Not by Sight (26 page)

“Hand it to me. I’ll carry it,” he said. “And there should be a lap blanket we can sit on.”

Grace reached for the small blanket behind her seat as he exited the car. Then she came around to him and lifted the basket from the back, putting it in his hand.

“Just let me have your arm so you can lead the way,” he said.

She linked her arm with his and felt his strength as he hugged her to him. Together they traversed the short distance through the woods. Grace was glad that without the mesh, he too could breathe in the fragrance of ferns growing at the base of trees and the fecund smell of the earth beneath their feet. Birdsong echoed among the leafy limbs, and she reported to him a red squirrel clambering to safety in a tall hazelnut bush a few feet away.

When they came to the clearing, she paused at the spot overlooking the valley. “Do you want to guess where we are?”

“I’d rather you tell me a bit first.” He smiled, giving her arm another squeeze.

“All right.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she reopened them, she began, “It’s like no place on earth. Where cerulean skies touch down to a palette of green, a canvas tinged with the red berries of hawthorn, the purple of lavender, and Viburnum’s white flower. Amidst leafy copses of elm and plane stands a crisscross of gray stone walls, like castle parapets dividing and conquering the wilds. Yet a land not to be defeated, as a glittering ribbon of water from the east quenches the valley stretching out beneath the sun.”

She turned to him once she’d finished. Jack stood unmoving, his increased breathing and the pressure against her arm the only signs he’d heard her.

Finally he said, “Thank you for bringing me here, Grace. For only Eden could warrant such an occasion.”

He was so close she could see his freshly shaved skin, the
healing scar. Her attention settled on his mouth, recalling how those sculpted lips had questioned her, argued with her, teased her, and smiled gently at her . . .

What would his kiss feel like? Again she wondered and dared to hope, even knowing what was to come.
Tell the truth now and save yourself further anguish
. But the words remained stuck in her throat. Grace was being cowardly, she knew, yet she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

———

Jack’s pulse quickened, feeling her warm breath fan his cheek. She was so close he could kiss her; all he need do was lean in a bit and capture her mouth with his.

His throat worked. He’d thought of little else since the dance. Never would he forget the way she felt in his arms, her softness beneath his hands. The intoxicating scent of flowers that surrounded her when she moved. Jack felt more human that night than he had in a long time. He’d experienced a sense of the freedom denied him since the explosion.

He wanted more of that same feeling. And after his confrontation with Violet, her admission of love for someone else, Jack began to hope she might sever their ties. Release him from the debt Stonebrooke owed to her father and allow him to pursue the woman who truly held his affections.

But did Grace want him? Had she been truthful about his scars, that they meant nothing to her? Jack tensed as the old fear warred with his desire. He planned to find out.

“Shall we eat here?”

Her voice brought him back to the present. “I’ll set out the blanket,” she said.

He released her as she took the basket from him. A few moments later, they were both seated on the ground. He’d asked Mrs. Riley to pack them a brunch of sorts, with hard-boiled eggs, fresh bread, cheese, apples, and ripe tomatoes from the
garden. His cook had also included a glass jar filled with warm tea.

“Food at three o’clock,” she said, and Jack easily found the plate Grace had placed beside him. “Shall I tell you what and where everything is?”

“I’ll live dangerously today.” He wiped his dampened hands against his trousers. “You haven’t given me poison instead of Mrs. Riley’s good food, have you?” he teased, hoping to cover his nervousness.

“Oh, I would never do that.”

The seriousness in her tone gave him pause. Jack expected from her the usual cheeky response. “I was joking, Grace.”

“Oh, of course!” And her spirit seemed to rise to the challenge then when she said, “So long as you don’t count the pinecones and rocks I put on your plate. And I’m not too certain about the flavor of that moss.”

Jack smiled, reveling in their banter. He found flirting with her intellect quite stimulating, strange for a man who in the past concerned himself only with pleasures of the flesh.

Oh, but he did want her. He longed to feel her mouth against his, to touch and see her face with his hands, learning her features. Jack imagined Grace’s skin would be soft and smooth, her hair silky. Auburn, Marcus had said. Like the woman from his distant memory.

Yet one question remained. His mouth went dry like a desert, his heart hammering as he slowly reached to remove the hat, tossing it aside.

He had to know if Grace wanted
him
.

