Nigel and Clara were not there, and that angered Grace. They could at least put on a show of solidarity, even if they didn’t feel it. Their absence would be noted, especially since they had attended every service since Nigel became the new earl. The gossip would run rampant almost immediately.
Michael lightly tugged on Grace’s arm and they made their way up the aisle. He leaned heavily on his cane and almost as heavily on Grace. To the congregation, it would appear that Michael had suffered a grievous leg injury. He did a marvelous job of holding it together, and with the chaos that had taken place before they left fresh in her mind, Grace was proud of him.
With a sigh of relief, they sat in their pew, and even though she could feel dozens of pairs of eyes drilling into her back, Grace relaxed slightly. This was the worst. From here on out, it would get better. It had to.
Reverend Lawrence took the pulpit, smiling and nodding to Michael and Grace. He welcomed Michael back and then proceeded with the service.
After the service, Grace learned that walking into the church had been only the beginning. When they arrived, the townspeople had kept their distance, but as soon as the reverend ended the service, people were out of their pews and crowding Michael.
“Welcome back, my lord.”
“Pleased to see you in good health, my lord.”
“Looking hale and hearty, my lord.”
Michael reared back, but Grace was behind him, and there was really nowhere for them to go. He shook their hands and smiled. Many of them approached Grace as well, expressing their good wishes.
“When will you move back to the big house?” someone asked.
“As soon as we can,” Grace answered, keeping a keen eye on Michael, who was becoming more and more pale.
They were being mobbed. People were beside and behind them, smiling, chattering. At one time Michael would have spoken to them all, given each of them a moment of his time, remembered their names, their children’s names, but now he was mumbling his thanks and looking cornered.
Grace began to experience her own form of panic. She had no idea what would happen if Michael was pushed too far or if he couldn’t contain his panic. She feared he was on the edge and knew she needed to get him out of there as quickly as possible. She looked around for Tarik before remembering that Michael’s servant had not accompanied them. She felt his loss keenly and didn’t miss the irony, considering there were times when she hated his presence.
She frantically looked around for an escape and somehow snagged Sara’s attention from across the church. Sara seemed to understand what Grace needed. She hurried to the reverend, who extricated himself from a conversation and appeared at Michael’s side.
“I’m certain that everyone wants to wish the earl well and that you all have many questions for him,” Reverend Lawrence said. “But I need to speak to him at this moment.”
Clearly disappointed, the townspeople nevertheless backed away.
Reverend Lawrence, along with Sara, escorted them to the back of the church and into a small room. Lawrence shut the door, and they were surrounded by blessed quiet.
“I apologize for the overexuberance of the parishioners. Obviously, they are delighted that you have returned,” he said to Michael.
Michael didn’t seem to be listening. He had his head in his hands and was rubbing his forehead. He walked to a corner and faced it with his eyes closed.
Sara shot Grace a confused look. Grace smiled at her friend while inside she was trembling so hard, she was surprised Sara and the reverend couldn’t see it. “He’s just overwhelmed by the generosity and enthusiasm,” she said.
“Of course he is,” the reverend said. “It’s a lot to take in, both for his lordship and for everyone else. How are you faring, my lady?”
“I’m doing well.” She smiled again, hoping it covered the lie. She was not doing well. She was barely holding it together. She knew Michael had almost had a breakdown out there, and this was merely the beginning. They still had to get him out of the church.
Sara touched Grace’s arm. “Are you truly well? Do you need anything?”
“You have only to ask, my lady,” the reverend said, shooting a skeptical look at Michael.
Even if Grace wanted help, even if she could ask, she had no idea what to ask for. “It’s an adjustment,” she said softly, looking over at Michael to make sure he couldn’t hear them.
“I’m certain that in a few weeks, it will seem like he wasn’t gone at all,” the reverend said jovially. “He will fall back into his old routine, and this will be nothing but a memory.”
Grace smiled and nodded. How nice it would be to believe that in a few weeks, all would be well, when in actuality it might never be well.
“I’m sure you are correct,” she said. “In the meantime, we need to get home. The church should be cleared out by now.”
And it was. Only a few lingered, and they were either deep in conversations or waiting to speak to Reverend Lawrence, allowing Grace and Michael to escape with no delays.
When they reached the comfort of the carriage, Michael leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “They were all coming at me. I could see they were speaking, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Their voices were grating. It hurt my ears. And remembering their names was impossible.” He opened his eyes to look at her. “Thank you, Grace. You always seem to know what to do to make it better.”
“It will take time,” she said.
He grimaced and closed his eyes again. “I wish I could believe that, but I fear it will always be like this.”
Giving false platitudes would do nothing, so she kept her mouth shut. She, too, feared it would always be like this.
—
Hours after retiring for the night, alone and lonely in her bed, Grace lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Even though she was exhausted, her mind would not rest. Thoughts battered her brain, screaming to be heard. Problems wanted to be solved, but there was no solution that she could see. Wishing for something different was worthless, so she concentrated on what she could do to help Michael.
