A Touch of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Good day, miss.” He touched his narrow-brimmed black hat with one finger and handed her into the carriage.

  As she settled into the plush black leather seat, she felt every bit of energy drain right out through the toes of her new laced boots. Tired didn’t begin to describe the boneless weight of her body pressing into the seat. She studied her hand on her thigh. Lifting even her little finger was beyond her, not that lifting her little finger was necessary. Why was it that at home she was strong and could work from dawn to well beyond dusk, but sitting on a train for the last five days had drained her like a turned-over bucket?

  The carriage rocked as the men put their trunks aboard, and then Jonathan settled into the seat across from her. The door was closed behind him, and the carriage rocked again as the other man swung up into the carriage box.

  “Welcome to New York City.” Jonathan said again and leaned forward and took both of her hands in his, gazing directly into her eyes. “I know this has been terribly hard for you, but we’ll be home soon. I know Mother will have your room ready, and you can rest.”

  She watched his lips form the words, but the act of really understanding him took more than she had to give, so she just nodded. The depth of his caring, so visible in all he did, made the backs of her eyes burn. You will not cry, she ordered herself. You will not. She swallowed once and then again and sniffed. You will not.

  The carriage jerked as the horses moved forward, and she turned her attention to the crowds waiting or walking on the wide sidewalk that fronted the bank of doors through which more people continued to flow from the station. Grand Central Station, Jonathan had called it. Men in black top hats, derby hats, fedoras, or flat hats, some wearing suits or jackets, others in shirtsleeves. Women wearing wide straw hats with flowers or ribbons, twirling parasols or clutching shawls. People of all nationalities and social strata, all intent on their own business, all looking as if they were going somewhere. Or at least as if they knew where they were going.

  She thought back to a story her mother and Ingeborg had often shared of Ingeborg lost in New York in 1880 and Jonathan’s father coming to her rescue. Grace glanced at the young man sitting knee to knee with her in the swaying carriage. Like his father, he was rescuing a young woman in need—not a Bjorklund but a Knutson, not that many people realized the difference.

  The urge to reach out and take his hands caught her by surprise. She stared down at her own hands, gloved in spite of the heat and no longer resting like limp dough in her lap. Propriety said she must keep her gloves on. Propriety said she must not take his hands, for she and Jonathan were no more than friends. Had she left propriety in Blessing? she wondered as she watched her hands open and reach across the slight gap between their knees. As she extended them, he reached back and their hands clasped as if of their own volition. He squeezed her fingers, and she looked up to see him ask, “What are you thinking?”

  “I am thinking that Mrs. Valders might faint if she saw me being so forward.”

  Jonathan threw back his head, his mouth open in a wide grin, laughter glinting from his eyes.

  I wish I could hear him laugh. She knew he was laughing, because Sophie had explained laughter to her. She’d seen lots of people laughing and knew the various actions of different kinds of laughter, thanks to Sophie and their mother. But she’d given up wishing she could hear long years ago. Wishing did no good. She’d prayed for hearing more times than she could ever count, but God had not acquiesced. For a time she’d been resentful, but finally she’d given up and worked harder to read lips and sign clearly.

  Until today.

  He raised one finger and began to sign. Y-o-u. He pointed at her, and she nodded. He made the sign for R. She nodded again. You are … He made a B and added e-a-u-t-i …

  She rolled her lips together and swallowed, sure of what he was going to say. How could he think her beautiful in all the disarray she felt?

  F-u-l. His smile stretched wide, putting commas in his cheeks.

  “Thank you.” She spoke and signed at the same time. The warmth returned, this time trailing up her neck and blossoming on her face. She took her fan from her reticule and flipped it open to fan the heat from her cheeks.

  He beckoned her and pointed out the window to a green field dotted with trees and some big rocks on the other side of a pond. “Central Park.”

  “Are we in the country?”

  “No, part of the city. We are almost home. The family came in from the shore early to be here for us.”

  She knew they had two houses, one in the city and the other on Long Island, a summer house.