His breath came in short bursts as he moved his hands around to untie the mask. “I’ve something to show you, Grace,” he managed in a voice he hardly knew. “Warts and all . . .”

“Jack . . . you don’t have to do that.”

Flooded with anxiety, he was only vaguely aware of the edge
in her tone. “Yes, I do,” he said. “Only with you.” He pushed past the last of his fear, released the ties, and felt the cool air against his tender flesh.

Time stopped. Jack waited for her to say something, reassure him. He felt exposed yet wanting to trust in her completely, even praying she wouldn’t reject him, not now—

“No . . .” The anguished cry was followed by a swift intake of breath. “Oh, Jack, I am so very sorry . . .”

Devastation electrified him. He clutched the mask and stumbled to his feet, knocking over the plate of food in his haste. His frantic movements were clumsy as he replaced the covering over his face. His gut churned, making him want to retch. He heard his own rapid breathing and saw only darkness. In that moment, Jack loathed his existence. “Get me out of here,” he groaned, and he despised his own pathetic plea, hating his dependence on her to return him to his sanctuary to hide.

———

“Jack, please.” Grace shot up from the blanket. “I . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Take me home. Now!”

Seeing his sightless blue eyes had caused a gasp of pain, as regret pierced her insides like a knife. Such a beautiful man, once healthy and whole, and she’d taken it all from him. In the name of God, glory, and duty—

“For pity’s sake, woman, have an ounce of heart and do as I ask,” he said hoarsely, standing with arms slack and shoulders bent, waiting. He seemed utterly defeated.

Tears coursed down her cheeks. Had she reduced him to begging? The knife drove deeper. “Please, you don’t understand. I need to explain why—”

“Do not speak to me!” he roared, then straightened to his full height, his features fearsome. “Just do what I pay you to do and drive me home!”

Grace felt crushed. Yet despite his coldness, she still thought to explain. But as he stood there with his chest heaving, his mouth working, she was reminded of a caged animal unable to find its way out.

She bit back a sob instead and quickly did as he demanded. Tossing the picnic contents back into the basket, she reached to link her arm with his. He threw it off, however, and instead placed his hand on her shoulder as she led him back to the car.

The return trip to Roxwood was excruciating, as silence drove the wedge between them further with each mile. Grace didn’t trust herself to speak. He had ordered her not to, but even so, what would she say to him? That his blindness burdened her with guilt, or should she simply tell him the truth of how she’d humiliated him? Either excuse would sound too much like pity, and Jack would hate her for it.

Upon reaching the manor, he fumbled with the door handle before clumsily exiting the car. Without a word to her, he mounted the steps to the front door. Grace watched in misery, at a loss for how to mend this latest breach.

She’d been a coward from the start, she thought. But his anger and hurt right now seemed preferable to the hatred he would soon feel when he knew the truth.

17

The rest of her day was long and hot as Grace helped Clare in the east field, raking out the hay cuttings Lucy had mown that morning. They had finished up and returned their implements to the barn when Mrs. Vance greeted them. “Mabry, I’ve a note for you from the manor.” She handed over an envelope.

Hope flared as Grace took the letter. Was it an invitation? Had Jack forgiven her?

“What does it say?” Clare asked.

After quickly reading the contents, Grace said, “Lord Roxwood will be in meetings over the next several days, and Mr. Edwards writes to inform me my services will not be needed until further notice.” She swallowed past the ache in her throat, then looked at Mrs. Vance. “I suppose it means I’ll be working full days now for the WFC.”

Mrs. Vance smiled. “We’re grateful to have you. With all of us pitching in, we can get this hay cut, dried, and ready to bale by Friday.” She got back on her bicycle. “I’ll see you both at the gatehouse. I’m off to start supper.”

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Clare asked once their supervisor left. “Why is Lord Roxwood avoiding you?”

Grace shrugged. “He’s obviously busy.”

“My foot,” said Clare. “There’s more to it than that. You haven’t said two words since you got back this afternoon. Are you all right?”

Grace offered a wan smile and then retrieved her bicycle from where it leaned against the barn. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Clare grabbed her own bicycle. “Oh, I see. Lucy and I must tell Grace Mabry all our secrets, while she gets to keep her own?”

“I don’t
make
you tell me anything. I simply want to help, if I can.”

“And we don’t want to help you?” Clare flashed a hurt look. “I thought we were friends.”