When she heard the first moan, she wasn’t surprised. In fact, she had been listening for it. Immediately, she was out of bed, donning her robe, and rushing into the hallway to knock at Michael’s door.
Tarik opened it. She had yet to see the man in sleeping attire. He was always completely dressed, as if on duty at all times. Did he ever sleep?
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“Another headache.”
“I want to see him.”
“I don’t advise that.”
“I don’t care what you advise, Tarik. He is my husband, and I want to see him.”
Tarik blocked the doorway and stared at her with a mutinous expression. Not willing to wait for him to come to a decision that would ultimately ban her from her husband’s room, she slammed her hand on the door, pushed it open, and swept past him into the room.
Michael was curled in a ball on the bed, moaning.
She dropped to her knees next to him.
—
Michael writhed on the bed. His head felt as if someone had hollowed it out and was hammering on it from the inside. Any sort of movement made him want to scream in agony.
His stomach heaved and pitched, and a few times he was so sick, his stomach felt inside out. He barely registered Tarik holding the chamber pot under his head. He thought he heard Grace’s voice but knew that not to be true. Tarik had strict orders to keep Grace out when Michael suffered like this.
A cold cloth was placed on the back of his neck, and he had to admit that as much as he hated to be touched in the throes of a headache, the cold cloth did help a bit.
He dozed. Sleep was his friend in times like this, but falling asleep was always difficult.
What seemed like hours later, he fell into a deeper sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was shining through the cracks of the draperies. His headache had abated, leaving him to deal with the after
math, which was not pleasant, either. He had the remnants of a headache, though nothing compared to what he’d felt during the night. His mouth was dry, and his body felt as if it had been trampled by a horse. And he was ravenously hungry.
He attempted to turn his head and was pleased that his vision followed with it. A form was slumped in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed. He blinked, tried to focus better, and discovered that Grace was sprawled in the chair, still dressed in her night robe, fast asleep. Her yellow hair was unbound and lying loose around her shoulders. Her mouth was open, and he could hear puffs of air escaping.
When he had imagined Grace’s voice in the night, it might not have been his imagination at all. Had she been the one holding the chamber pot for him? Had she put the cold compresses on the back of his neck?
He closed his eyes in mortification. He hoped to hell not. Where was Tarik, and why had he let her in when he’d been given strict instructions not to?
When Michael opened his eyes, she was awake and looking at him.
“Where is Tarik?” His voice was rough, and his throat hurt from being so violently sick.
“He’s getting breakfast. It was a long night for him.”
“It looks like it was a long night for you, too.”
She sat up and gathered her hair to pull it over her shoulder. He always loved to watch her comb her hair. It had maintained the same color, a pale yellow the color of butter. He recalled that it was soft to the touch and smelled of the rose water she loved to bathe in. Now he could not smell rose water other than in his memories, and he didn’t feel worthy to touch her hair.
“I was happy to do it,” she said.
He grunted, too exhausted for words and not yet possessing the energy to engage in a discussion of why he didn’t want her here. “You can go now,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
Her eyes clouded and her expression shut down. He’d hurt her. In the back of his mind, he felt bad for doing so, but he was so angry at Tarik and so embarrassed by what she had seen that he couldn’t let himself care. Did the woman not understand? To be seen this way was humiliating.
“You’re dismissing me?” she asked.
He closed his eyes as if he’d not heard the hurt in her words and to keep from looking at the despair in her eyes. He was an ass. He didn’t need her to tell him so.
He heard her rise from the chair and make her way to the door. He heard the door open, and then he felt her searching gaze on him. It took all of his self-control to keep his eyes closed, not to tell her to sit with him while he recovered from one of the worst nights he’d had in a long while.
Chapter Ten
When Grace reached her room, she dressed without thought, pulling on an old gown and tying her hair back in a simple tail so it was out of her face.
She made her way to the kitchen to find Tarik sipping tea from a cup too small for his large hands.
“Why do you stay with him?” she asked, taking a seat opposite him. “You have nothing to gain from staying here. You can return to Russia, to your life there.” She was finished with niceties, tired of tiptoeing around the topic. Michael’s behavior was despicable. Why would someone like Tarik stay with a man as bitter as Michael?
Tarik carefully put his cup down, as if afraid to shatter it. “I have nothing to return to in Russia.”
“So you stay with a man like Michael? Nursing him when you could be with someone much more appreciative?”
Tarik pushed his cup to the side, rested his elbows on the table, and looked her in the eye. “I had a wife and two children. A girl named Nadya and a boy named Stepan. They were my life. Living on the steppes is a harsh existence, and as a Cossack warrior I was called to fight in many battles. My family had to learn to live without a lot of the time.
“There was a group of us warriors called to fight in a minor skirmish for the Russians. We always left a few warriors behind to guard the women and children, but this one time they were not enough. A band of Russian soldiers found our people. The soldiers had been drinking. It was cold. They wanted warmth and they wanted women. When they were finished ravishing the women and young girls, they torched the camp and the people in it.”
