A knock sounded at the door. “The tub’s full,” Frey called. “I left a towel and washcloth for you. They’re a bit ragged, though.”
“Thank you.” Grace shimmied out of the skirt and spread it out on the bed, then she unlaced her corset, grateful for the release from the pressure that had squeezed her ribs all day. Next, she rummaged around in her satchel before she found her buttonhook and could undo her boots.
Finally, the rest of her undergarments followed, and her body was free of restraints. When she looked down at herself, Grace could see red marks where the corset and bodice had dug into her skin. She pulled her new blue dressing gown from the portmanteau and also decided to take her traveling clothes for washing. Lastly, she found the rose-scented soap she’d splurged on, as well as her nightgown.
When Grace opened the door, she saw no sign of Frey and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She shut the door, dropping everything but the soap on the floor, and slipped out of her dressing gown. Holding the soap, she tested the water with her fingers, and then climbed inside.
A bath in the gleaming claw-foot tub next to a warm cast-iron radiator was the most heavenly experience. Having indoor plumbing, plenty of hot water, and a tub to stretch out in felt almost decadent. For a few minutes, Grace allowed herself to relax. She hadn’t realized the tenseness in her body, and indeed, her muscles had been tight since the fire.
As much as Grace would have liked to linger in the bath, she was exhausted from such an overwhelming and emotional day. She pulled the hairpins from her chignon, dropping each one over the side of the tub.
After she washed and rinsed her hair, she rose and toweled off, promising herself another longer soak in the future.
Once her hair was as dry as could be, she combed out the long strands, an arduous process of untangling the thick waves. Then she donned her new white nightgown, covering the garment with the dressing gown and tying the sash.
She left the soapy water in the tub, tossing in her dirty clothes to soak. Tomorrow she’d scrub each piece, rinse them, and hang them out to dry.
Opening the door, Grace listened for the sound of Frey moving about the house, but all sounded quiet. She padded on bare feet down the hall to her room, again grateful for the warmth from the radiator.
She was about to shut the door, and then bit her lip, thinking. We haven’t said good-night. They could hardly avoid that ritual. Or, she could, but that act would be rude and certainly not the best start for their marriage. Grace glanced down at her nightwear. I’ll have to get used to Frey seeing me this way. Might as well start tonight. But first, she needed to clear the bed.
After unpinning the dress shields from the arms of the bodice, Grace folded both pieces of the wedding gown, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could, and returned them to the cedar box. She patted the top in farewell and slid it under the bed.
Frey had installed several pegs in a row on the walls, and Grace hung up her coat, second-best dress, and Sunday dress. She left the material for the new dress in the portmanteau, as well as her undergarments.
At the bottom of the portmanteau, Grace found Victor’s necklace wrapped in a handkerchief and tied with string. She unwrapped the parcel and stared at the piece of jewelry that used to mean so much to her. Although, in Lawrence, she’d wanted to hurl the necklace into the river, she’d rationalized gold was gold and worth money.
A knock sounded on the doorframe. She looked up to see her husband’s gaze on her.
“May I come in?” The words sounded strangely formal.
With a flutter in her stomach, Grace nodded permission, hoping Frey was merely saying good-night and keeping to the promise he’d made in his letter.
I’m not ready for any more closeness. I’ve come far enough today.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After their talk on the porch, Frey watched Grace rush upstairs. Even with her skirts bundled up, she looked the very epitome of her name. He grinned, waited a minute, and followed after.
Gertie climbed with him.
Frey walked down the hall and into the bathroom, feeling grateful the fixtures had arrived in time. He opened the hot water tap, finding a pleasurable intimacy in filling the tub she’d soon use….
Once the water rose to the right level, he shut off the tap, alerted Grace that her bath was ready, and wandered back downstairs to make sure everything was taken care of for the night. He headed for the kitchen.
Gertie, who up until now had been his silent shadow, now pressed close to him, ears up, eyes alert.
Earlier, he’d fed the dog, but that didn’t stop her hopeful stare. “Don’t give me that. You’re not foolin’ me into thinking you’re starving.”