How had she managed in less than a day to trample the feelings of two people she cared about? Clare was right. Grace had adopted the women of the WFC as her sisters. “It’s about Jack . . . Lord Roxwood,” she began. “I did meet him before—at a costume ball in London.”

“I suspected as much.” Clare arched a brow. “The day Becky pressed you for information about the Tin Man?”

Grace nodded. “And you cleverly turned her attention to something else. Thank you.”

Clare smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”

“I’d only read about him in the newspapers, but when I met Jack in person I thought him the handsomest man in the room. I’d also deemed him a coward.” She paused. “I was so angry. Poor Colin was fighting at the Front while Jack Benningham and others like him sipped champagne, made jokes, and surrounded themselves with beautiful women.”

Clare snorted. “So you used the same tarbrush you warned me about?”

Grace felt renewed shame. “I did.”

“What happened?”

She quickly explained to Clare how she and Agnes had slipped into Lady Bassett’s ball with their contraband of white feathers and told of her encounter with Jack.

“Wait, you were one of those brazen women handing out feathers of cowardice?” Clare exclaimed when she’d finished. “And you gave him one?”

“Yes, and yes,” Grace said. “I felt I was aiding my country and Colin. I didn’t know Jack would be at the ball, but he was a known pacifist who had dodged the conscription. How could I resist shaming a man who constantly made the news with his proclivities for gambling, womanizing, and his protests against the war?”

“And now he knows it was you?” Clare looked confused.

“No. He apparently never learned my identity, nor does he recognize my voice.” Her cheeks flushed as she added, “This might sound strange, but neither of us spoke a word that night. We just gazed at each other for the longest time. Then he smiled and took my hand to kiss it, and I smiled back and deposited the white feather into his.”

Clare burst into laughter.

“It’s not funny.” Tears pricked her eyes. “Here I thought he’d been injured in the townhouse fire I told you about. But I learned he did go and fight . . . not long after his encounter with me. Now he’s blind and scarred and hiding behind a mask all day.”

When Clare simply stared at her, she cried, “Don’t you understand? It’s my fault.”

“I don’t see how. The man made his own decision to join the war. He’s a member of the peerage, and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that they always do exactly what they want regardless of anyone else.” Clare’s gray eyes softened. “You’ve nothing to feel bad about.”

Her words echoed Daniel’s, but Grace’s conscience wasn’t
convinced. “If I hadn’t gone to the ball, if I hadn’t goaded him,” she said, “Jack never would have enlisted and taken such chances. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“If this, if that,” Clare said, mounting her bicycle. “Only God knows what goes through a man’s mind, Grace, not you or me. You may regret your actions, but Lord Roxwood, or Jack Benningham, did as he saw fit and that’s an end to it. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I feel cowardly,” Grace admitted. “I should at least tell him it was me. Ask for his forgiveness. But it’s so difficult . . .”

“You’ll just make things worse. He’ll still be blind and scarred, and have lost a friend . . .” Clare paused. “Oh, dear, you’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

Grace looked away. Clare said softly, “We talked about this, remember? He’s not free to marry, and you cannot afford to settle for anything less. Trust me, you’ll only get your heart broken, my friend. It’s not something you want to go through.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, my heart
is
breaking,” she whispered. “This morning we went to a place—Eden, he calls it—and Jack took off his mask for me. He wanted me to see him, warts and all . . .” Her voice broke. “I’m afraid I reacted badly.”

“Oh, dear,” Clare said again, reaching across the handlebars to clasp Grace’s hand.

“His appearance took me by surprise. Not because of his scars, they aren’t so terribly bad, but his eyes looked right through me. And I knew I did it to him.”

“I’m so sorry,” Clare offered. “But before you do anything rash, why don’t you wait and see what tomorrow brings? If he asks you to drive him in the morning, then you’ll know he’s forgiven you for your reaction today.”

Grace held up the letter. “I cannot imagine he will.”

“You don’t know for certain. Besides, if he cares about you
as much as I suspect he does, he won’t wish you to stay away. Now, come on, supper’s waiting. A full stomach will lift your spirits and clear your head in no time.”

The next three mornings dawned clear and bright, and Grace would have preferred to be with Jack rather than raking hay cuttings into long rows beneath a hot sun. Still, the hard work eased her aching heart while she tried to sort out her thoughts.

