by Anne Gracie
Who was he? One moment he was kissing her with a passion that still curled her toes, a whole day later, just thinking about it. The next he spoke with cool dispassion of marriage being nothing but a business arrangement. And then he labored over a mare and foal with such compassion, and afterward kissed Grace with such tenderness . . .
And what did he want? He desired Grace. That was clear.
And she desired him.
But he seemed to feel no contradiction between marrying Melly and desiring Grace.
Grace glanced across at the mound in the other bed. Melly was still fast asleep, poor thing. She was worn out with worry.
She could not let things continue like this. She’d promised to help Melly, and Melly was her oldest friend. Only what was help? It wasn’t as simple as it had seemed in the first place.
If Melly was even the slightest bit inclined to like Lord D’Acre, Grace couldn’t in all conscience interfere—not now. Even if—especially if—she wanted him for herself.
And she did. Rake as he was, immoral as he seemed, to her shame, she wanted him.
She’d always thought she was unable to feel the kind of passion her sisters had found with their husbands. She’d thought she could never give herself and her happiness into the hands of a man.
Or so she had always thought until a rake stole a few kisses. And sucked a splinter from her palm. And then kissed her until her very bones were like to melt . . .
In one day he’d turned her world upside down.
And yet he still talked of marrying Melly.
Her plans to travel to Egypt and other exotic places had been based on the assumption that she’d never fall in love. A not unreasonable assumption: she’d been on the marriage mart for three years and had tried very hard to fall in love, even a little bit. And nothing.
She’d thought a man’s kisses would never move her. They never had. Even when the nicest men had kissed her, and their kisses had been very pleasant, she’d still felt nothing. Not the sort of thing she knew her sisters felt.
Until now. When she’d kissed a man she didn’t even know if she could trust, and who not only didn’t believe love and marriage went together, he could see nothing wrong with being betrothed to Melly while kissing Grace.
He should have been all wrong, and yet she’d felt so right in his arms. She’d felt . . . everything. More than she’d thought possible.
No, it was impossible. He seemed determined to go ahead and marry Melly. Melly, though she said she didn’t want to marry him, also thought him kind. And good-looking. Now that she’d met him, Melly might become reconciled to the marriage. Grace didn’t see how she couldn’t. Any woman would want to marry him, she thought despairingly. He was too attractive for his own good. Certainly too attractive for Grace’s good!
Lord D’Acre might change his mind about children. He’d said marriage was about heirs. And he seemed to be kind to children. That boy who’d brought the food last night thought him wonderful.
Oh, Lord, she ought to just cut and run. She couldn’t betray her friend and she wouldn’t stay to be torn apart. She should go to Egypt with Mrs. Cheever, put Dominic Wolfe and his compelling golden eyes and his toe-curling kisses right out of her mind.
Egypt, after all, had always been her dream. Since childhood it had been her ruling passion: to see the pyramids and the Sphinx for herself. To stand there in golden Egyptian sand and look at—be able to touch—the mystery of the ages.
She’d planned her trip to Egypt the way other girls planned their honeymoons.
She’d attended public lectures on Egypt and the exciting discoveries being made there all the time, she learned everything she could and was even studying Arabic.
She’d met Mrs. Hermione Cheever at one of those lectures. Mrs. Cheever was a wealthy, elderly widow with a similar passion for pyramids and the mysteries of the ancient world. Mrs. Cheever was going to Egypt in the autumn, visiting her poor bereaved cousin Henry Salt, the British consul, and avoiding winter, like the swallows, she’d joked. Why didn’t Grace accompany her? It would be such fun!
There was still time. If she left now, she could still join Mrs. Cheever. Grace was nearly one-and-twenty, and Egypt was waiting, as she’d always dreamed of.
But last night she’d been unable to sleep for dreams of a golden-eyed man who kissed like . . . like all the dreams she’d never dared to dream.
Oh it was all too confusing! Going back to sleep was impossible: she needed exercise. And breakfast.
And another good gargle with vinegar and water wouldn’t hurt, either.