Horrified, Grace touched Tarik’s hand. Such atrocities were foreign to her. Such cruelty was not something she had ever experienced, and she had no words for him.
“When I found my family’s charred bodies, I was filled with rage. I vowed never again to have anything to do with the Russians. I am still a Cossack warrior, but I refuse to fight for them. However, leaving is difficult. When we were called to fight in the Crimea, I found my chance to leave. My plan was to slip into Turkey during the battle and disappear. Maybe into a Turkish Cossack camp.” He shrugged. “I had no definite plans. Then the English made the ill-fated decision to attack, and I could do nothing but watch the slaughter.”
She winced at the word “slaughter” in reference to the battle that almost took Michael’s life. The reports from London had not been as harsh; they apparently watered down the truth of the war.
“His lordship is a brave man. I saw him step in front of a young soldier. A moment later, a Russian ran them over with his horse. His lordship was trampled by the horse’s hooves.”
Grace closed her eyes, imagining Michael’s lifeless body under the hooves of a horse. “And the young soldier?” she whispered.
“His lordship’s body protected him. He walked away. The English retreated. I watched for a bit and thought I saw his lordship move. To my surprise I found him alive so I took him to my camp.”
Grace squeezed Tarik’s hand, grateful beyond words to this stranger who had saved Michael’s life. “Thank you, Tarik.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I was not without my own reasons, my lady. I had a captain of the English army in my possession. I knew that if I were caught, I would be killed. But I also knew that if I could save him and bring him back to England, then I could begin a new life.”
Once again Grace was taken aback by the brutal honesty of this warrior. And yet it was a refreshing honesty. “We will do whatever you need. Help you in any way we can.”
Tarik slipped his hand from beneath hers and took up his teacup to sip from it. “I am happy here. I have grown fond of his lordship, and I find that I like serving him. I have food. I have a roof over my head. And he is not so bad to work for.”
Grace sat back. “He is angry with me for nursing him last night. I daresay he is angry with you as well. I’m sorry for that.”
He shrugged again. “So be it.”
An English servant would have been terrified of angering his lord in such a way. A true servant would expect some sort of punishment, maybe even a sacking, but Tarik didn’t seem to care and didn’t appear at all frightened.
“You have experienced his anger before?”
“My lady, he was nothing but angry for the first few months after his injury. He is still angry, but he is learning to control it. Though it is nothing new to me, I can see that it bothers you.”
“He never used to be this way. He was always quick to smile and laugh. Anger came slowly to him, but that isn’t the case anymore.”
“I like hearing how he used to be, because I know only the man he is now.”
“He’s different, Tarik.” Those words held such a wealth of meaning that her voice quivered with the impact of it.
“Yes. He is different, but it is not a bad difference. You were expecting your husband to return to you the same as before, but war is not like that. Even if his head had not been injured, he would be a changed man. War does such things.”
She knew that, of course. She’d heard stories of others returning from war. There were dozens of charities devoted to soldiers who had lost limbs and been grievously injured. And then there were those who didn’t return at all. She’d heard the tales, and she’d felt grief for those families. “You have a way of putting things in perspective, Tarik.”
“I’ve lived a long life in my short years.”
<
br /> “He will still be angry at the both of us.”
“I daresay it won’t be the last time.”
—
That afternoon Grace found Michael at her dainty writing desk, his large frame scrunched into the chair. There was a look of intense concentration about him as he gripped the pen tightly in his hand. Balls of paper were scattered about his feet and on the desk.
They had spoken little that morning. Grace had worked on her spring seedlings in the conservatory, then had answered correspondence while Michael had puttered about. She noticed that he wasn’t able to settle down easily. He was up and down, sitting for short moments, then wandering around the house before opening a book and closing it. He was outside, inside, talking to Ida, looking for George, then back inside to find the book he’d misplaced. It was exhausting just watching him. And it was surprising to see him actually sitting down and concentrating on something.
“What are you writing?” She stopped to put a hand on his shoulder and look down at the paper he was staring at.
His fingertips were covered in ink. It appeared he had been at it for quite some time. “I am writing a letter to Mr. Roberts, asking him to bring the ledgers around so I can go over them. I don’t want to wait until Nigel moves out, and I need to be prepared when I meet with Roberts.”
Roberts was the steward for the manor. He was young but had been with the family for a few years. Michael had chosen Roberts a little while before he’d been called away to the Crimea.
Michael turned the paper toward her. “Does this sound all right?”
Grace picked up the correspondence and began to read. Her fingers turned cold, and it took great effort not to let her horror show as she tried to decipher the writing on the page. Michael had always been a wonderful letter writer. She had boxes full of his letters from when they were courting and the times he had gone off to his military duties. All were elegantly penned, the words flowing and beautiful. She’d joked that he could have been a celebrated poet or novelist, and he’d always scoffed at her.
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