“So my spirit
grows faint within me; my heart within me is dismayed.”

She made another swipe with the rake at the dried grass, then straightened, stretching her cramped back muscles. The verse, another from Psalm 143, seemed to speak to her misery. She should have told Jack the truth on Monday. Then he would have understood her reaction—that it wasn’t him who failed to measure up, but her.

More than once she’d considered going to him, since the moment Lucy came back from the manor yesterday bursting with good news. Jack had offered her a position at Stonebrooke. Sir Marcus felt the banished young man might still cause trouble, so Jack decided Lucy would be much safer in the north at his family’s estate. Grace was grateful to him. She’d known he would be willing to help her friend. And hearing of his kindness only made her miss him all the more.

“Grace!” She turned to see Mrs. Vance hailing her from the edge of the field. “Grace, Dr. Strom needs a word with you.”

Grace felt her own erratic pulse. Cousin Daniel wanted to speak with her? Pulling off her gloves, she dropped them beside her rake and walked to her supervisor.

“He’s waiting for you in the barn. Hurry now.” Mrs. Vance’s furrowed brow and drawn mouth heightened Grace’s alarm, and she moved at a half run toward the large structure.

She found her cousin inside the shadowy confines, waiting for her. “Is it Jack—Lord Roxwood? Is he unwell?” she asked.

Daniel removed his felt cap, his expression sober. “Sit down, Grace.”

Was Jack’s condition worse than she imagined? Grace bit back her anxiety and sat on a milk crate. “Tell me,” she breathed, afraid of his answer.

“I’m not here about Lord Roxwood,” he said gently.

Her confusion turned to cold, hard dread. “Colin . . .”

He nodded, and Grace teetered dizzily on her perch. He reached to steady her. “He’s . . . he’s not dead?” she whispered, unable to believe it.

“As far as we know right now, he’s alive. He’s been listed as missing.”

A cry escaped from her as she launched from her seat, grabbing his sleeve. “How . . . ?”

He held her by the shoulders. “Your father telephoned me at home, and I came here directly. I’m told every effort is being made to find your brother.”

Her mind reeled as she thought of the worries she’d been feeling about her twin. Real fear took hold of her. “Where was he last seen?” she demanded. “How long has he been missing? Do you know if he was injured?”

“Easy.” He helped her back to her seat. “We have nothing yet, but the Army will tell us when they have information. In the meantime, you must try and stay calm.”

“Calm?” she wailed. “When my brother might be lying injured, or dead . . .” She bit down hard against her lip. “We must do something,” she said, searching his face. “Anything.”

“For now, we must wait,” he said in a firmer tone. “Mrs. Vance has agreed you should return to your billet and lie down. I’ll give you something to help you sleep. You’re already ex
hausted, and this news has certainly given you a shock.” He grasped her hand. “Come along.”

She followed him outside. Mrs. Vance stood beside Daniel’s car, wringing her hands. The older woman’s hazel eyes shone with tears. “Mrs. Vance will accompany us and see you settled. Tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s rest, we can decide on how to proceed.”

“I must go home.” Grace shook off her stupor and pulled away from him. “Da needs me.”

“Of course. I’ll accompany you to London on the train.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Have faith, child, and pray for your brother’s safe return.”

“Pray . . .” She looked toward the fields. “But I haven’t told him.” She turned back to her cousin. “Jack. The white feather . . .” Her head began to pound, and she felt as though the earth might swallow her up. “I’ve been so foolish. Now Colin is gone, and they’ll never find him.”

“It’s foolishness, all right,” Daniel said. “I know what you’re thinking, but God doesn’t work that way, Grace. He doesn’t make deals, and I don’t believe He’s punishing you for anything.” His aged features softened. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded, only half listening. “Good,” he said. “Now, I’ll drive you both back to the gatehouse.”

Grace lay on her bed several hours later, having taken the headache powder her cousin prescribed, but refusing anything stronger. Eyes closed, she imagined all kinds of horrible scenarios: Colin sprawled on the muddy battlefield injured and bleeding, or perhaps he’d been captured and was being tortured even now behind enemy lines . . .

Guilt threatened to suffocate her, and she was again reminded of the torment in her mother’s expression as she’d stared up
from the bed at her only son—Colin, standing in uniform, looking proud, his gaze burning with his sister’s ideals.