She dressed quickly. The previous day she’d found an old gray riding habit in a chest of drawers they’d been clearing out for their own use. Grace had tried it on immediately. It had been made for a taller lady, but otherwise it fitted. It was old-fashioned in style but in perfect condition, thanks to the lavender and camphor it had been packed in.
Grace adored riding, but hadn’t brought a riding habit with her on this trip. Melly didn’t ride and therefore neither would her companion. But Sir John was bed-bound for a time and would never find out, and Melly was asleep and didn’t need her, so for the moment, Grace was free to indulge herself.
Holding her skirts high, she skipped across to the stables. Three pale and one dark equine heads poked over the doors curiously. He must have caught the third mare.
The silvery mare she’d ridden yesterday whickered a greeting and tossed her head. Grace was delighted.
“Oh, you remember me, do you, sweetheart?” She caressed the velvety muzzle and fed the mare a carrot. “I’m sorry, it’s a bit woody.” The mare didn’t seem to mind. She crunched it with apparent relish, while Grace fed carrots to all the other horses—extra for the little mother. The foal was standing up, drinking from his mother, his little tail wiggling in delight. Newborn foals were much nicer than newborn humans, Grace thought.
She’d brought a cloth to clean off the old sidesaddle she’d noticed yesterday. It was in better condition than she’d realized. She saddled her mare and slipped a bridle on her. The mare lipped gently at Grace’s jacket.
“No, sweetheart, no more carrots. What’s your name, I wonder? I can’t keep calling you sweetheart.” She loved this mare already. “Maybe I’ll call you Misty, because you look so much like morning mist. Do you like that name?” She used a manger as a riding block to mount, and rode out.
After the storm the previous day, the world was newly washed and clean and the air was fresh and tangy with the faint promise of autumn.
Her mare was frisky and her mood infected Grace, so first they had a glorious gallop across the fields. The scent of crushed summer grasses and damp earth was intoxicating. Grace didn’t take much notice of where she was: all through this valley the gray solidity of Wolfestone was visible, so she wouldn’t get lost.
After a while, a field of brown-and-white cows attracted Grace’s attention and diverted her path in the direction of a prosperous-looking farmhouse. Where there were cows she hoped there would be milk. And butter and cheese.
There was, and Mrs. Parry, the motherly looking farmer’s wife, was only too happy to entertain a young London lady staying at the castle. She ushered Grace into the parlor and gave her a glass of fresh, creamy milk and some of her special gingerbread. And she was delighted to answer all the questions Grace put to her.
Yes indeed, she’d send milk and cheese and butter up to the castle straight away. Young Jimmy would take it right after he’d finished in the dairy. Would miss want some fresh eggs, too, perhaps? And what about a nice pot of honey, and some of Mrs. Parry’s damson jam?
Miss would indeed like all of the above. And would Mrs. Parry recommend the best place to buy bacon? And bread? And coffee.
“Oh, the Wigmores are the ones to see for bacon, miss—they killed a pig not too long back, either, so I know they’ll have plenty. Just go along this path toward the village and you’ll see a cottage with a gate made of a rowan and a willow, all entwined. She be a witch,
o’ course, old Granny Wigmore—but a white one, so don’t be a’feared. A grand healer, Granny be.”
Grace nodded. She was well acquainted with country superstition. Her grandfather had despised it, which naturally had made all the Merridew girls sympathize with it, even if they didn’t believe. And Great-Uncle Oswald adored trying out folk remedies for his various ailments.
“Most likely Granny will be sitting out the front. She doesn’t sleep much and likes to know what’s happening.” Mrs. Parry winked. “Now, you’ll get bread and coffee in the village. You’ll smell the bread baking as soon as you get there, so just follow your nose.”
Grace thanked her and got up to leave. “Oh, and Mrs. Parry—if you know of anyone who needs a few weeks’ work, you might send them up to the castle.”
Mrs. Parry beamed at her. “Ah, miss, that’s grand. There’s plenty o’ folk will be grateful for a little extra. Times have been hard in Wolfestone. I’ll spread the news, indeed I will. And my Jimmy will be up wi’ everything in a basket for you—and miss, I’ll pop in a jar of my best buttermilk, just for you.”