Not much had changed in the room—just a few more supplies in the crates, a hatbox next to them, the wedding bouquet on the table, and the lingering smell of fried chicken. But somehow the room seemed different.
Frey imagined Grace standing at the stove cooking and the kiss of greeting she’d give him when he came inside for supper after a hard day’s work. Everything he’d once envisioned about his home now included Grace—not a nebulous wife with indistinct features. He looked forward to seeing the feminine touches she’d add, making the end result of the foursquare their creation.
He smiled, remembering his wife’s glowing face as she sat at the other end of the table and her avid interest in the conversation. Frey hadn’t missed her covert study of him and had gotten the sense Grace liked what she saw, which made him feel good.
He liked what he’d learned about her past, although her solitary state made him sad for her and grateful for his own boisterous, loving family. For the first time, he wondered if he should take her and move back to Minnesota to be among relatives. But then he realized the two of them were forming a new family—although not one of blood—for Seth and Trudy Flanigan could not have done more for them today than if they’d been kin.
With gratitude in his heart, Frey left the kitchen, walked through the silent rooms of the first floor, and then climbed the stairs. He glanced at the bathroom door and slowed. A vision of Grace bathing made him look away and quicken his steps, his clodhoppers sounding like horses on the wooden floor.
The day will come when I am free to walk inside and see her in all her nude glory. Frey let out a sigh, working to keep his body under control. But not today.
Once in his bedroom, he sat on the bed, taking deep breaths, and waited for Grace to finish in the bathroom. He glanced over at the other side of the four-poster bed, specially made for his height, and wondered how much time would pass before she’d sleep beside him. Hopefully soon.
Gertie followed him into the room and pressed close. She cocked her head, as if asking him why he was just sitting there doing nothing.
Frey leaned over to pet her. “I know, girl. You aren’t used to me sitting still. We’re waiting to say good-night to your new mistress,” he explained. “Something tells me that we’d better do so in this suit and not a night shirt.” He reached down and pulled off his boots. “Hopefully, Grace won’t mind stocking feet.”
Gertie nudged him with her nose, wanting more caresses. When he resumed rubbing her head, she wiggled under his hand, obviously enjoying the attention.
Finally came the sounds he’d been listening for—the opening of the bathroom door and Grace’s quiet, almost inaudible steps to her room. He waited for the door to shut but heard nothing. Puzzled, he stood and quietly went to investigate and saw the open door of her room.
Frey paused in the hall for a minute, taking in the sight of his bride, memorizing this special moment. The dusky light of the setting sun filtered through the windows. He moved into the doorway, grateful for the extra height, so he could stand there and not have to duck inside.
Grace sat on the bed, so focused on something in her hand she didn’t react to his soft footsteps. She wore a blue dressing gown, and her hair hung in dark, damp waves to the middle of her back. The bend of her neck, the rounding of her shoulders, gave h
er a look of vulnerability.
Mine to protect. Mine to cherish.
The feeling of possessiveness rolled over him like a wave, making his chest ache. To ease the pressure, he looked away, scanning the room.
Grace seemed to have unpacked, for she had clothing hanging on the pegs. Not the wedding gown, though, and he wondered what she’d done with the dress. He took a second quick look. The light grew dimmer, and he made a note to bring up an oil lamp for her to use.
The room seemed sparse compared to what he remembered about his sisters’ bedroom—the wardrobe and chest of drawers for their clothes, the shawls and reticules and hats and sashes hanging from pegs near the door, trinkets in glass bowls and wooden boxes, two sets of toiletry items, and always, the scent of lavender sachet in the air. “Grace,” he said softly, moving closer. “Is this all you have?”
For the first time, Frey saw her eyes spark with annoyance, and he cursed his clumsiness. He’d carried her luggage and knew how little his bride possessed. Most women traveled with several trunks. He hadn’t meant to make Grace ashamed of her poverty, especially when they’d been getting along so well. Previous poverty, he amended. What’s mine is now hers.