  “Mother kept the summer house open so we’ll be going to the beach in a few days but not for long.”

  “Really? The ocean?”

  He nodded. “Did you bring a swimming dress?”

  Her brow furrowed. “A swimming dress?”

  “For going in the water.”

  At home she’d worn an old shift when swimming in the river. Would this be one more area where she would be embarrassed? She released his hands after forgetting she was that closely connected to him and collapsed against the back of the seat. So much change. Too much change. How would she ever adapt to life here? Even for the few months she’d agreed to come? Just a few months. Surely she could last a few months. Please, God. Just long enough for the pain and anger to go away so she could go home and start again as a new Grace, not a “Grace Always.”

  WHEN THE CARRIAGE TURNED between two brick pillars supporting open wrought-iron gates and drove up a brick drive, she tried to look both ways to take it all in. Tall trees and blooming shrubs dotted the green lawn that even sheep could not graze so perfectly. She’d read of mansions with groomed lawns and huge houses, and now she was fast approaching one. She cast Jonathan what she knew must be a look of panic, for at the moment she was consumed by it. Why did he not warn her? He’d tried, she knew that, but no words could have prepared her for the actuality.

  Her fingers ached for the clenching. She tried to breathe deeply, but she might as well have been wearing a corset tied much too tightly. Was she going to faint?

  The carriage stopped. She wished she could disappear into the upholstery.

  Jonathan took her hands again. “It will be all right.”

  Her nod did nothing more than move her head. It had no connection to her heart or mind. Father, please. Send that peace again. Her hands relaxed. Her spine straightened. All will be well. The memory of her mother writing the words in her book one day seeped in. More comfort.

  The carriage door opened, and McHenry smiled up at her. “Welcome, miss.”

  She nodded and took the hand he offered to help her down. Once standing firmly on the brick drive, she stared at the house before her.

  Wide steps led up to a polished wooden door set with two narrow rectangular windows. Looking up, she counted at least nine front-facing windows on the two stories, not including the roof, of a style she had never seen before. Dormer windows and elaborate surrounds broke up the expanse of gray tiles.

  “Jonathan!” A young girl of ten or so burst through the opened door and vaulted down the three steps. She bypassed McHenry and threw herself at Jonathan as he stepped to the ground. He caught her in a hug that lasted seconds and then stood her upright.

  “I want you to meet my friend Miss Knutson.” He bent closer and whispered something in her ear. “Miss Knutson, this is my youngest sister, Mary Anne, with an e.”

  Grace spoke most carefully. “I am pleased to meet you.” She eyed the drop-waisted cream dress with blue trim and a wide swath of grass-green stain across the ruffle on the skirt. If this was a good dress, Miss Mary Anne, with an e, was probably going to be in trouble. Grace liked her already.

  Mary Anne grinned at her. “Me too.”

  Jonathan paused in step and stared down at his sister.

  She rolled her eyes, huffed a sigh, and gave a slight curtsy. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Knutson, and welcome to our house.” She looked up
at Jonathan from under her eyebrows. At his nod, she gave a tug on his hand. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you.” She leaned back to study him. “You look different.”

  Grace had noticed the difference a few weeks ago. His shirts were tight across the shoulders, and his coat had hung on a peg instead of being worn to church like when he first came. One could not fault him on his looks, that was for certain, as all the single girls in Blessing had noticed.

  He took Grace’s elbow and guided her toward the still open front door. “Where is Mother?”

  “Pouring iced tea out on the back veranda.” Mary Anne skipped up the steps. “She said she was sure you would be ready for something cold and wet by the time you got here.”

  Jonathan ushered Grace through the door. When she caught a glimpse over her shoulder, the two men were unloading their baggage.

  She’d not even said thank-you. She glanced up at Jonathan, who’d not seemed to notice the oversight. Had he thanked them? Did wealthy people not thank their servants? Was she going to meet his mother without even a moment to freshen up?

