his cane as he did so. Grace hesitated, unsure if she should offer the other man a seat.

  “This is Tarik,” Michael said, waving a hand toward the large man, who had stationed himself at the door and crossed his hands in front of him. “He is my manservant.”

  Manservant? Where did one acquire a manservant who looked like that? “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tarik.”

  “Just Tarik, my lady.” His voice rumbled through the room like rolling thunder. He had a slight accent but nothing she could place. He glanced at her once, then stared straight ahead.

  “Tarik,” she said,
testing the unusual name.

  Michael closed his eyes, and a pained expression crossed his face. Tarik shifted his attention to Michael.

  Unsure what to do or say, Grace folded her hands in front of her, then unfolded them and fiddled with the pleats of her gown. The silence was like a wet shawl covering them, stifling and uncomfortable. “Are you well?” Grace finally asked.

  Michael’s lips thinned in what could have been a smile. “Simply tired. It’s been a long voyage.”

  Grace clutched her fingers, twisting them together. She had a dozen and one questions she wanted to ask but didn’t know where to start.

  He didn’t look well. His skin was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, not to mention that he needed to gain a significant amount of weight to even begin to look healthy.

  “Where did you travel from?” she asked.

  “France, via Italy, via Turkey.”

  Via Turkey?

  “That’s quite an adventure.”

  “Believe me, it was no adventure.”

  “What happened? Where have you been all this time? Why didn’t you send word that you were alive?” All of the questions tumbled out of her despite the fact that she told herself to go slow.

  “War happened,” he said.

  She waited for more, but none was forthcoming. Besides the physical aspect, this Michael was vastly different from the man she sent off to war. The Michael she had waved goodbye to had been warm and welcoming to every person he encountered. He’d laughed quickly and hated silence. What happened to that man?

  War.

  War changed everything.

  “And you’ve been in…Turkey?”

  “And France and Spain.”

  She nodded, but she did not understand at all. “Why didn’t you send word?” she whispered.

  Michael stared at her blankly. Tarik shifted, drawing Grace’s gaze to him.

  “I only learned of William’s death a few months ago,” Michael said. He tapped his cane on the ground, his eyes downcast. “How did it happen?”

  Michael and William had always been close, so she imagined learning of William’s death would have been difficult for Michael, yet he spoke with little emotion other than mild curiosity.

  “A carriage accident,” she said. “The carriage he was riding in lost a wheel and tipped over. William was crushed. We were told he didn’t suffer.”

  Michael nodded as if digesting the information. “I’m relieved to hear there was no suffering.”

  For so many nights, she had prayed Michael’s death had been a mistake, that he was really alive and in some hospital and there had been a failure in communication. Or maybe someone had misidentified the body. She used to dream of their reunion, but nothing in her dreams had prepared her for this awkwardness or the stilted conversation.

  Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. Tarik said something to him in a language that Grace didn’t understand. Michael answered in the same language. He was fluent in French and knew more than a bit of Spanish and Italian, but she’d never heard him speak this language. Was it something he’d learned while in Crimea?

  The back door opened and then closed. Grace heard Ida humming as she moved down the hallway toward the drawing room.

  “I’m home, my lady,” Ida called out.

  Grace cleared her throat and shot Michael a glance. “I’m in the drawing room, Ida.”

  “I swear to heavens,” Ida called out. “That butcher will bleed the last penny from an unsuspecting customer. I’m glad I know my way around the meat. He wanted to sell me—” Ida stepped into the room, looked at Michael, and froze. Then she screamed. Such an ear-splitting sound, Grace had never heard. Michael winced.

  “Ida,” Grace said calmly. “Michael has returned.”

  Ida closed her mouth, abruptly cutting off the scream, and stared at Michael with wide eyes, her hand over her heart. “From the dead?” She looked at Grace, then dragged her gaze back to Michael.

  “Not from the dead,” Michael said.

  Again Grace waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more.

  “How—”

  “We haven’t discussed that yet, Ida. Maybe you could make us some tea,” Grace said.

  Ida’s mouth opened, then closed as her gaze jumped from Grace to Michael then back.

  Michael stood and smiled faintly. “Ida, it’s good to see you again.”

  “I…What…”

  “Tea, Ida,” Grace said, tipping her head toward the kitchen.

  “Tea,” Ida repeated. “And scones. I made scones just this morning.” She looked over at Tarik and jumped. If possible, her eyes widened more.