Grace lifted her chin. “No, I brought along more of my belongings in invisible trunks that floated behind me without anyone having to carry them.” Her words snapped out, emphasizing her upper-class Northeast accent. “They are against that wall—” she made an imperious wave toward the empty space “—and hold my ball gowns, ten pairs of shoes, my extensive library, four parasols, two fans, and seven hatboxes.”
Frey grinned and made a short bow. “Well done, Mrs. Foster. I am chastised for my insensitivity.”
She didn’t look convinced for her brow remained furrowed.
“Grace,” he said, his tone even and low. “There’s no shame in not having much. In fact, according to the Bible, money is the root of all evil.” He moved toward the bed as he spoke.
Narrowing her gaze, his wife squared her shoulders. “‘The love of money is the root of all evil,’ not money itself,” she corrected, her words clipped. “In other words, greed is the root of all evil.”
“Guess I need to pay better attention to Reverend Norton’s sermons.” Frey lowered himself to the bed, inhaling the scent of roses from her wet hair and keeping enough distance so as not to spook her. “How about tomorrow we go over the accounts, so you can see where we stand financially?”
She gaped at him.
“I’ll tell you about my business and my plans, and then we can figure out what we can afford to do in finishing and furnishing the house, as well as whatever else you might need that you didn’t bring with you.”
Her tense shoulders relaxed, and Grace lowered her chin. “Sounds sensible.”
Frey noticed the necklace she held. “What’s this?” He touched the heart.
She hesitated. “A gift from a man to whom I used to be engaged.”
The revelation came as a blow. He managed to keep his jaw from dropping by clamping his mouth shut. Frey took a few breaths through his nose before he could ask. “Did you love him?” To his ears, his voice sounded hoarse.
“I thought I did. Now…I don’t know.” She gave him a brief smile, but her eyes looked desolate. “Maybe I’m still learning about what love is.”
“I hope so.”
Awkward silence fell.
Why did you leave him, Frey wanted to demand. He needed to know Grace wasn’t like Ingrid, his former betrothed, leaving behind a good man who was hurting because of her desertion.
She hefted the necklace as if testing the weight. “I thought I could sell this. Maybe put the money toward that fence you want.”
So she is on my side after all. Frey let out a pent-up breath, appreciating her efforts at conciliation.
A fence is the last thing I want right now.
But still he couldn’t help wondering. Is Grace really ready for marriage—the kind that I want? Well, at this point, the question was moot. We’re wed now—for better or for worse.
Frey promised to make himself be patient until the misery left her gaze for good.
* * *
Washing and drying Frey’s tin dishes, no matter how mismatched and battered, was a pleasure unlike any Grace had ever experienced before. Although the tasks remained the same as at Shirley’s—carrying water into the house by hand, heating both wash and rinse water on the stove, cleaning and rinsing every piece, and then drying and putting everything away—just working in her own kitchen filled her with bubbles of joy that even scrubbing the remains of scrambled eggs from the cast-iron skillet couldn’t dent.
Grace had almost finished drying the last of the dishes, when Frey entered the kitchen, with Gertie at his heels, carrying some paper, a pen, and an inkwell shaped like a pewter ball.
He’d tucked a blue ledger and a brown one, as well as a large folded paper, under his arms. He sniffed the air. “Still smells like cinnamon in here.” He waggled his eyebrows in a wide-eyed hopeful look.
“You already ate five, Frey Foster,” Grace playfully scolded, feeling very wifely. She tried not to stare. She’d gotten quite a shock earlier when her husband came downstairs from his room wearing only a white shirt and trousers held up by suspenders—a totally different look from yesterday’s formal attire. His work clothes suited him better, and she’d been stealing secret glances all morning. I need to make him a blue shirt that matches his eyes.
He placed everything on the table and unfolded the paper.
Gertie followed him, scooting underneath the table and curling up in a ball.