“Buttermilk?”
“For your complexion, miss,” Mrs. Parry said confidingly. “Bathe it three times a day in my buttermilk and those nasty freckles will fade like you wouldn’t believe.”
Grace thanked her gravely and left. She’d have to freshen up those nasty freckles with henna in a day or two. And touch up the roots of her hair.
A little further down the valley, she turned a corner and saw the very house Mrs. Parry had described. It was set in the middle of a lush garden of herbs and flowers, and the living archway of entwined rowan and willow at the front gate was unmistakable. It was ancient and gnarled and strangely beautiful.
As predicted, an old woman was sitting in front of the cottage in the early morning sunshine. A sprightly old crone with rosy cheeks and hair in white elflocks, she was on her feet and at the front gate by the time Grace reached her.
“You are Mrs. Wigmore, I think. I am Grace M—” She corrected herself. “Miss Greystoke.” Grace slipped from the mare and held out her hand.
To her surprise the old woman took her hand and kissed it, saying, “Welcome, Lady. The sight of ye gladdens my old eyes, it does. Wolfestone needs ye, needs ye powerful bad.” She produced a piece of apple and fed it to the mare. “A grand omen that you’ve returned.”
Grace supposed the old lady had mistaken her for someone else. She smiled. “You gave me directions last night to the doctor’s, remember? Thank you very much. They were excellent directions. Um, I was hoping to buy some bacon.”
“Aye, I have ’un here.” The old lady produced a wrapped packet from her apron. “There’s enough there for everyone up at t’castle to break their fast. Young Billy Finn’ll bring a flitch o’ best bacon up later—save ye luggin it on that ’orse.”
“But . . .” Grace frowned and unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a beautiful piece of bacon.
The gnarled old hand clutched hers. “Now, Lady, ye’ll be wantin’ to know which families here have greatest need o’ ye.”
“Oh, but—”
The old woman ignored her. She described several houses that Grace would find on the way to the village. “The Finns, the Taskers, the Tickels, and all the rest. Just go, Lady, and you mun see. Powerful bad, the folk o’ Wolfestone need ye.”
Grace shrugged and agreed to go. She might as well recruit workers who really could benefit from having the work, and this old lady would know everyone. She rose to leave. “Thank you, Mrs. Wigm—”
A gnarled, ancient hand shot out to detain her. “I have something more to tell you. Back up the road there and off through the woods be Gwydion’s Pool. Ye must not take it lightly, Lady. It be a magical place, but it be dangerous for females. Gwydion be one o’ the old gods and if a young girl be so foolish as to bathe in his pool . . .” The old woman shook her head direfully.
“She’ll drown?” Grace asked, fascinated by this evidence of ancient folk beliefs.
“Worse! He’ll steal her virtue from her.”
Grace laughed.
“Ah, young miss, ye don’t believe me, but ’tis true. Look at them Tickel girls. Their mam—poor ignorant creature—she be a furriner from past Ludlow and knew no better. She let those girls paddle and splash in Gwydion’s Pool when they weren’t no more’n babes, and look at ’em now! Not a moral between ’em! Not their fault, o’ course, but a warning to the rest o’ female kind, they be.”
“Well, thank you very much for warning me.” Grace got up again to leave.
Again the old woman detained her. “Even so, miss, you need to go to Gwydion’s Pool and fetch some o’ the water from it.”
“Need I? Why?”
“Ye must take a gill o’ water by moonlight and bathe yer face in it, morning and night. Them freckles will fade, sure as my name be Agnes Wigmore!” She described the way to the pool in detail, and only then did she release Grace’s hand.
Grace thanked her for the bacon and the advice and left. She headed for the village, and because she wasn’t in a hurry and had said she would, she went by the curving forest path and stopped at each house that Granny Wigmore had mentioned; the Finns, the Taskers and the Tickels . . .
She was given a warm welcome at each house but the state of the houses shocked her. The people here were in abject poverty. Mrs. Finn lived with five young children in a shack of a house. She took in washing, but her eldest son, Billy, considered himself the breadwinner of the family. Dear Lord, but the child was not yet ten.