  Not if she had anything to say about it. “Jon—” Was the familiar name no longer allowed? He’d introduced her as Miss Knutson. What was tolerated in the West might not be so proper in the East. “Mr. Gould.” Her tongue stumbled over the G.

  “Oh.” He stopped and faced her. “I’m sorry. Was I rushing you?”

  She nodded, focusing on his face instead of the palatial surroundings. “I …” She gestured to her clothes. “I need to—”

  “Of course. Mary Anne, find Mrs. Smithston so she can show Miss Knutson to her room.”

  “I can show her. She’s in the Rose Room, next to me. Mrs. Smithston is busy with the surprise.”

  Jonathan paused a moment then nodded. “All right.”

  “We made sure her room has everything she needs. McHenry should have the trunks up there already.”

  “Would you mind?” he asked Grace.

  It matters who takes me to my room? Oh, this is a whole different language in itself.

  “There you are.” A woman in a black bombazine dress with a white apron bustled into the hall. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t quite finished.”

  Was this Jonathan’s mother? Grace let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  “Welcome home, young sir. We’ve missed you around here.”

  Not his mother.

  Jonathan introduced her as Mrs. Smithston, as Grace had already surmised.

  “Welcome, Miss Knutson.” Her formal smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Let me show you to your room.” She glanced down at Mary Anne. “And you, young lady, had better wash up before your mother sees you.”

  As she moved toward the stairs that curved up in front of windows that separated floor and ceiling, Grace shot Jonathan a look she was sure was filled with panic. His smile gave her the courage to follow the leader up the steps, Mary Anne beside her.

  The girl tugged on her hand to get her attention and smiled up at her. “Mrs. Smithston is really very nice.”

  Grace hoped she had whispered that but just nodded and kept on climbing, turning on a landing and continuing to the second floor, where a long hallway stretched before them. Paintings of stern gentlemen lined the walls lit with gilt sconces that had neither gas nor candle. It had to be the electricity they had read about in Thorliff ’s newspaper.

  Mrs. Smithston stopped and opened a door on the left. “We thought you might like a view of the gardens, since Mr. Gould wrote that you loved to garden. This is the Rose Room, and I hope you’ll be very comfortable here. This door opens …”

  Grace lost the last of the sentence but followed the woman into a room like no other. Who would teach her to use all these things she’d only seen in pictures and drawings in catalogs?

  Mrs. Smithston turned around and recognized confusion when she saw it. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, but I forgot that I need to face you when I am talking. Mr. Gould was so explicit in his letter.”

  Grace sensed her discomfort but could find no strength within herself to attempt to put the woman at ease. She was far too uneasy herself. Grace motioned around the room and shook her head carefully, as if it might fall off her shoulders.

  With a nod Mrs. Smithston moved across the room to a counter. Facing Grace she pointed to the sink and turned a spigot that released water into the bowl. “We have hot and cold running water, both here and in the bathtub.” Next to the counter was a narrow door. She pointed through it to the claw-footed tub. As Grace came closer to see, she continued, “And over here is the commode. You pull this chain to flush after you are finished. You share this bath with Mary Anne, who comes in through that door.” She pointed to a door Grace hadn’t even noticed. She was too busy looking at all the towels on rods, the mirror above the sink, and the rugs on the marble floor.

  Mrs. Smithston led the way back into the Rose Room. “I will send a maid up to put away your things, so you needn’t bother with that. She will iron whatever needs to be, and you call her by pulling this.” She moved to the corner, where a tassled cord hung. “One pull is for me, two pulls for your maid. Her name is Fiona.” Mrs. Smithston thought a moment. “Is there anything else you will need? Oh yes. Please join the others outside when you can. If you would like, Mary Anne will wait outside your door for you.”

  Grace nodded. Oh yes, please don’t leave me alone up here. I might get lost and never find my way. “Thank you.” She had to clear her throat in order to say even those simple words. Mrs. Smithston did not react to the sound of her voice at all. Grace sensed she kept a tight rein on her facial expressions. Something I desperately need to do. Too much change. This is too much.