  “Scones would be lovely,” Grace said.

  “Yes. Scones.” Ida backed out of the room, not taking her eyes off Tarik.

  The door slapped shut behind her and Grace smiled at Michael. “We’re all a bit shocked.”

  Michael’s lips twitched and for a moment she glimpsed the humor in his eyes that once were so much a part of him. “Of course. Like I said, I should have sent notice, but I was unsure how to word such a letter. It seemed easier to just come home.”

  “I’ve missed you.” She blurted out the words, unable to keep them in any longer. Oh, how she had missed him.

  “And I you, Grace.” But there was no emotion behind the sentiment. It seemed he said it because it was expected of him.

  She supposed war did that to a person. She could only imagine what he’d seen and what he’d endured. Obviously some sort of injury, for he carried a cane. But she couldn’t help wanting more. More excitement from him. More emotion. There was a barrier between them that surprised and hurt her. Each foot that separated them seemed a stab in the heart, the distance all but insurmountable. Yet she feared to approach, to touch, to hug, and to hold. She feared rejection and the cold indifference that seemed to permeate him.

  She tilted her head toward his cane, opting for practical instead of fanciful and hoping for comfort when the shock for both of them wore off. “Does it pain you much?”

  He looked down at his cane as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “My leg? Hardly at all.”

  “Yet you carry a cane.”

  He moved his fingers across the silver knob of the cane and frowned. “Yes.”

  Canes, of course, could be a fashion statement, but she doubted he carried it for vanity. It was the first thing Tarik had handed him once he exited the carriage, and he did seem to lean upon it when he walked.

  “Tea!” Ida called out as she pushed through the door with a tray in her hands. She set the service on the table closest to Grace then stood back staring at Michael.

  “Thank you, Ida. It looks lovely,” Grace said.

  Ida switched her avid attention to Tarik, who continued to stand there as if he were a shadow, unmoving, nearly unblinking.

  “That will be all, Ida. I can pour.”

  Ida yanked her attention back to Grace. “Oh. Yes. I’ll see to dinner, then. Will, uh…How many should I expect for dinner?”

  Grace looked at Michael. Was he staying? She’d assumed he was, but now she doubted her assumption. What if he left? What if this was merely a visit and he was to leave again? As much as she hated his indifference and lack of emotion, she would hate even more if he arrived only to leave again.

  “Just Tarik, Grace, and me,” he said to Ida.

  Ida nodded, then hustled out, and Grace poured the tea. Without thought, she began to prepare Michael’s as she had for so many years before stopping herself. “I assume you like your tea the same.”

  “I do, thank you.”

  “And Tarik? How do you like yours?” It seemed silly to ignore the rather large man standing off to the side when he obviously meant more to Michael than a manservant.

  “None for me. Thank you, my lady.”

  Grace smiled at him, wanting to ask so many questions. But it would be rude to talk about him as if he weren’t in the room.

  “I see Ida is sti
ll with you,” Michael said, reaching for his teacup.

  Grace took a fortifying sip, letting the warmth seep through her. “As well as George. I would be lost without them.” She surely would have been lost without them during the first dark weeks after Michael’s death.

  “Nigel didn’t keep them?”

  “Ida preferred to stay with me.” Nigel had ordered Ida to remain as the housekeeper at the manor house, but she and George had left with Grace, amid Clara’s threats that Ida would never receive a character from her, the all-important written reference that was vital for domestic help to find another position. “I’d rather have no character than one from her,” Ida had told Grace, and marched out of that house with her.

  Ida banging pots in the kitchen was the only noise that broke the silence in the sitting room. Grace looked over at Tarik. She wished he would go away so she could talk to Michael in private. She had so many questions but felt awkward asking them in front of a stranger—even though it seemed Tarik was no stranger to Michael.

  Michael put down his teacup. “My apologies, Grace. I know this wasn’t the homecoming you expected.”

  Finally, she glimpsed some sort of emotion from him, even though it wasn’t the emotion she wanted. Obviously her dreams of Michael swooping her up into his arms, kissing her passionately, and alternately laughing and crying at such a joyous homecoming had been naive fantasies more suited to a young girl than a married woman.

  “We thought you were dead,” she said, her voice shaking. “I wasn’t expecting any homecoming, so to have this one is beyond any expectations.” She pushed away her childish imaginings, closing them off forever.