The Tickel girls lived with their mother and grand-mother, who was bed-bound. They took in washing and the girls went out to scrub and clean whenever work was available.
The Taskers had evidently been prosperous at one time, but, she learned, they’d been unjustly evicted from their farm—the first time in hundreds of years they’d been late—and now they lived in a hovel on the edge of the forest making ends meet as best they could.
Everyone’s clothes were worn and patched; there was little evidence of food in any of the houses—Grace was warmly welcomed but was offered water to drink and food that she could see was all there was. The houses were meagerly furnished yet clean and neat. And everywhere she looked there was a need for maintenance and repair—leaking roofs, rotting floors, walls crumbling with damp. Who on earth was the landlord? Grace feared she knew.
Melly had said he was rich.
But at whose expense?
The sun was high in the sky by the time she reached the village, but Grace had much to think on. In the village shop she bought several loaves of fresh, warm bread and a packet of coffee and tea. She left the shopkeeper with an order than left him smiling and bowing her out of the shop like a duchess. She thought of the bare larders of the places she’d just left and vowed she would do something.
Chapter Seven
The voice of conscience is so delicate that it is easy to
stifle it; but it is also so clear that it is impossible to
mistake it.
MADAME DE STAEL
GRACE ENTERED THE KITCHEN AT WOLFESTONE TO FIND A FIRE blazing brightly and the smell of fresh coffee. He’d certainly acted quickly. Only last night he’d said he would arrange for some help. And here it was.
A stout woman turned away from the hearth as she entered and bobbed her a curtsy. “How d’ye do, miss. His lordship said I was to take my orders from you. Stokes is my name, miss. Good, plain cook I am, with some experience of the gentry. And this here’s my niece, Enid,” she said as a harried-looking girl emerged from the scullery carrying a large pot. “She’s a dab hand in the scullery and will give you no trouble. Give miss a curtsy, Enid!” She poked the girl in the ribs, almost knocking the pot from her hands. The girl bobbed a jerky curtsy and scuttled off.
Grace said, “I’m very pleased you’re here, Mrs. Stokes and Enid. However, I think there’s some mistake. It should be Miss Pettifer who you will take orders fr—”
“No, miss, excuse me, b
ut his lordship said it was to be you. Made it quite plain. Miss Greystoke, he said. Small, dressed in gray, and with interesting freckles is how he put it.” She hesitated, then said, “I’ve got an infallible remedy for those freckles, miss, if you’d care to try it.”
Grace smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Stokes, perhaps later. Is that coffee I smell? I would love a cup. And I’ve brought bacon and fresh bread and—oh, all sorts of things. And there’s an order coming up from the village shortly.”
“Oh, that’s grand, miss. I brought a few things with me when his lordship engaged me last night, the coffee for instance, but I didn’t know what was in stock, so—”
“It was very clever of you to think of it,” Grace declared.
Mrs. Stokes beamed. “My pleasure, miss. Mrs. Parry’s lad brought the supplies up that you asked for, so there’s plenty for breakfast.” She set a cup of coffee down on the kitchen table, whisked the loaf of bread from Grace’s hand, and pressed Grace into a chair. “Now, sit ye down, miss, and I’ll cut ye some o’ that nice fresh bread. Will ye have honey or some of Mrs. Parry’s damson jam?”
“Honey, please,” Grace said happily. She took a sip of hot, fragrant coffee. “Oh, Mrs. Stokes, you’re a gem!”
Mrs. Stokes, beaming, placed a plate with two slices of fragrant, warm bread in front of her, lavishly slathered with butter and honey. Grace devoured it hungrily.
She was in an excellent mood. Lord D’Acre had hired several servants already. That boded well for her. She hadn’t really thought about how he would respond to her own actions this morning.
“Heavenly!” she declared, licking honey from her fingers. “Is there anything better than fresh, warm bread and honey?”
“I can think of a few things.” Just the sound of that deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Though that does look delicious.” The look he gave her indicated he wasn’t thinking about bread. She hurriedly stopped licking her fingers and tucked them out of sight, though they were still a little sticky.