  Jonathan watched Grace go up the stairs. He should have gone with her, whether it was proper or not. He waved at Mary Anne as she threw him a grin over her shoulder. He knew he should clean up and change clothes himself, but instead he strode through the music room and out the French doors, untying and pulling off his tie as he went. He paused to watch his mother fussing with the serving cart. Someone had not set it exactly as she liked. She fluffed the roses that filled a short, round glass vase and turned when she sensed someone was there.

  “Jonathan!” She hurried across the flagstone, and he met her halfway. She hugged him, then leaned back to study his face. “You look wonderful. So tanned, like you’ve been at the shore all summer.” She patted his upper arms and then clasped his cheeks between her hands. “Oh, I have missed you so.”

  “How could you, as busy as you’ve been?” He hugged her again and, with an arm around her waist, led her over to the iron chairs and the serving cart.

  “You know all the shenanigans I’ve scolded you for?” She looked up to catch his smile and quirked brows. “I missed them. The house was too quiet without you.”

  “So you say I’m noisy?”

  She tipped her head slightly to the side. “To a degree. But there was less laughter.” She stepped back and studied him head to foot. “I think my boy has become a man. I’m sure your father will be suitably impressed and as delighted as I am to see you.”

  “Mrs. Smithston took Grace—” He stopped himself at her raised eyebrow. “Er, Miss Knutson to her room to freshen up. Mary Anne went with them.”

  “Good. The poor child, traveling like that on such short notice. Does she have all she will need to live here?”

  “If you are referring to the latest style in dresses, no. But I knew you would remedy that and have a wonderful time doing so.” He accepted the cut-crystal glass of tea, the tinkle of ice a welcome sound.

  “I sweetened it just the way you like it and added mint syrup, just a trifle.”

  He took a swallow and closed his eyes. “Ah, what a treat.”

  “They did not have tea in Blessing?”

  “I’m sure they did, but the Bjorklunds are coffee drinkers. Black coffee. While it took some doing, I learned to leave off the cream and sugar. Ice ran out in July. The refrigeration was a tank of water in the wel
l house. They used kerosene lamps for light and cooked on a castiron range that burned coal or wood. Everyone there works harder than I could have believed before I lived there.” He set his glass down and took her hands. “And, Mother, I loved every minute of it. Well, after I got used to it, if I’m going to be honest.”

  She rubbed her thumbs over his hands, then picked one up and turned it over, running her finger over the callouses and the scar from where he cut himself with the knife while repairing the harness.

  “Your hands tell a tale of their own. Did you not use any lotion or salve?”

  “None. I was grateful for the leather gloves, but even so, I got blisters that made my hands look like chopped meat.” He looked at his hands, spreading the fingers wide. “I can milk cows with the best of them, drive four-up horse teams, set posts in holes and string wire for fences, run machinery, shovel out the barn, and spade the garden, and I never knew how fascinating is the process of making cheese. Oh, Mrs. Bjorklund sent you some. No wonder the Bjorklund cheese is prized everywhere.”

  His mother sat down and indicated the chair next to her. “Did you not miss your life here at all?”

  He started to shake his head but quickly thought the better of it and answered with a rueful smile. “I hardly had any time to think of the past. I was always busy trying to learn all I could so that I would not be a burden, and by night, I fell into bed so exhausted I couldn’t think.” He glanced toward the house. Grace, are you all right? How can I help you?

  “I am so glad to have you home, yet you will leave again soon.”

  “I know. Did Father mention anything about the school for Grace?”

  “Yes, he contacted them as you requested. They have agreed to interview her to see if she is a suitable candidate for their program.” Geraldine Gould sat back slightly in her chair, straight and not touching the chair back.

  “I see.” A suitable candidate, if that doesn’t say a ream of thought in a few words. He reminded himself not to push too hard and be extra charming to keep his mother on his side. He’d always known he was her fair-haired boy, no matter how dark his hair. Being her eldest son had some advantages, since the mother of his older siblings had died and she was the second wife. “Where are my brothers?”