Curious, Grace walked closer, drying the last tin plate as she moved. She leaned over to see a hand-drawn map with buildings prominently displayed. She pointed the plate at the map. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see.” Frey flashed her a grin and pulled out two chairs on one side of the table. “I thought we’d sit together so I can show you everything.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Grace returned to the crate where she stored the dishes, pots, and pans, placing the plate inside, hanging the drying cloth neatly over the side. After removing the apron and folding it over another crate, she straightened to find her husband watching her with narrowed eyes.
“That won’t do.” He made a spreading motion with his arms. “First, let me tell you what I envision for the kitchen. Then you can find a spot where I can fasten a couple of hooks, so you have places to hang those.” He gestured to the dishcloth and apron.
His thoughtfulness pleased her. “I’d like that.”
Frey leaned to touch the front wall. “I propose a row of low cabinets with a counter along here, on both sides of the sink, so you can do dishes and look out the window.” He paused and lifted an eyebrow, apparently waiting for a response.
Grace loved the idea, but the immensity of her emotion inhibited her words. “I’d like that,” she repeated. You sound like a parrot, she scolded. Frey deserves better from you.
He didn’t act disappointed in her repetitive response. He pointed to the wall by the door. “A high closet there between the window and the door for brooms and mops and for items that you might be taking outside and in, like a basket for carrying garden produce. Maybe hooks for coats and such.”
“Ohhh.”
Frey waited, then held out his hand. He scrunched his nose and eyebrows in a comical face and curled his fingers a few times in a give me more gesture.
Grace chuckled, the laughter breaking her strange paralysis, and finally found her voice. “The luxury of space—” she opened her arms wide “—of having so much storage is difficult to absorb. My former employer’s home wasn’t much bigger than this whole kitchen. And the house I lived in with my parents was a cottage. Cozy, charming, with odd nooks and crannies. Interesting but small.”
“I could give you odd nooks and crannies.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Tell me more.”
Frey went on to describe where he thought th
e pantry, icebox, and pie safe should go, gesturing and pacing the room as he spoke.
Grace enjoyed watching his enthusiasm as much as she did learning about her kitchen.
He stopped and waited for her reaction.
With so many details to consider, she didn’t respond right away.
Frey crossed his arms. “You don’t like it,” he stated in a flat tone.
“Oh, no.” Grace stepped to his side and placed both hands around his arm, then realized what she’d done, and pulled back her hands, embarrassed at being so forward. But her palms tingled from the memory of touching him. Without the heavy broadcloth of his suit, she held the hardness of his muscle. Oh, my. Her fingers hadn’t spanned his bicep. I’d need another hand to do so.
Grace looked up at him.
He cocked an eyebrow obviously entertained by her dithering. Reaching down, he grasped her hand and lifted it back to his arm, giving her a little pat. “That’s better.”
Knowing her face must be red, Grace tried to explain. “I suppose…I need to become used to feeling, uh, free to touch you,” she stammered.
“I certainly hope so.” His tone sounded amused. “And I take it your initial freedom with my arm was meant as reassurance?”
She didn’t dignify the question with an answer, instead rushing to make her point. “You made everything so clear. I pictured the kitchen just as you described. I couldn’t ask for more, Frey. I can’t wait to sew curtains and a tablecloth.”
With a grin, he raised his elbow, as if to escort her someplace, and at the same time made a dramatic sweep of his free arm toward the table. He paraded her the three feet to her seat and held out the chair.
Playing along, Grace pulled wide the sides of her skirt, as if she wore a ball gown and not her second-best dress, and took a seat.
“Now, milady, are you ready for your reports?” Frey asked, using a hoity-toity accent.
“Carry on, my dear man.” Grace mimicked, gesturing to the ledgers with a regal flick of her hand.
Frey barked a laugh and took a seat next to her. He pulled the blue ledger close and rested a hand on top. “This is for my personal expenses, which includes this house. You are welcome to peruse the pages at your leisure.” He flipped open to a page marked by a ragged embroidered bookmark with FREY in crooked black letters running down the middle.
Grace_Bride of Montana Page 9